Monthly Archives: January 2013

I Need a Plan


I need a plan. For weeks, I have intended to engage in daily exercise and writing time. I haven’t, unless Facebook  comments count as writing and climbing the steps to the 3rdfloor of my work building a few times a day counts as exercise. It could, I suppose, since I have been blathering  too much on Facebook, and climbing the steps increases my heart rate AND winds me, but these are  too lame to consider, if not admit.

The problem is that I have made plans. Plans to walk on lunch or in the evening after dinner, plans to go or do yoga morning or noon or night,  plans to play WiiFit with Andy…if we can find the balance board, and have batteries retaining a charge. Plans to go skiing and partake in trial memberships at gyms on days off.  But life has been full of changes, lately, and I am having a hard time sticking to the plans or figuring out any that can work.

Just wait, I said, at first. See how things work out. (Things, not me, you notice.)

The few mornings I woke early enough to walk it was bitterly cold avec ski jacket, hat, scarf and gloves. The need to arrive at my place of employment  45 minutes to an hour before the work day begins, because significant portions of the almost adequate amount of parking normally available are reserved for the seasonal workers  the first few months of the year encroaches on morning yoga class.  When I get home at night  it is too late, too dark, and I am too tired to get my juices flowing through my body or my brain, but not tired enough to sleep, so I can awaken earlier  and have more time in the morning.

Now it’s late January, and the reality of  my life, I have realized, is that the only constant is constant change.

Weeks turned into a month, while I figured this out, and I turned into a blob.  Blobs don’t exercise or write clever repartee. They do their work, go home, see who likes them on Facebook, and spend the rest of their time sleeping…or trying to sleep. Blobs look like they slid into their clothes, jumped into their cars with wet hair and put their makeup in the time of red lights on the way to work. Blobs have a horrid sense of time but a knack for timing. so they don’t  stop at traffic lights as much as need to, to do their makeup well in the dark, wee hours of the morning. Blobs eat cookies and chocolate because they won’t go to the grocery store or make the time to pack healthy meals with the food they have. Blobs use energy complaining about what they can’t get done, instead of gaining energy from accomplishment.

I don’t like blobs, and I REALLY don’t like being one…

So, I need a plan – a plan that provides one hour each day for exercise, and another hour to write or do other things I need to do myself. – a plan that can become a schedule capable of weathering change.

Or maybe, I need a miracle.


Forty Days to Fifty

My Birthday Dress

My Birthday Dress

I am grouchy today. Surly. Bearish. I don’t know why, and I  probably won’t, because I am not here to explore possibilities by verbally vomiting all that was wrong and right with my world today, and once I hit publish, my day will be done. I used to search for answers on days like this. Parse, review, analyze. Now I know it will pass, so I don’t waste my energy on it. Why? Because I have bigger concerns.

In forty days I will be fifty.

My concern is not with turning 50 itself, I am actually liking getting older and wiser, for now. My concern is my birthday dress. Yes, for the first time since I turned five (if ever, really) I have a birthday dress. To wear for what, I do not know.

It happened last week. I was on a mission to find a sweater that would replace the ones buried in bins at the very back and very bottom of the storage packed in April that I was sure would be emptied by October 15. I thought I was being clever then, putting the fall and winter clothes in the deepest depths, so they would go on the truck last, and come off the truck first, when unpacking is still fresh enough for me to act like it can really be a manageable process. The storage is still packed, and clever started feeling cold weeks ago, so I concluded a new sweater was the perfect use of the money my parents sent for my Christmas gift. So I shopped my way home from work on December 27th, in hopes of finding a screaming deal on the perfect integration of wool and knitting amongst the much-hyped “week after” sales.

I didn’t.

So at Ross, my 3rd and final stop of that dark, dreary night, I decided to look at the dresses, too. I don;t know why. I hardly ever look at dresses because they rarely fit me. They did not fit “before” because my shoulders were two sizes wider than my hips, and my waist sat too low to have anything hit right. Dresses don’t fit now because I still have those issues, and the shape of a snowman as well.

Yet there I was, flicking hangers and sliding frocks down the pole faster than screaming people on ziplines. I don’t think I was even looking when it drew me in. It was matched-plaids, fully-lined lust at first sight. “Don’t,” I told myself, to quell the hope rising and diminish the despair sure to result from ingesting the price.

$13,99!!! WOO HOO! The price was right!

The problem? The size was wrong. The tag had the size I wear (on a good day) boldly printed on it, and the dress is a smaller size. Really. the label inside said so. The only one like it was the same size.

So, I did what I vowed I would never do again the dozens of times I donated clothes that were like new, because they were a better deal than fit, and I never shrank into them as planned. I bought the dress.

Now, it is motivational art. Thanks to the idea inspired by my brilliant friend Zelda, it is hanging on my wall. It is the first thing I see in the morning, the last thing I see at night, and a constant reminder that I want to be the person who can wear it (unless the shoulders are too tight or the waist is too high) more than I want to eat garbage or chocolate.

I honestly don’t know if I can become that person in 40 days or not, but I like that it is helping me try.