Slayer Training For Losers

Some of you may know that I'm about 15 days into a 6 week long fitness challenge, part of a team-"Buncha Losers"-competing with other teams for a cash prize and bragging rights.  The team that loses the most collective weight wins the pot, which works out to a nice sum of $500 each.
 
I suspect most of us aren't in it for the money so much as the chance to develop healthier habits and, hopefully, a healthier body.  In that, of course, we will all finish as winners.  No matter where we were when we started, our trainers are seeing to it that we'll finish stronger, more fit, and having developed a new set of habits with which to continue.

This week, Brian, head honcho over at Inspire Fitness, asked team participants to consider their goals and, for extra team points, write essays describing our own personal "ultimate" selves.  Brian's kinda big on the idea of setting goals, visualizing where you want to be and then living into your vision.

But here's the thing. I'm nearly 52 and I still don't have a freaking clue who I want to be. I mean, I used to. I did. A long time ago.  A long time ago I wanted to be a certain kind of mom. I wanted to be the kind of mom who raised kids that were happy and playful and intellectually curious and fearless and strong and kind and good hearted and interesting to be with.

And, against the odds, I was. I was that kind of mom, with those kinds of kids. And the lion's share of credit goes to the kids themselves, of course, along with a fair amount of luck, and the rest owing to chance and fate and a tiny little bit to my husband and me, and that only for doing a good job of holding our breath while the universe worked its magic and our amazing children grew up.  And left me with my heart overflowing with gratitude.

But. Then.

Boom. I was done. DONE. The road ended; the gate came crashing down.  It's a familiar theme- you've heard it before- but empty-nesting while menopausing?  Nothing prepares you for that shit-- no amount of being psychologically minded, of having things to do or meaningful work or hobbies or a grown up social life-- nothing- nothing prepares you to be done with the day-to-day, on-your-toes, problem-solving busy-ness of active parenting.

It is, literally, depressing.  AND IT'S NOT MY FAULT.  I didn't forget to get a hobby. I just reached a turn in the road that I thought might be interesting but which, it turns out,  I find absolutely AWFUL.


Soooo.  So I spent some time licking my wounds and playing Spider Solitaire and wishing I could fall down a rabbit hole.  Then I took my husband on a Zombie Walk*. Then I licked my wounds some more.  Finally I went for a physical which revealed low vitamin D levels and high cholesterol.  So... I started walking and running a little more, like I used to, taking some supplements, and feeling a little better. Still clueless about who I wanted to be, but the fog at least was beginning to lift.  When I learned about the fitness challenge it seemed like just the right thing at just the right time.

My ultimate self?  Ask me again in a couple of years. For now, I'm happy to be putting one foot in front of the other, to be getting stronger and healthier. I want to have a body that will carry me into my future, one that will afford me the time I'll need for figuring out how to make my second 50 as fun and interesting a trip as my first 50 have been.  I don't know where my path will lead me; travel, writing, art, teaching, ?

What I do know is that I won't be sitting around waiting to find out- I'm going to be out there somewhere, actively meeting the future in front of me.

But there is one other thing--I call the boot camp classes "Slayer Training" for a reason.  I want to be sure that if the Zombies and Vampires arrive, or if the Capitol takes over-- I will be ready.





 *If interested, see my post entitled "Rejoining the Land of the Living (and spending a day undead)", about 5 posts down.

12 things there ought to be.

1. Treadmills in waiting rooms.
2. Workdays involving costumes.
3. Non-allergenic kittens.
4. Cartoons before the movie starts.
5. Right hand lanes that never end.




6. Public art exhibitions everywhere.
7. Asphalt in pretty colors.
8. Real marauders maps.
9. Sidewalks on country roads.
10. Free grocery delivery.
11. Public science exhibitions everywhere.
12. Actually healthy cupcakes.

You Don't Mess With My Heart (Komen et al)

This post is in part about the Komen debacle;  if you aren't familiar with it, start here. Otherwise read on:



See this? This is my heart. My HEART.

Although this is just one of my three children, for the sake of this post, it doesn't matter which. Let this baby stand for them all. My children, my heart.

I have been spitting mad since I first heard about Komen's disastrous decision, and, like many others on hearing the news, I went promptly to Planned Parenthood's fundraising page to make a donation. In concert with so many, our swift and decisive actions made a difference. Komen is well aware of the magnitude of its mistake; I've nothing to add to that.

But I can't let it go- I'm seething-  and maybe, maybe, I can help shed some light on the depth and breadth of furious response to the Komen decision to defund Planned Parenthood.  Because I am a woman of a certain age.  And I suspect that a great number of the Planned Parenthood defenders came of age, as I did, in the 1970's. 

We were young during a pre-HIV, post Sexual-Revolution decade. Our parents weren't ready to provide education and contraceptives, so Planned Parenthood became our place to go. We trusted them and we counted on them.  And they were there for us.

At first, we went in groups- five or six at a time. We went for contraception, mostly, but we got so much more. We were 14, 15, 16 years old, and here was a place where we were treated with dignity and compassion. Here was a place we could get truthful answers and straightforward advice. Any teenager will tell you that in the world of adults, to be treated in this way is rare.  

We got pap smears and breast exams, condoms and the pill. We got information and advice, hand-holding and occasional scoldings. We got abortions, and we got pre-natal care. Planned Parenthood was our primary caregiver well into our twenties or later, until (or if) we graduated to jobs (or marriages) with medical insurance.

I was 20 years old and uninsured when my first baby was born.  My healthy pregnancy and delivery was due in part to the affordable pre-natal care I received at Planned Parenthood.  Long after I stopped using P.P. for my own medical care I counted on them to be there for my younger friends and relatives, and those who were uninsured.  I assumed they would be there for my own children and my children's children too.

I'm 51 years old now and my children, my heart, are all grown up.  It's been a lot of years since I've needed P.P., but I'll always be grateful for the good start they gave to me, my friends, and our families.  Planned Parenthood, we will ALWAYS support you. 

Lately there have been near daily attacks on our reproductive freedom, our access to health-care, to safe abortions, and to affordable and effective contraception.   It is incomprehensible.  If we have been taking what we have of these things for granted, we will no longer. Let the Komen debacle remind us of our strength, our numbers, and of what we have to lose. 

It was heartening to see women of all ages stand up for Planned Parenthood; to know that there are many more of us than there are of those misguided fanatics- religious and political- who would have us bear children we couldn't afford to feed or face a payday choice between groceries and contraception.


I have good health insurance these days and am grateful that I can go to the doctor whenever the need arises. Grateful enough that I've decided to make a donation to a fund that benefits women each time I use my insurance. Today I had a routine yearly physical. And I will make a donation to Planned Parenthood.  I am on the lookout for a cancer-specific fund to replace Komen on my list of favored charities, and am considering the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.  (If anyone can give me a yay or nay on this one I'd appreciate it).

I'm also on the lookout for a good political organization.  I'd like to donate where my money will be used effectively to help shape policy which benefits women and children. Please leave your suggestions here.

I'm grateful to my brilliant children and the brilliant and beautiful people they have brought into my life; all of them (ALL of them) give me hope and a sense of calm amid so much turmoil, amid the public disagreements and vehement disrespect rampant among our so called leaders.  I feel like a child living with parents who don't get along; it leaves me with a near-constant stomach ache.  Or heartache, perhaps.  It's stressful.  I don't need it. 

Implicit in the job of parenting is the promise, the responsibility even, to leave the world a better place for our children. Oh, my hearts, I'm trying!

I think it is inevitable that the uber right who are trying to make or keep bad policy, or to prevent good, will eventually stupid themselves off the radar.  My hope is that we can hurry the process up a bit. Maybe spitting mad is exactly where I need to be. 

Fuck you Chris Christie (in defense of New Jersey)

You and your "Jersey style" rants don't fool us.  Intimidation is the tool of a bully, and everyone knows the truth about bullies. You think you're big and powerful? You get a rush out of threatening people? Despite your obvious efforts to be otherwise, in truth you are a little, little man.

This power trip you're on?  It won't last longer than last nights pudgy little hard-on.  Yeah, I'm pissed. I thought about taking the high road, but you know what? I'm from Jersey too. Difference is, I don't run around threatening people.  I'm not ever going to run for office. I'm not a politician. I don't pretend to be important to anyone outside my family and a small circle of friends.

You, on the other hand, seem to think you're going somewhere. Get over it. You have no class, no style, no intellect, and no manners.  Successful politicians will dust you from their shoulders the minute they've used up what few crumbs you offer.

NJ is a wonderful state filled with all kinds of people, most of them  kind, caring, and compassionate. You do the state an injustice by pretending otherwise.  I'm sure you've been told by your "handlers" to drop the bully act. Problem is, it isn't an act. You, sir, are a bully.

And we all know the truth about bullies.

Rejoining the Land of the Living (and spending a day undead)

I'm  beginning to rejoin the land of the living after a long, unproductive, unwelcome, unintentional withdrawal. The adjustments required by an empty nest, aging parents, and impending work and retirement choices are, for some, No Big Deal.  But for me, and presumably others,  it is a sea change requiring major reinvention and the questioning of Every Single Thing I've Ever Done.

Our sold van; the end of an era

This past year is the first that we've had with no kids at home, not even over the summer.  We sold the van. We cleaned out some closests. We were just beginning to appreciate some of the small differences- ordering one pizza, leaving our door open, an empty sink at the end of the day- when Grandma moved in.

Now we have an ugly wooden calendar hanging in our kitchen and a stuffed pink  Laz-e-boy in the living room.  The electrified chair comes with an "Eject" button from which G'ma springs forth when she's finished watching the Joy Behar show.  Also, the wall fell down.

The Wall that Stole my 51st Summer

It was a necessary retaining wall, and estimates to have it replaced were well out of our reach. So we had to build it ourselves. In June and July. During a heat wave. I call it The Wall that Stole my 51st Summer, and I figure the wall owes me a year.   Building that wall was the hardest sustained physical work I've ever done, but it turned out great, and I know I should be proud of it. But I am only resentful.

With an empty nest, a husband scheduled to retire soon, and no real ties to my local community, I had hoped to move. Somewhere far.  Somewhere interesting.  Somewhere G'ma would also like. Somewhere Cheap, most of all.  Start a new chapter. Figure out what I want to be, besides a parent. But I haven't a clue where we can go or even whether it will be possible.

And so I've spent the summer, and most of the fall, in a funk, a pit, a sleepy drowning-ish, gloomy gray space lacking joy, with no real desire to do anything at all.  I recognize depression, I've been friends with it before. I suppose as it goes mine is a mild case, but still.

Asbury Park NJ Zombie Walk 2011

It's so easy to know what to do (get out! get active! spend time with people!), and so hard to actually do it. But I'm making some progress.  I finally wrote this post, for one. I went with Jim to my first (awesome) Zombie Walk.  I'm taking an exercise class.  I'm looking into other paid work. And I'm in the market for a friend or two.  Who live nearby, because I am very, very lazy.  Also, if anyone knows the meaning of my life (beyond raising the best 3 kids on earth), please let me know.  I'm quite interested. And if you live in an Interesting and Cheap place, I'd like to hear about that, too.

I'm a shitty writer, and a crappy artist.

Or maybe it was crappy writer and shitty artist. 

Either way, the truth is debatable, but that's what one of my "friends" said in a comment on my facebook page.  To her credit the comment disappeared a moment later, replaced by an edited version- still insulting but somewhat less so.

 Baby Spewing Stars (mama with the blue hair)

This "friend" was someone I'd met years ago on the now defunct Ebay blogs ( a misnomer, as these "blogs" functioned more like a forum). Many of us spent a fair amount of time together in this online venue, sharing our lives, our successes, our heartbreaks, and most of all laughter.  So when Ebay did away with the blogs a bunch of us came together again on Facebook.  I estimate a quarter of my 300 or so facebook "friends" are from the old Ebay blog days, and there are maybe a dozen of those that I feel I know and like well enough to invite to my home should they ever be in my neighborhood.

But some, like the one referenced above, are less known to me.  Until the other day, anyway. When I expressed my honest opinion regarding a recent event. There were some to concurred and some who felt differently. I expected that. What I didn't expect, nor deserve, was the hatred and cursing and personal insults spewed on my "wall" from this one individual who had rarely, if ever, spoken to me prior to this day.

It would have been easy to delete her comments and to block her from posting on my wall, but I didn't do that. I left it alone, in part, I realized later, because I needed to experience and explore my feelings about the discomfort I felt at her venomous attack.  It surprised me- the degree of upset I felt- and I realized that I had to allow it. Kind of like falling- it hurts a lot more if you fight it, you end up breaking a leg instead of temporarily losing your dignity.  

So I let the ugly post live.  Eventually the ranter got tired of ranting, and- I thought this was funny- ended it by blocking me.

Here is what I learned:

I do not need to be liked by everyone.  In fact, since I wear my opinions on my sleeve, I will not be liked by everyone.

If I am to write, and create art, I willingly open myself to criticism, both constructive and psychotic in nature. 

Que sera, sera.

I am secure in the knowledge that I am a better writer than most of the people I know, and not half as good as any of those I read.  And that's okay with me.

As for my art? Well, she may have been right about that. But I don't pretend to make beautiful (or good) art; I create because the act of creating fulfills me. And, even here, I have my admirers.  

Here is my question for you- Do you put yourself "out there"? Do you worry about critics? Do you find that you are more or less willing to be vulnerable as you get older?  Are your feelings hurt by "friends" on Facebook or other social media, and if so, how do you deal?

Hey! Crone!

crone (plural crones)

1. (obsolete) An old woman
2. an ugly evil-looking or frightening old woman; a hag

There you have the definition of crone according to Wiktionary. But I say they got it way wrong. Because I'm taking over the name, me and a zillion other boomers, and  putting a new face on it.

I'll be 51 soon, and like a lot of women my age, struggle to define my post-menopausal, newly-empty nesting, still searching and still insecure self.  I remember whining to my shrink so many years ago- "But I'm going to be 29 soon and I still don't know anything!".

Ha.

Here are some things I do know.

1. On television and at the supermarket I see women all the time who are probably my age or older and have had at least one procedure too many. I do not want to be one of them.  Even if I had the cash.  I dislike my sagging face and under-eye circles as much as anybody, but prefer to find the stuff inside me to deal with them than to emanate the desperate vibe of fake looking skin, outsized lips and a weird, robotic lack of expression.  Yes, I am vain. Unhealthily so even, yet I'd rather be thought of as old than as pitiful.

2. I've had my turn to be young. Now it's somebody else's turn. I'm okay with that. I've always been pretty good at taking turns and sharing the goodies. Thinking of it this way helps me to remember things happily rather than wistfully.  It really does.

3. Menopause sucks. It just does, there is no positive spin. All you can do is be glad when it's done with and move forward. There's no avoiding it. It's like death- it's going to happen, one way or another- only you get to eat chocolate after instead of sucking dirt, so that part's good.

4. As long as I can sit on curbs, I'm going to sit on curbs. Once when I was about 16, somebody asked me if I still sat on curbs. I did, of course, but, sadly, this person said he felt too old to sit on curbs anymore.  He was 26 at the time.  Ever since, sitting on curbs has symbolized for me a kind of refusal to give in or give up. I don't think curb-sitting is an age related thing, as long as you can physically do it (and, more importantly, stand up after). So as long as I can sit on curbs, I will sit on curbs.  And run on muddy trails in the woods. Paint my car with flowers and such. Tear up my aarp mail into tiny little pieces and mail it back. Wear colorful barrettes in my hair. Experiment with funky clothing. Create art. Laugh at every little thing. Avoid negative people. Which brings me to number 5....

5. I am loving this part of aging- my life- my rules.  I no longer worry (much) about what people think. I don't feel the need to spend time with unpleasant, negative or gossipy people. I don't feel the need to attend meetings, events or gatherings which I know in advance will prove unpleasant.  I don't feel the need to wear clothing I find uncomfortable, for any reason, ever.  I've worn pajamas to church, work and the supermarket. I have embraced the hamper clothes way of life and found it to be awesome. I have dessert for breakfast and cereal for dinner. There are definite advantages to having put in a bit of time on earth.

I'm a crone. Proud crone. Happy crone. Still a sorta hippie crone. If you are a crone too (or in a partnership or marriage to one)- what do you embrace about it? What do you find hard?  I want to hear from you, as part of my research into my soon to be launched crone zine. Thanks.