My 30day yoga membership expired today.
That might explain my wondering:
- Why do so many women react so weirdly to my not-working choice? Spare me the horror and the defensiveness.
- How the heck does one perform a breast self-examination without visualizing and bracing for a lump?
- And, what’s with all the fakes and flakiness?
I’m off to soak up a slice of this gorgeous sunny day and kick this ridiculous cloud to the curb.
I truly hope to reach my golden years.
And if I do, I sure hope I don’t find that I have alienated myself from every one of my children.
And if I have, I really hope that none of my children has to endure the trauma of a life-threatening illness without one iota of parental support.
And if they do, I sincerely hope I won’t be so petty and poisonous at to leave snarky comments on their blog.
But that’s just me.
School started this morning.
Lucy and Bayla were thrilled. Mark was melancholy.
And I was chopped, tossed and tongue-tied by the schoolyard full of parents.
Stepping into that sea of smiling excitement knocked me flat.
I can’t think. I can’t smile. I don’t know where to look. Where to stand. My brain goes blank. I say stupid things.
It feels like I’m in a blender.
There were great friends in that crowd. And faces that maim me at the best of times. Both bowled me.
Sure, it’s all in my head. And I should probably ground myself, breath, repeat some mantra. But it takes me by surprise. I’m suddenly whirling and sputtering. And blank.
But I survived.
And today’s the first day of my first school year as a free-all-day mom.
I’ve got bon-bons to eat.
I’d better get to it.
“You can keep them bottled up, but they will come out, Michael. Sometimes in the most unexpected… Hey, where the @!*# are my hard-boiled eggs?!“
— Tobias Fünke. Good Grief! Arrested Development 2004.
My life is brimming with beautiful people. Wise, interesting, creative, curious, passionate, compassionate, generous, articulate, level-headed, fun-loving people.
So I’m always shocked at the hair-trigger hostility I stumble into. Seemingly reasonable people who spray me with hatred over a sideways glance.
It confuses me.
Are they stretched to the breaking point struggling to maintain some decent facade? Are they barely bottling up frustration, dissatisfaction, loneliness, insecurity, envy and rage? And why bother spewing venom at inconsequential me?
In the online world, it’s especially easy to lay out and examine entire interactions. And I’ve often done just that. Weighing a scant response from me against the lengthy and personal ferocity that results.
And my confusion remains.
But I’m learning to scrounge up some compassion for their barely bound pain. Beam some healing, happy vibes.
And move on.
They sure looked innocent back then.
Actually, they still look pretty innocent.
I’m sure being trapped on a train with them for six days will improve things for all of us.
Wait a minute…
Second, and third, and nth chances.
Yesterday, was frustration. I guess I should say, I let myself be frustrated.
One small effect, and propagating cause, was the absolute blackening of this pot. Followed by my many frantic, frustrated, fruitless attempts to boil and scrape through the thick, stuck, edge-to-edge char.
Turns out time, rest and water did what no amount of swearing and straining could.
And that’s just one of the many nth chances I’ve been treated to today.
I am grateful for each one.
Now to treat myself to some of the same.
It is inching towards midnight, one million degrees and humid. We are without air conditioning. Our girls are squirrely and none of us are able to sleep.
So, a cranky post in response to some all-too-frequent insensitive cancer-spam.
I stumbled upon your blog and I was happy to see that you also support breast cancer and I hope you’re doing well. I wanted to share this infographic [linked] with you and your followers, so that we can help to educate and spread the word about the easy preventive steps to combat breast cancer.
Breast Cancer: Get the Facts, ties the importance society has given to how breast look with the lack of importance women have given to their own health. The bra industry itself is a multimillion dollar business and over 400,000 women a year choose to enhance their breasts through cosmetic surgery. And it’s depressing to know that only 65% of women over 40 get a mammogram regularly. We know we all want them to look great, but let’s make sure that they feel that way too.
Will you post this on your blog or Twitter to help women realize how important and easy it really is to prevent breast cancer? Please let me know what you think via, Stephania@flankmarketing.com. I look forward to your response!
- You did not “stumble across” my blog, you went searching for breast cancer blogs
- I do not support breast cancer
- It is not easy to prevent breast cancer
- Isn’t 400,000 women a lot less than 65% of women over 40?
- It isn’t about wanting our breasts to feel great
- I don’t call living 5 years “surviving” [this in response to text on the actual graphic]
- Who is paying you? Mammogram-makers?
P.S. My breasts are tiny yet my mammogram showed no sign of that found-it-myself 2cm tumor.
As if anyone reading this blog isn’t already doing the obvious in terms of breast cancer.
A rallying cry from the reluctant hero of Zorgamazoo:
Now, sometimes you lose and sometimes you win,
but my Pop always told me: You never give in!
And if he were here now, I know what he’d say:
Morty, my son, when you’re caught in a fray,
or your travels are tough and the going is rough,
or you’re up to your neck in the slippery stuff,
or say some old robots are on the attack,
then I tell you, my son: You start fighting back!.
Zorgamazoo, by Robert Paul Weston
I’ve been in a weird place, lately.
Somewhere where I don’t know where I am.
I’ve fallen off my anti-cancer wagons. And then beaten myself up, accordingly.
I’ve slipped into my pre-c self-loathing. And then beaten myself up, accordingly.
I’ve tried and succeeded. I’ve tried and failed.
But we’re alive, healthy and happy. March break is just around the corner. Mark’s employment story looks bright.
And the canal is still open — and perfect. March fourth.
Three weeks ago today, Mark lost his job.
It was no laughing matter.
But, thanks to a whack of relevant AD quotes, we laughed a lot that day.
Often, it’s not what happens so much as how we frame it.
This weekend, I did a hard-core search for a healthy way to look at braggarts, bullies and poseurs.
Thanks to mulling, sharing and listening to you, I think I struck gold:
I laugh just thinking these terms.
Bring it on.
I’ve known narrative therapy was a powerful part of my process.
The bliss of boiling ambient annoyances down to their post-sized bones. The giggly thrill of a perfect AD quote. The satisfaction of a finished work.
But, lately, I’ve realized the purging power of pressing Publish. How swirling worries weaken me ’til I release them to the web.
Right now, a post penned Tuesday sits queued for Mark’s approval. Reminding me that pending posts leave issues bigger than life.
A published post provides perspective. It’s one post in 362 (now 363), sitting sandwiched and small. A story. Or, as Sheree says, one stop in the dot-to-dot that is the constellation of my life.
So, thank you, blog, for your healing perspective.
And thank you, friends, for the reason to write.
Hoop…. instead of Poop.
Today was a rough day.
Huge thanks to hooping (and Sophie) for the hour-long escape from care.
And to Lucy for joining me.
My weaknesses, my wrinkles, my weight, waste and wussiness.
My inner-critic’s bounced right back to full-time abuse.
It’s powerful. It’s persistent.
But it’s no match for my gratitude.
Those bullying thoughts bombard me.
As they always have.
But I bash each one. Because I’m glad to be here.
I’m alive. I’m healthy.
And, bit by bit, that inner-critic’s going down.
Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal.
— Kathleen Kelly, You’ve Got Mail
Let me ask you something. Is this a business decision, or is it personal? ‘Cause if it’s business I’ll go away happily. But if it’s personal, I’ll go away… but I won’t be happy.
— G.O.B. Bluth, Bringing Up Buster