February and David Goggins

Run #1 of the 4x4x48 Challenge, March 5, 2021

February sucks.  It is the shortest month, but the longest.  It is a vast nothingness of nothing.  

Last February I trained for David Goggins’ 4x4x48: I prepared to run 4 miles every 4 hours for 48 hours in March. (If you’ve never heard of Goggins, look him up - you’ll immediately be both inspired and horrified). I did shorter runs during the week then multiple runs on the weekends to get ready. It helped me to have a goal to work towards and made the month go by with something to look forward to, if running 4 miles, every 4 hours for 48 hours and sleep deprivation is something one looks forward to.

So this year I needed a challenge to push me through this dreadful month.  At first I thought, in keeping with the “get uncomfortable” spirit a la David Goggins, I will get up every morning at 5:45 to do something - walk, stretch, workout, meditate. I hate mornings and I especially hate dark, cold winter mornings, so that’s the uncomfortable part. Then I laughed maniacally at the thought of me getting up 45 minutes before I actually needed to.  That’s a little too uncomfortable. 

This thought process brought me to my answer, 2022’s F**k February Goal. Too often (like, too too often, like every night) I am just too tired, too mentally drained from herding cats all day (I’m a teacher).  Although I almost always get in my workout,  I can then sit in front of the television for hours so that not one more brain cell needs to function. My goal: I will not watch television on weekday nights so that I can write, workout and meditate.  Instead of making excuses that I don’t have the time because it’s being eaten away by Real Housewives and Cheer, I will spend my weekday evenings productively not being attached to my couch. I am not giving up weekends because a girl’s gotta live…and catch up on what she’s missed all week.

I’ve been wanting to bring this blog back to life so here’s to 2022’s F**k February Goal.  Check in, keep me accountable and let me know what gets you through your "February!"

Isn't It Ironic?

Yesterday, as I rested my arms between sets of triceps and shoulders during my weight training, I found myself Googling the hours of our the local ice cream shop for date night.

 

Hanging in There

Completely forgetting that my equilibrium gets thrown off by going on a playground swing did not deter my 40-something old self from signing up for an aerial silk class. 

Twice.

Honestly, when I thought this was a good idea, I forgot that I have an equilibrium issue.  Because I’m 40 something and if I didn’t write that nugget on a Post-it, it’s lost and gone forever.

 

I came across this studio near me that describes itself as “circus, aerials, pole, lyra, silks, burlesque” so basically, it screamed to my middle-aged self that this establishment was clearly something I had to look into. I decided on the aerial silks class because why wouldn’t I want to hang from the ceiling of a warehouse flipping my “don’t have the flexibility of a twenty something any more” body through brightly colored fabric? 

 

Did I mention that I’m also scared to death of heights?

 

I hope that by now you checked out the link above to see this amazing art. It is beautiful and powerful.  The ways in which bodies become gracefully entangled in these vibrant silks is magical.

 

And looks nothing like I did my first time.  And definitely not my second. 

 

I signed up for the beginner’s class for obvious reasons.  The first class lived up to its name.  The instructor taught us beginners slowly and methodically how to flip ourselves through the fabric in order to get that beautiful silk wedged right up the lady parts or to squeeze our thighs like a tourniquet.  I actually did everything and had fun, but as the minutes ticked on, I felt the nausea come on followed by body parts beginning to bruise.  By the time I got home, I had a headache, was sick to my stomach, and couldn’t walk up the stairs because of that damn material squeezing at the back of my knees as we playfully hung upside down like a bunch of monkeys.

 

Naturally, I went back a week later. 

 

This time, the beginner’s class catered more to the advanced students.  Why were there advanced students in this class? Great question with absolutely no answer. I spent most of this class standing my with mask-covered mouth open in awe of my classmates’ talents.  This instructor had us attempting to climb up our silk like a rope in middle school gym class, turn horizontal, then flip ourselves a few times up our silk.  Having a hard time picturing this? Understandable.  The doing was way worse.  Then we were to FALL out of this contraption in which we put ourselves.  Even though I didn’t participate as fully as I did the first time,  it was still enough that I was nauseous again, went home with a headache again, and felt the beginnings of more bruises - again.  It was extremely difficult, I was extremely frustrated but this class taught me an important lesson. I’m a quitter.

 

What’s that saying - fool me once…Well, I’m over aerial silks. But I bought a 4-class pass and still need to use 2 more classes.  

 

So, I’ll keep you posted on how burlesque goes. 

Midlife Musings

When I started this blog about 13 years ago, I had a preschooler.  A three-year old boy who wielded a light saber, believed in Santa, and resisted naps like it was his job.  Our days were filled with park visits, playdates, reading books and singing silly songs. 

Fast forward, and here I am with an almost 17 year-old young MAN (and a yellow lab that behaves like a preschooler).  Hubby and I are on the cusp of an empty nest.  The Legos have long since been put away and have been replaced with mailers from colleges near and far.  Gone are the days of getting a babysitter so that hubby and I could go out to dinner and get a little break.  Now, we beg Monkey Man to go out to dinner WITH us.  

While Monkey Man continues growing inches over me, I watch as my midsection tries to creep inches over my waistband. Monkey Man is barreling on towards adulthood and all of the exciting adventures that await him, and I’m here in the throes of midlife, perimenopause, who the hell is that reflection in the mirror “adventures” - if that’s what we want to call sweating through our t-shirts in the middle of the night.  I no longer need to get up every few hours to feed a child.  No, no - instead,  I get up every few hours to pee.

This blog’s title is still aptly named, though.  You are kidding me continues to be a phrase I use daily, only now I might add in a few expletives since Monkey Man is older and we can laugh at mom’s potty mouth. 

Caught in the middle - We’re raising children and caring for parents; seasoned in our careers but not quite ready for retirement (mentally, oh yessss - financially, not quite yet), done with the clubs and bars but not quite ready for weekly bingo and dinner at 4pm.

Come along with me on this wild ride of midlife. Because misery - and menopause - love company.

The Human Vacuum

My refrigerator sits, a cold, barren wasteland, like the tundra of Alaska. Well, if the Alaskan tundra had empty food storage containers strewn about. I open the pantry and to my horror, I fear that thieves broke in during the night and ransacked the snacks, leaving behind empty granola bar boxes, bags that hold individual servings of chips and popcorn, and a few stray Cheerios at the bottom of the box.

My heart begins to race. I just went grocery shopping yesterday! How can this be? All that food - and money - gone! In less than 24 hours, I am back to square one. Back to my refrigerator looking like that of a college frat house with a bottle of ketchup, one lonely yogurt cup and something mysterious wrapped in foil.

I’m startled out of my panic when I hear a familiar voice chime in from behind me heading ever closer to the crime scene.

“Mommmm, there’s nothing to eeeaaat!” the voice moans as if the person who owns the voice hadn’t eaten in days.

And then it hits me. We have not been robbed by a gang of ravenous bandits. This was an inside job orchestrated and executed by my dear, sweet, bottomless pit of a 14-year old son.

I answer to his cries of starvation, “There’s plenty of watermelon, I just cut it up!”

“Nope. I ate it,” human vacuum says with a grin.

Grrrrr..."That’s the empty watermelon container? Could you please not put empty containers back in the fridge?” I beg, tears welling in my eyes as I remember the days when I could go to the grocery store but once a week.

I continue with my usual rebuttals. “Chocolate pudding? Popcorn? Yogurt? Strawberries? Cereal?”

“Ummm, nope. All gone. The granola bars are done,too. I left the empty box in the cabinet so you would know. Just wanna help you, mom!” he says while putting his arm around me and giving me a loving, and I detect, sarcastic squeeze.

“You know what else is all gone, too? My money. So get creative, kid, and enjoy that ketchup, cup of yogurt and mystery item wrapped in foil until payday!”

The Stomach Bug (as told by the classroom floor and trash can)

Floor: All day long, every day, I get walked on. Kicked. Dirt and goose poop get ground into my 1960s pores.

Trash can: We do have it pretty bad, don’t we? I mean, the teacher thinks she has it the worst? You see her crying when the kids are at art, grading that stack of papers while she stress eats 3 packs of Oreos from the vending machine. Pfft.  She's got it easy!

Floor: Yeah, and mumbling something about having to go pee but she also has to make 25 copies of 10 packets and the stapler in the machine wasn't working which meant she'd have to hand staple all those copies and she only had 20 minutes left.  Did she ever go pee?

Oh sorry, I digress. Please, enlighten me. How do you have it worse than me?

Trash can: Those kids throw booger-covered tissues and bloodied bandages in me from the 3-point line in the classroom!

Floor: Ahem. And when they miss, which they almost always do, they land on ME. So, you were saying?

Trash can: Paper towels that wipe down the filth of 25 eight-year-olds are nonchalantly tossed in me whenever the teacher has a minute to wipe down the desks in this place. And let’s not forget how I accompany the kids down the hall all winter long.

Floor: Ohhh right. The winter. (shudders)

Trash Can: Exactly! That walk of shame that I have to do, being held by some kid that is about to spew his Pop-Tart and chocolate milk breakfast of champions all over me!

Floor: Whoooa, hold on there, big guy. I have no warning! Zero! They just up and chuck all over me! At least you know that once they scoop you up and take you for a stroll, there is a very good likelihood that you will be the recipient of blown chunks. Me? One minute I’m relaxing while the kids are finally in their seats and I have a moment to myself and the next minute…

Trash Can: Ok, yeah. You win.

One Out of 12 Ain't Bad

“Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?”

Well, Rent, glad you asked!

Since February just happens to be the worst month ever, let’s start out with that one. It is the saddest, darkest and strangely enough, shortest month. Twenty-eight days that seem to stretch on for years with its cold, black mornings of nothingness. We made it through the hectic holidays of December, a month that can be holly, jolly and fun for many but at the price of credit card debt, dysfunctional family get togethers, and misinterpreted “Happy Holidays!” and “Grrr, he didn’t say MERRY CHRISTMAS! Even though he was so pleasant and smiled. Why isn’t everyone participating in our beliefs?” We persevered through January, a month that starts off with resolutions of health and happiness and ends six weeks later in empty gyms and winter blues.

So, back to February. We muddle through, making Valentine’s Day into a holiday just to give ourselves some joy and chocolate in this bleak wasteland of winter. We even take off a Monday to stretch out a long weekend hoping Abe and George will give us a glimmer of hope in this most wretched month. Finally, the 28th comes, or in the godforsaken Leap Year, the 29th, and we gleefully rip February from our desk calendars in anticipation of March. March! Spring! Flowers and green, and sunshine!

Not so fast. Oh, March, you little lying weasel. You sneer at us like an evil villain pretending to bring hope because you carry the first day of spring in your pocket. You lure us to your windowless white van with your promises of candy and puppy dogs. But nope. Instead, you spit wreckless winds for 31 days, allowing April’s showers to show up like an unwanted in-law 30 days early. And then you have the gall to continue the temperatures of your ugly predecessor, February.

Then April comes hoppin’ down the bunny trail. Its pastel woven basket holds hopes of jellybeans and baby chicks and tulips and SPRING! The real SPRING! Hold on there, my marshmallow peeps. Sure, we are about two weeks into spring, but we all know how those May flowers are going to bloom. Yep. April showers. Downpours. N’oreasters. Heck, we might even get a good snowstorm this month. So, April? Your only redeeming quality is that you are one month closer to summer.

As we round out April, we head into the lovely sunshiney May. May you be happy now! May you find the joy that was sucked from you for the past 7 months! May you find a reason to get out of bed when the sunrise actually occurs before you open your eyes in the morning. Thank you, May for having 31 days. We relish every single one of them.

June, we’re not really sure what to think about you. You have such potential to be a great month, but sadly, you keep our children imprisoned in their schools until almost your last week! As if that’s not bad enough for the lil ones who just want out, think of the teachers trying to enrich their brains for those last three weeks! You bring such promise of summer and outside play and the anticipation of a long awaited break. But really, you’re just cruel.

July. July...what can I say? You are a close runner-up to May with your summer vacations, parades and fireworks, late nights with friends laughing and enjoying the laid back summa’ time living reminiscent of 80s Country Time Lemonade commercials. Sure, you bring on 100% humidity and bad hair days, but I’ll gladly wipe my brow with my hanky throughout the day for the sweet freedom you bring.

As we roll into August, some might still be enjoying a carefree summer break, but for anyone heading back to school soon, it’s a bittersweet month. Sometimes described as one long Sunday night, we know that September is hiding around the corner armed with freshly sharpened Ticonderoga pencils, crisp white notebook paper and a rainbow of new crayons, ready to jump out at any minute and scare the bejeezus out of us. It’s not only the back to school thing that is disappointing. It’s the mere threat that...winter is coming. Yep, in the wise words of Game of Thrones, it is. Maybe not tomorrow or next week or next month. But if you absolutely loathe temperatures below 65, August brings thoughts of fall which inevitably brings winter. And we all know how that goes. If you forgot, start at the top of this post.

Aside: We’re just skipping over September, October and November. Nothing notable here. Unless you’re into shipping the kids back to school so you can get back to lunching with friends, bulky sweaters and pumpkin everything, then have at it and celebrate!

So thank you, May, for being the one redeemable month in a dozen that could take a lesson or two from you and improve their games.

Let's hear from you! What's your favorite month and why? Or least favorite month? We like Positive Pollys and Pessimistic Pollys! All Pollys welcome!