Stern Talking To

Yesterday I tweeted:

You ever just think you know, I need to sit myself down and give myself a stern talking to. #realistic #priorities #progressnotperfection

So this is myself talking sternly (ok, maybe more honestly) to myself and beginning to be ok with the limitations of my body, my lifestyle, and my desire.

Let’s start with my body.

I struggle with a couple of chronic conditions which are both made better by exercising, and make exercising more complicated.

My family has a history of additional conditions which can be made better/can be made worse by exercising.

My genetic body composition is more “Marilyn Monroe” than “athlete.” Jumping is tough, y’all.

I am allergic to poultry and eggs, the two best sources of lean protein.

Ok now on to my lifestyle.

I have a demanding job that is a 45 minute commute from my house and requires that I work past dark at least 1 night a week.

I have 2 kids who go to schools which are far away and therefore require me to drive them there.

One kid is in Karate and wants to go several nights per week. The other kid needs a sport or an activity.

I’m in a wonderful relationship which I am determined to nurture. If I learned anything from my failed marriage it’s that relationships are their own entity and require care and intentional consideration.

My house is always a mess.

Now, my desires.

I want to be fit and strong.

I want to be healthy.

I want to overcome/make better these conditions.

I want to look better.

I want to look GOOD.

I want to get this done without neglecting my family, my relationship, my home, or my job.

So when I take all of this into consideration, and try to come up with a way to fulfill my desires within the parameters of what my body is capable of and what my lifestyle will accommodate, I am…stumped.

Looking at this, I see why my half-marathon training has been… sporadic at best. I know there are people busier than me who are running right now. Thanks, random internet meme of shame.

Good for them. I just can’t.

I’m not one to just whine. I am all about action, solutions, figuring it out, in this and every aspect of my life. But for this? It isn’t working. Taking immediate action is not getting results. Jumping in with both feet is ending disastrously.

Maybe I just need to sit with this for a bit.(“This” specifically being the exercise portion of the dilemma. Oh, and the underlying causes of course.)

Maybe I need some help to (finally) figure out the root. The cause. The wall I can’t climb. The barrier between where I am and where I want to be.

I know that a diet high in protein and low in refined carbs is what I need to follow. It’s not (currently) what I want…but it’s what I need. So let’s work towards the diet portion. Small, sustainable changes.

I know that exercising for an hour a day is ideal, but I am not happy with any of the things I’ve tried so far. Maybe I need to be ok with trying a bunch of new things (one at a time) even if they cost money (but not a lot) and saying hey – karate SOUNDS like a great idea but it’s not for me. But adult swimming lessons and swimming every day IS for me.

Why is there not a Facebook quiz for this? (Or IS THERE?!)

So here’s what I can control and make progress on while figuring out the rest.

I can drink more water.A bottle of water between each diet soda…and water when I eat out. And warm water with lemon first thing in the am.

I can walk for an hour a day. I have all of the equipment for that. Feet, shoes. Which hour though? Calm down, brain. Let’s try this – which hour TODAY?

I can track what I eat and get closer to my physician-prescribed macros and calories. I can learn to eat fish. And maybe kale. Probably not though.

I can think. Think about nothing. Think about everything. Think about if this is something I can solve myself or if I need some help. Would the EMDR therapy that has been recommended to me help?

I can think about other exercises I might want to try. Swimming? Karate? Yoga?  9 Rounds? Crossfit? Maybe running is the thing after all. Maybe it’s not. Why does karate appeal to me but Zumba doesn’t?  Why do I resist spending money on tools when I have no problem spending money on the very things that are making the situation worse?

I can think about why I want to run when I am not training for something, but the moment I sign up for a race, no matter how much I want to do it, I stall.

I can  think about how I can do this without talking it to death.

I can think about why.

I can think about how far I have already come. How the 50ish pounds I have left to lose is a much smaller mountain than the 135 I started out with.

I can unsubscribe to every body-shaming, fat-shaming, fitspo, inspirational, one-size fits-all bullshit and figure out what works for me. I’m not cookie cutter – my challenges are unique and so are my strengths and so are my goals. Reading articles or memes or blog posts or books that makes me feel guilty or ashamed….that’s not helping. I cannot shame myself into doing anything. I can only love myself enough to want to do what works best for me.

I also know that I like to set huge goals and then I get overwhelmed and I quit.

So how about I do these things…today.

Just for today.

Starting tomorrow. 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Thousand Words for Love

**This was written in March, but all still true.**

 

We’ve talked about this before, about how the Eskimos have 13 words for snow. And how, in the same vein, we need a thousand words for love. Because every love is different, every person we meet and every person we are requires a new and different kind of love. And we only have one word, one small, four-letter word, to describe a thousand different ways to feel and act and give and take and breathe in another person and breathe out something better of ourselves.

***

I haven’t wanted to write much lately, I haven’t wanted to write at all about what’s going on in my life until suddenly, today, the second day of Spring, I do.

I’m getting divorced.

I have rediscovered who I am and what makes me happy and I feel like I am unfolding myself out of a box I have lived in for…well, for a very long time.

And I’ve fallen in love.

***

The divorce story is like every divorce story, except for the ways it isn’t. The story is only half mine, so I will give it to you in broad strokes. Everyone who knows us thinks they know already, and maybe they do. But basically, two people can only be so far apart for so long before big and little things, done and undone, take a toll. I will take the fall, I am the bad guy here. I did the leaving, the calling off, the filing, and the telling.

***

I dated last summer, using dating apps. I went on a lot of first dates, not a lot of seconds, and only twice did it progress further. I spent a lot of time and data getting to know people who, while lovely, were broken in ways I couldn’t mesh with, gave love in ways that didn’t resonate with me, needed things from me I couldn’t give, or were just not the one, in ways I still can’t articulate but I can decisively say no, not at all. And I believe they would say the same thing, should we all show up at a cocktail party or some live music venue together.  She was fine, she just wasn’t the one.

Until one day, I was. I am the one. And lucky for me, he is the one. My mom likes him, my friends like him, my kids like and respect him, and my dog obeys him.

I call him That Amazing Boyfriend (TAB), because he is.

For example:

All of the things around my house that have been broken and neglected and unloved for…awhile…are suddenly fixed, and used, and loved, and spruced up, and shiny. Projects I have wanted to do are done. Hanging curtains, which seemed like the hardest thing in the world, took less than an hour. Fixing the deck, which I was sure would require many hundreds of dollars, required a man with a hammer and a goal. And it’s done.I could go on and on, telling you all of the things TAB has done around the house in the last few months, but it’s an embarrassment of riches, really.

Just know this: every time he makes something around the house better, he makes me better. He puts the little shards of my broken heart back together, and makes them beautiful again.

So I don’t know the word for this love – this thing where two tarnished and bruised up people come together and see the beauty and the possibility and the strength in the damage, but I can tell you that living it is like finding a sunny clearing in the woods when you didn’t even know you were walking in the dark…then discovering that the clearing has a cool, clear spring and you hadn’t even known you were thirsty, and then discovering someone had caught up to you and they had a delicious sandwich in their backpack, and it was made just the way you like it, hot peppers and all. And then discovering that the guy with the backpack likes your music and you both love the beach and he doesn’t care if you take ridiculous selfies with him and he also grills.

And when you’ve had a bad day he holds your hand till you fall asleep.

And when you’ve had a good day, he’s thrilled for you.

And when he’s had a bad day, he knows you will listen.

And when he’s had a good day, he tells you first.

And when he’s your last first kiss.

And when you look back at your life and know that getting here, reaching this place, is a result of everything you have done, endured, walked through…and that it was all worthwhile.

It’s the kind of love no one word could do justice to. But one word is all we have.

And so we use it.

 

 

Farewell

**Please note, this was written in 2015, at the end of last summer!**

 

I love Labor Day, because it is the end of summer. I despise summer. I hate the heat, the humidity, the languid weekend days spent staring at the fan hoping that someone else will come trim the shrubs and weed the flowerbed and run for me because honestly it is just too damn hot.

This summer, particularly, is one I am not sad to say goodbye to.

My husband and I, you may have seen elsewhere, separated on Memorial Day. I believe, at the end of the process, we will both be happier. But this first three months or so have been emotional. I have faced things about myself that aren’t particularly pretty. I have watched our children struggle, a little, with knowing this is just how it is now. I have spent some time taking stock of what  happened, what I needed that I didn’t get and what I gave that wasn’t needed and what was needed that I never had to give and why, oh why, couldn’t I just suck it up again, this time, and smooth it over and make everything ok and ignore the glaring problems. There was a part of me that wanted to. But there was a small voice in my head that said “absolutely not.” So I didn’t. I let the thing happen that I was always most afraid would happen, and I am still alive, still breathing, still here.

So we are adjusting. Since he has been living in another state for awhile now, the adjustment is more mental than physical. The kids aren’t going to come home from school and notice that the couch and the 2nd nightstand and all dad’s clothes are gone. We didn’t have to change the school drop-off schedule or the dinner plan, because we did that long ago. Mostly it’s just knowing that it’s inappropriate to text him the small, funny things that happen each day. We had so many inside jokes, so many artifacts of a shared history, it’s hard to accept, sometimes, that he will never again call me and say “She got off the plane!”

But it also means I don’t have endless lonely days and nights stretching in front of me, a lifetime of texting someone else’s words to him or hoping that this birthday, this mother’s day, this Wednesday would be different. I know they will be different – and that what they look like will be up to me. No surprises, but no disappointment either.

What I have now is the opportunity to heal. I have the opportunity to figure out who I am now, at 43. I’m a single mom. I never imagined this would be my life. But no one imagines being divorced. No one wears a white dress and does their hair and takes vows in front of friends and family and God and imagines that one day, they will sit in a conference room on the eleventh floor of a swanky downtown building and tell a stranger all the reasons why they need to be released from those vows, absolved of those responsibilities, relieved of those burdens. When we had the conversation, and came to the conclusion…even though I knew something bad was coming, no one was more surprised than I was that it was me sitting in that conference room.

Every man who has ever loved me, has left me. But I know, in my heart of hearts, that only the right one has to stay. And I also know, in my heart of hearts, that one day, he will.

Basic Functions: Disrupted

I wake and my covers are twisted and tangled.

I dream of odd things, forgotten people, real places.

I cannot fathom what my mind is trying to work out, what relentless riddles have nested there.

I almost feel someone breathing beside me, though my bed is empty and the other side is cold.

I flip and I flop. I turn the pillows over and over,

looking for cool, for warmth.

I cover up with the sheet, then the comforter, then both.

Then neither.

I look at the windows, both hoping to see and dreading the light.

I contemplate reading, writing, watching television, cleaning, running.

But I do none of those.

I untangle the covers. I remind myself that I am alone, that morning will come sooner or later.

I hug my pillow, I make myself breathe slowly, rhythmically,

and I will myself to try again.

2014 Recap

Break a bad habit.

Learn a new skill.

Do a good deed.

Visit a new place.

Read a difficult book.

Write something important.

Try a new food.

Do something for someone who can never pay you back.

Take an important risk.

These were my goals for 2014.

How did I do?

Well, I intermittently did better on some bad habits. Clearly I need to work harder here, or get some help. I do plan to read Gretchen Rubin’s new book on habits as soon as it’s available.

Topsail Beach was my new place. I fell in love. It was perfect in every way. I also went to San Diego, which was fabulous!

I have learned a new skill at work – well, maybe not a skill. I have learned a tremendous amount about the world of low-income housing.  It is not a pretty world. It is gritty and heartbreaking and probably the most difficult thing I have encountered, career-wise. There just isn’t enough safe, decent, affordable housing available. Not in Charlotte, not anywhere. Learning ways to improve that is an ongoing struggle.

I tried to do good deeds. The one that stands out the most was paying for breakfast for an older veteran who was eating alone near our rather raucous family. I just took his check and we paid it, and I told him “thanks for your service, sir. Breakfast is on us.” I think it made me cry a little.

I read The Goldfinch. I read All the Light We Cannot See. I read If I Stay, and Where She Went. I read The Fault in Our Stars, Life After Life, The Signature of All Things. I am not sure if these are what the author of the original list meant by “difficult” but for me, some aspect of each of these books was difficult.

Write something important – yes I did that. I don’t want to say any more than that. But yes. I did that.

I tried sponge candy (no), I was able to eat shellfish again.

I don’t know if I did something for someone who can never pay me back. Does my work count? I got a dog, but he pays me back with love…and fur everywhere.

Take an important risk…yes, I did that too. No further comment.

So I guess I did ok. I think I will continue the tradition and keep these as my resolutions again!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Vivid

Dreams, constant dreams
Dreams of places we used to live,
of carpet pulled up to reveal hardwood floors
of refrigerators reorganized with
drawers and no old condiments in sight.

Dreams that persist through the night,
Through the cold
through waking up and taking the dog out
Dreams that mean something
Something that I can’t quite articulate.

What am I missing?
What is the lesson I am meant to learn?
Where is the epiphany I am obviously chasing?

I awake tired from running, tired from wondering.
Tired from figuring it out.

Chiminea

Enchanted by flames,
even those reluctant to spread,
to make the jump from paper to wood.
I cannot walk away, cannot stop watching, trying.

Smoke swirls,
clings to my skin,
scents my hair and my clothes,
invades my imagination for examination later.

Ash, too, settles on the flyaway
wisps of my hair.
At first glance it could be snow
but it is still, for the moment,
too warm for snow.

I dreamed that night of death,
I dreamed of peace
and quiet for friends; for old, dear friends
and I dreamed of, saw again, the smoke and spirits heading for the sky.

And now my pillows smell of smoke,
though the wood is wet and the
chiminea is put away,
and the dead in my dreams are alive and well
and the driveway is not on fire.

Summertime Bucket List

I want to eat peaches,
sweet, chilled peaches
stained red by the leaking juice
of berries.

I want to eat BLTs by the ocean,
only no L but add some avocado
and lime
and salt.

I want to drink lemon martinis
that sparkle in my mouth
and pucker my lips
and soften life’s harsh edges.

I want to dare the sea
to come to my chair,
to wet my towel,
to swallow my feet in its foamy embrace.

I want tank tops and flip flops
beach bags and the smell of Coppertone
and sandy children
laughing and squinting into the sun.

I want to listen to music
made by actual living, broken people…
drifting to me, my eyes closed
my heart open.

I want to read your true story
I want to hear your deepest darkest
I want to hold your hand
I want peaches, stained by berries, sweet and juicy in my mouth.

It’s Gonna Be a Very Good Year

I try not to make New Year’s Resolutions because, you know, no one ever keeps those. So I found this list of “Things to Do” instead. I like the tone of it. See what you think:

Break a bad habit.

Learn a new skill.

Do a good deed.

Visit a new place.

Read a difficult book.

Write something important.

Try a new food.

Do something for someone who can never pay you back.

Take an important risk.

These things – they are doable, but they aren’t necessarily easy. And that’s the goal, right? Stretching beyond where you are and seeing where growth can happen.

I wish there were 12 so I could do one a month, because my brain likes that level of organization. But not all of these tasks should be done in exactly one month. So I am going to work on things until I am done and then move on to the next one (though it’s possible, because life, I may be doing some concurrently). First up:

Break a bad habit.

I uh, I may have more than one.

The two I want to work on are: Fresca and making my bed. My bad habits are drinking Fresca mindlessly and never, ever making my bed. So I instituted soda rules for me and the girls, and we are definitely going to get this under control.

1. Bottles of soda stay in the kitchen. You must come to the kitchen for a refill.

2. Drink an equivalent amount of water between each soda.

3. No soda at bedtime – take milk, water or tea to bed with you.

So far, one day in, not too many complaints, and my older daughter volunteered to be responsible for refilling the water pitcher. Excellent.

As for making my bed- I bought some new sheets and I am spending part of my day today sprucing up my room. Of course no room looks fully spruced until the bed is made. Then I will just make it as I get out of it and hopefully break my slovenly, frat boy-like habit of leaving my bed unmade for weeks on end.

Kaizen, the practice of taking small steps to change a bigger thing,  really works for me, so I will be using it on many issues that need work. I’ll keep you posted.

 

Phone Call to Dad

Jenn

I sat on the couch, curled up in a little ball, for hours. There was no way to fix this. Johnny would have to know the truth – my son had set wheels in motion that could not be stopped, and I would be the one to pay the price.

Finally I stretched out and slept, still in the clothes I wore home from the Y.  Johnny came downstairs at his usual early hour and turned on the coffee maker. I sat up, blinked. My eyes settled on Johnny and I smiled a very small smile. Maybe he would let this go.

“What are you smiling at? Are you ready to talk?”

Apparently he was not going to let this go.

I closed my eyes, shook my head. I heard him open the refrigerator, get the cream out. “Jenn, you know, no matter what it is, you can tell me. I can’t imagine anything that would make me stop loving you. Are you in trouble with money? Drugs? Having an affair? I’m not saying I won’t be mad, but I am saying we can work through it. No matter what it is.”

I felt tears leak from my eyes, run down my face, drip onto my shirt.  I tried to speak, but it came out as a whisper. “I’m sorry, Johnny, I just can’t.”

“I hope you can figure it out, Jenn. This is important.”

I nodded. I couldn’t speak.

As soon as Johnny left, I texted my boss and said I had a migraine and I wouldn’t be in. There was no way I could work today. I closed my eyes again and tried to imagine how this was going to go.  I could not imagine any good ending. I wanted my mom, my dad, someone to make this better, someone to help me make him understand it wasn’t all my decision, it was what had to happen. I couldn’t risk another breakdown. i couldn’t go through a pregnancy worried that the hormones would throw my delicate balance off.

Wait! I thought. My dad!

I picked up the phone and tapped his picture. “Daddy.” I said when he answered.

“Oh, God, Jennifer, no.”

He thought I was pregnant. That actually could be the only thing that was worse than this.

“No, Dad. I’m not pregnant. But there is a kind of, well, situation. I need your help.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

I sighed. “It’s…can you just come over?” I asked him, whining a little. It seemed so complicated to go into over the phone. And I needed him to be there with me, physically present. I needed to see his face when I told him so I could figure out how bad this really was. I needed him to tell me it was going to be ok anyway.

“I’m on my way. I’ll see you in 20 minutes. Put on the coffee, dear. This is going to be a long day I think.”

“Thanks Dad.” I got up and started a new pot of coffee, did a little straightening up around the house. I brushed my teeth and hair and folded my blanket.

Hmmm, I didn’t remember getting out a blanket. Had Johnny gotten it for me, covered me up, even though he was so mad he could barely speak to me?

I shook my head. We had to figure this out, dad and I, and make Johnny calm down. This just had to be ok, one way or another.

My dad didn’t even ring the doorbell, he just used his emergency key to let himself in.  “Jenn? Jennifer?” he called. I met him as he headed into the kitchen and hugged him, burying my face in his chest. I was a grown woman with a job and a mortgage and a husband and sometimes I still just needed my dad.

“What’s wrong? Come on, pour us a cup, sit down, and tell me what the hell has you in such a state.”

I pulled myself together and did as he asked. I took a deep breath and dove in.

“Someone has been writing me letters for the last 2 years. Once a month, the letter shows up. The return address is Lakewood Drive. The handwriting is definitely male.”

I stopped, waiting for his outrage. None came.

“And?”

“And, yesterday I was at the gym late and Johnny came home and got the mail before I did. One of the letters was in there. He took it up to our room, put it on my nightstand, and noticed that the drawer wouldn’t shut. He pulled it open and found all the letters – and he freaked out.”

Dad was starting to look concerned.

“He was really drunk and mad by the time I made it home. He said I have 24 hours to tell him what it’s all about, or we will open the letters one by one and read them together. I’m pretty sure they are from…him…my son.  And Dad, if they are from him from my – my son, Johnny will know that I lied to him. That we all lied to him.That I AM able to have children, I just refused to…”

Dad stood up and started pacing. This was a very bad sign indeed.

The last time he had paced like this was when I told him I was pregnant.

“Where are the letters now?”

I shook my head.  “Johnny has them. He was afraid I would burn them.”

“How do you know that they are from…him?”

I shrugged. “I just assume they are. I mean – the timing is right. He’s in his 20’s now, there is no reason for him not to look for me. And what else could they be? I have no other secrets. There is no other reason for someone to write me letters.”

“Still, maybe it’s something else.”

I was doubtful. And I wanted to just come clean and let the chips fall where they may. As horrible as it was to imagine what my evening would be like, at least this would be over. I just wanted it to be over in a way that I could live with. I wanted  Johnny to know the truth and still love me, still want me, still be married to me. I wanted him to understand that I loved him, but that I absolutely could not get pregnant and  risk my life for him.

“Dad, what exactly did you tell Johnny before we got married?”

He thought for a minute. “I told him that you had a medical condition that prevented you from having children, and that if he wanted to marry you he needed to be aware that children were not possible.”

“OK, well, that is what I told him, almost word for word. And what’s wrong with me is, in fact, a medical condition.”

“Yes, but you did also have a child that he knows nothing about. A child who is now grown and apparently wants to find you for some reason.”

I chewed my thumbnail, trying to find a way to tell the story without losing my husband. “Dad, could you…”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’ll back you up, I will corroborate anything you want to tell him, but you have to do this on your own.

Of course I did. It wasn’t really fair of me to even ask.

“So, Jenn, what are you going to say? Let’s practice.”

I thought for a few minutes. I paced. I studied my nails, the floor.  Eventually I took a deep breath. “Johnny, I told you the truth when I told you, and my parents told you, that I have a medical condition that prevents me from having children. You see, when I am pregnant, my body reacts very badly to the hormones and causes me to go into a deep depression with suicidal ideation, and in fact, a history of a suicide attempt.” I held out my wrists, the scars pale and silvery, almost invisible. Almost, but not quite. If we were in the kitchen, where the light was bright and focused, he would see them. “You see Johnny, we know this because before I met you, I had a baby. I got pregnant and I had the baby when I was 17 and I gave him away. And in the midst of my pregnancy, I attempted to kill myself by slitting my wrists. My father found me and saved me and I promised him that I would never have another baby, that I would never put him through that again – the worry that he would find me, bleeding, again.”

My dad was crying, remembering.

I could only hope that Johnny would cry in his imagining.

“So the letters are from, well, I think they are from, the son that I gave up. I don’t know why he would be writing to me, or how he could have possibly found me. But that’s who I think they are from, and that’s why I couldn’t open them, and that’s why I couldn’t burn them. They are all I have of him, and I don’t want them but I can’t part with them, and I’m sorry.” By now, I was crying too. I was crying for all I had lost, all I had done, all I had lied about and protected us from.  I put my head down on the table and for the first time since I found out I was having a baby, I cried for that baby. I cried for the hurt and the loss and the wonderful, terrible beauty of the whole damn horrible thing.

My dad consoled me, his hand rubbing my back. “I’m sorry, Jenn. I am sorry I made you promise me, I’m sorry I made you do it. I should have saved you with no conditions. I should have just…”

I hugged him, my old, grizzled father. “None of this was your fault, dad. We were all doing the best that we could.”

He nodded, and backed away, and wiped his eyes and blew his nose. I went into the powder room and washed my face. When I came back out, he was holding my phone. “Call Johnny. Tell him to come home and get this over with. If I need to move you out of here today, I want to do it before it gets dark.”

My dad, ever practical. He hugged me one last time and told me to let him know what I needed. I nodded, and watched him leave. And I texted my husband.

“I am ready to talk. Can you come home?”

No reply for a few minutes.

Then, finally, “Yes.”