Check Your "Cool" at the Door

Day 5 of Insanity.  I liken it to a prison sentence.  Is it better to say Day 5, or should I go with 55 Days-To-Go.  Ewww - Day 5, definitely Day 5.  I have to be honest, after the first night's Fit Test, I wasn't sure I would make it to Day 2.  And after Day 3 - well, let's just put it this way - the typing that I'm doing at this moment, isn't without considerable pain.  So, yeah - Day 5, bitches - like a boss!

Sidebar - It's no secret that I'm doing this whole thing for a t-shirt I could make myself.  So look what I found online the other day.  Do you see what I see?  Does that say, LIMITED EDITION???  Do you have any idea how pissed I'll be if I get through this and I don't even have the shirt to show for it?  It'll be just like that time I voted and they ran out of "I voted" stickers.  I mean, what's the point?  Why does the universe hate me so?  

Since I began this journey, I've received lots of advice.  The most common being, "You have to do this with your significant other." I thought, how fun!  But, because Jesus loves me and protects me from things I think I want, my boyfriend was busy the first night and couldn't join me.  If I could've stepped outside myself to observe my Fit Test, I believe I would liken it to something resembling geriatric interpretive dance.  Any and all "cool" is off the table with this program. When did I become this uncoordinated?  I couldn't even figure out which arm should go forward and which should go back while running in place.  People, I'm a run-ner, it's what I do.

But aside from the whole lack-of-coordination thing, I legitimately fear every workout.  One of their phrases is, You have to hit "play" every day.  Every time I go to hit play on the Blue Ray, it's like playing Russian Roulette.  I have no idea what to expect - but I fear the worst.  And my fears are almost always realized.

Insanity reduces your life to 30 second segments.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, will heighten your awareness of Einstein's Theory of Relativity, the way Insanity does.   When Shaun T says, "30 more seconds of power jumps," I'm like, "You have GOT to be effin' kidding me!"  And when Shaun T says, "Okay, water break, you've got 30 seconds,"  I'm like, "You have GOT to be effin' kidding me!"

There is just so much sweating, grunting, groaning, cussing, screaming and weeping taking place - and that's just the warm-up.  Anyone reading this who has done Insanity, knows how very true this is.  The dude is certifiable - but I believe in him.  And I'm starting to believe in me. 

I live to put an "X" on the calendar and chip away at my Insanity "sentence."  Today's workout is a little something called Pure Cardio - or as I like to call it, Puke Cardio.

Here's to one more "X"!

"Panic" Was Spot-On

Remember how I was talking about Pinterest getting the best of me – suggesting that my life needed a facelift of sorts? Remember the other post about not having any self-control, which is why I have 3 dogs instead of, well, none?  Remember the other post where I jumped up and down naked, awestruck by my fat’s blatant disregard for solidity?

Life facelift, no self-control, fat that’s taken on a life of its own = drastic measures.  Drastic Measures = Insanity.  Yes, that one.   P90X’s answer to, “Let’s see if we can actually kill some people.”  In a weak moment in the nocturnal suspension of reality (read, watching infomercials at 2am), I succumbed to the hype.

The ripped, unpaid spokesperson was staring deep into my insomnia-laden eyes, promising me the body from my 20’s if I'd just do the work.  Sixty days - a year’s worth of results in just 60 days.  That doesn't look so hard, I thought to myself as I lie all sloth-like on the couch.  The only muscles I used during the hour and a half infomercial were those that aided in scraping the bottom of my Ben and Jerry’s container.  But yeah, I'm all over this. 

The real kicker, though?  The part that got me to hop online and order the program?  The t-shirt.  That’s right – a t-shirt with the word, “Insanity” chiseled across the front.  You see, you can’t just go buy this shirt.  You have to earn it by completing the program.  Lesson #1 - Don’t threaten me with a challenge.  I will cut off my nose to spite my face and pay you a handsome sum to prove you wrong.

The next morning, however, I immediately regreted my decision.  Buyer's remorse?  Or panic – it felt more like panic. 

Panic because the Insanity workout is aptly named and I'm known around these parts for biting off a smidge more than I can chew (3 dogs, anyone?).  But also panic because of this highly coveted t-shirt.  This $149.00 t-shirt.  To earn the shirt, you have to take before and after pictures and send them in to the Insanity people.  I guess then they determine whether or not you actually did the program based on your results, and then send you a shirt if you look good enough.  Before pictures?  Someone has to see my "before"?  My boyfriend has to see my "before"?

People, I do my best to protect my younger boyfriend from things he just shouldn't see; dim lighting, lots of covers and swift movements to make me blurry - all in my bag of tricks.  But in order to have before pictures, you have to show the "before."  The un-pretty, un-taut, un-sucked in, unbelievably gross parts - just hanging there, being all before-like. 

While I've blocked most of the traumatizing photo-shoot from my memory, I do remember apologizing - a lot.  I'm considering a small offering of gratitude.....like a car.

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Well, the box finally arrived Monday and there was nothing left to do but the doin’!  I hung the Insanity progress poster on my bedroom wall, grabbed a large bottle of water, gave myself one last pep-talk, and popped in the DVD. 

I was exactly 11 seconds of high knees in when I checked the screen timer to see when this fresh hell would be over…my breathing was erratic, my heart monitor was smoking and shooting sparks and I could actually taste the lactic acid burning my throat.  Plus...I really wanted a sandwich.  

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Gonna be a long 60 days, folks… 

Damn You, Pinterest

Be grateful for what you have. A bird in the hand. Don't get your hopes up. Don’t expect too much. 

These words – and like variations - were spoken often in my childhood home.  Expressions and idioms that helped shape the person I am today.  These phrases have often shifted the focus from the monetary (or lack thereof, to be more accurate) and directed me to appreciate my true riches, such as family, health, love, safety and security.  These words have kept me humble.  These words have kept me appreciative. 

   

These words, quite frankly, have left me in the dust.

It wasn’t long ago that I was sailing through life, totally unaware that I needed more.  Yet, in this age of social media dependence, every time I log onto Facebook or Pinterest or Twitter, Instagram or - pick your addiction – I’m bombarded with inspirational and motivating quotes, e-cards and posters just begging me to get off my ass and do more with my life!  

Source - Pinterest

I've got what "what" takes?  And now I have to give it all I got?  Am I giving anything all I got?  Don’t be ridiculous – how exhausting.

Look, I have a happy, healthy family who loves me unconditionally and supports my every effort.  I have friends who would fight a Kraken for me, (I'd have to get 'em drunk first - but they'd fight it.)  a home that’s warm in the winter and cool in the summer, a car that gets me where I need to go, a secure job that affords me the luxury of paying my bills and a midsection that assures the masses I ain’t missing any meals.  I have enough. 

I do, right? (Good Lord, if that isn't codependency in overdrive.)

Be grateful for what you have. A bird in the hand. Don't get your hopes up. Don’t expect too much.

These words, as well meaning as they are intended to be, hold me back.  It’s as if simply wanting more will set off some karma alarm and cause my true riches to fall out of balance.  And thinking I deserve more?  People, that’s terrifying for me to even type.

In the 7th grade I tried out for cheerleader never dreaming I would actually make it.  The day of the results, I remember saying to myself, "Don't get your hopes up, don't expect too much."  So when they called my name for the 7th grade squad, my friend had to nudge me and say, "Uh, like for sure, they just totally called your name."  I was floored.  I had no idea what they saw in me. 

This way of thinking - this slighting of my abilities - has followed me into adulthood. (Heaven forbid it be youthful, taut skin or the ability to stay up past 10 pm.)  It also fuels the other two shackles - A bird in the hand and Be grateful for what you have.  I mean, why reach for more when you doubt your ability to attain more, besides...you already have a bird in the hand.  Be grateful for that.   

Is it just me or does your head hurt, too?

I think this boils down to a generational thing.  When my parents were growing up, these phrases fit their reality.  Their parents had just emerged from the Great Depression.  Housing and paying jobs were scarce.  Food, clothing - everything - was rationed.  Be grateful for what you have and A bird in the hand weren't just words that were said, but actions that were demonstrated daily.   

With the Gen-Xers and the Gen-Yers dominating the the social media show, it's no wonder I can't check Facebook or Pinterest without feeling like my life needs a major face-lift.  This group of individuals are the poster children of "what have you done for me lately?"  If they don't like it, they move along.  Boss piss you off?  Find another job.  Don't like your house?  Move.  Don't like your car?  Buy a new one.  Don't like your relationship?  Go out and get yourself another one.  There's always something bigger and better just around the corner for these guys. 

We Gen-Xers on the older end of the spectrum - we're caught somewhere in the middle.  

When is it okay to want more?

Those of you who have read me for a while know I had a therapist who I assume was high during most of my sessions.  I remember asking him, "Is that okay?" to any decision I "made." He would always respond with, "I don't know, is it?"  I just thought he was being lazy from hitting the chronic, but now I know that the answer to, "Is that okay?" is up to me.  I make the decision as to what is right for me.  I don't need validation from anyone else.

So my decision is yes.  Yes, I do have enough.

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Source - Pinterest

Well shit.

The Dinner Party's Been Postponed to 2028

I’m a dog lover.  And I don’t mean a little bit, I mean a lotta bit.  In fact, I think my home address and a sample of my scent is in some Canine Safe House database, because the strays…they know where to find me.

Last April I had to make the heart wrenching decision to put down one of those strays; a grumpy-growly 17 year old named Tramp.  Tramp was a Rottweiler puppy who was left on my doorstep by some lovely neighbors.  Tramp was a sweet and rambunctious puppy, and then he grew up.  After year 1, he was never nice to anyone.  He never bit anyone, but in all the years I had him, he never let anyone pet him, or look at him for that matter, without showing his teeth and doing this throaty, almost demonic kind of growl.  All in all, a real family treasure.  Everyone wanted to love Tramp - but no one could ever get close enough.  Well, no one but me.  Tramp and I had a special bond.  And last April, I had to say goodbye.

Not only was I heartbroken, but my Collie-mix, Sally, (Tramp's best friend and also a stray) was utterly devastated. She moped around with her head held low, she didn't eat - she was obviously grieving.  Now, apparently, when there are two dogs in the household, you are supposed to simply allow the surviving dog to grieve.  It’s a process that they will get through on their own. 
 
What you’re not, I repeat not, supposed to do is rush right out and remedy the situation with a replacement dog.

Such a shame Google Search wasn't around in April 2012…

Enter Clifford...

Let me explain a little something about myself - I have no self-control.  And by no, I mean zero.  I am physically unable to say no to something, especially if that something is sure to totally disrupt my life.  I will turn my life upside down in order to help someone (or something) else - and then passive aggressively cuss them (or it) behind their backs like the considerate, well-mannered person I am.  Armed with this valuable information about myself, I knew that I would be unable to go into a rescue and not take every dog they had available.  So...I did what any normal person would do.  I sent my cat-adoring, dog-dispassionate friend, Kate, to find my new dog.
  
Kate – “What kind of dog are you looking for?”

Me – “I don’t know, something about the size of Sally. A dog Sally can play with.”

Sally

You get the idea – about that big.  I mean, how hard can it be?  Go in, find a dog about "that" size.  A cute, cuddly, Sally-like dog. 
 
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This, my friends, is what Kate returned with.

Clifford the Lap Dog

Clifford was on borrowed time at the shelter and I think this pulled on Kate's heartstrings.  If you can’t tell from the picture, he’s a Pit/Retriever mix.  And he’s huge.  Big.  Huge. 

I had never had a Pit Bull.  In fact, the stories I'd heard about Pits terrified me.  I just said goodbye to a bully breed I had for 17 years, and as heartbreaking as that was, I was selfishly glad the future me wouldn't have to say, "We're delighted to have little Timmy stay the night.  Now if you'll just sign this liability waiver..."  Those words just don't seem to comfort parents the way one would expect. 
 
I might be a touch obsessive/compulsive.  And because of this, I began pouring myself into learning about the Pit breed so I could ensure raising a healthy, well adjusted Pit that others would love and not fear.  What I came to find was that, not only is Clifford a huge love bug who's great with kids and other dogs, but Pit Bulls as a group are a misunderstood breed with a truly unfair rap.  I could go on and on about this subject, but that's a post for another day. 

What I also came to realize was that having a puppy - huge or not, he's still a puppy - was a lot of work.  I forgot how much energy those guys have!  As a result, everything doubled - dog walks, trips to the dog park, baths, vacuuming, Swiffering, everything.  (Well, everything but poop - that seemed to triple.)  But at least Sally was happy, right?  She had a new companion and was happy again...right?  

Actually, Sally hates Clifford.  

If you were to ask my mom, she'd tell you that it would appear I live my life by asking myself, "Karen, what's the last thing on earth that you need right now?"  And then, with a fierce tenacity, I go out and make whatever "that" is, happen.  See where I'm going with this?

Meet Teddy... (and, yes, he's even bigger - and younger - than Clifford)

Teddy

I innocently found Teddy when I went to pick up Clifford from a 6 week training camp.  Who knew the training camp also doubled as a dog rescue?  I've since been told by my boyfriend that prior to visiting a business of any kind, I need to ask if they double in operation as a dog rescue or animal shelter.  My gynecologist was profoundly confused by this question.
 
I mean sure, pizza delivery at my house is like a full-contact sport. (those of you with dogs will understand this one.)  And, yes, my dogs all but tackle me when I get home from work.  So I won't be having any dinner parties until, say, 2028...eh, whatever - I'm not classy enough for a dinner party anyway.  I wouldn't trade my dogs for the world.  I could talk about unconditional love and the companionship they provide - but you know all that.  These dogs are part of our family.  Like big, loud, oafish - possibly drunk - uncles.  And I love knowing that I've rescued 3 of the sweetest souls on this planet who, without me, wouldn't be here at all.

Sally, Clifford & Teddy

Did I mention I have no self-control?

It Doesn't Have to be Mango

I have no idea how I'm not a millionaire yet.  What with all of the fabulous (and plausible) ideas flowing through my household, something's bound to stick.  Just last night, my son helpfully suggested I could save all the money I spend on Scentsy products by inventing gas producing mango-scented dog treats. (Did I mention we were a klassy bunch?)

As you can see, I drink from the well of auspicious ideas on a daily basis. 

I considered playing the lottery.  But quickly thought better of that idea.  I'd be one of those lottery winner fails, for sure.  I picture myself wanting to remain a common-man millionaire.  "Sure, I have all of this money, but I'm just like you," I would say.  I would continue to work, stay in my modest home, press on driving my Altima with 134,963 miles and perpetually lit "Check Engine" light, and continue to buy my formal wear at Target. 

But then, I'd get lottery winner unrest.  I'd do something to set me apart - something millionaire-y - like buy a lion.  Then I'm sure Kyle (the lion) would do something unfortunate, like trample the neighbor's rose bushes, or, you know, eat her...and I'd be sued for my winnings, my house and all of my Target formal wear.  (They'd tell me just to keep my car, though. What a bunch of imaginary asses.)

I actually do have a path to my millions, however.  You see, I'm what some lovingly refer to as a cult member.  I wear the moniker proudly, because without it, I wouldn't be in the financial situation I'm in currently.  Not a millionaire by any stretch, but I'm definitely better off than I was in year's past.

A little background:  I'm a single, working mom of a 12 year old son.  I divorced in 2007 and was drowning in debt.  Saving for college or retirement were ridiculous thoughts.  To put it in perspective, I used my Shell gas card to purchase groceries, not gas.  Ah, yes - good decisions abound. 

A friend of mine, with whom I confided my woes, suggested that I listen to some financial CD's she had.  "You can just listen in your car during your commute," she said.  I'm not even sure she finished the offer before I shut her down.  Thanks, but no thanks.  Look, I've already got the worst road rage in the country on any given week day.  Compound that with a financial lesson and you may as well just rename my daily commute to Hell.

Hell, however, had a whole new meaning when I was faced with the possibility of losing my home.  At that point, I tucked my tail between my legs, gritted my teeth and reluctantly asked my friend for the CD's. (good Lord, pride is something I've got to work on.)  

I thought it best to wait until I was about 15 minutes from home to pop in the first CD.  I figured it would take at least 16 minutes of being told, "You're a loser and you're doing it wrong" for me to become homicidal.  I intended to listen for 15 minutes and then go inside and whip up a little Shell Station Tartare.  What I did instead, was sit in the driveway for 6 hours and listen to every CD in the case.  I emerged a totally different person. 

The guy on the CD's was down to earth.  He was motivating.  He spoke to me like I was a human being.  He had actually been where I was financially - and he climbed his way out.  It wasn't magic, it wasn't investment schemes - it was as simple as creating a budget and telling your money where to go.  And if you're thinking, "But my budget is upside down - I'm bringing in less than I owe."  That's okay. 

The man on the CD's was Dave Ramsey. 

I am not now, nor have I ever been employed by Dave Ramsey.  I am not being compensated by Dave Ramsey in any way by writing this entry.  But I highly recommend checking him out if you're having trouble making ends meet.  I have spoken to a lot of people who are in the same situation I was in 6 years ago, and I thought it might help to know that someone else has been where you are - and that same someone else came out on the other side.  Today, I have no credit card debt, my car will be paid off in 2 months, college savings and retirement are in place and my house will be paid off in 2021 if all goes according to plan.  And please don't be mislead, not everyone is lucky enough to drive the Altima - that's just me.

I couldn't have done any of it, however, without the help of Dave Ramsey and my wonderful friend who offered the CD's.  A million thanks to both.  

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And, hey, if Dave Ramsey isn't for you, you can totally steal the gas-producing mango-scented dog treat idea.  

You're welcome. 

I Believe That's Strike 3

Do you have any idea how exhausting it is worrying about what everyone else thinks of you?  I don’t know how I make it through the day, tip toeing around the minefield I’ve created for myself.  Is someone speaking ill of me?  Did I do the wrong thing or say something offensive?  I will get off the phone after talking to a friend and pick the entire conversation apart, wondering if I said something they might have misinterpreted.  When it was raining out and I said, “Stay dry!” did she think I was suggesting she was an alcoholic? 

And being a mom…?  Are you kidding me?  That’s like having a renegade “me” on steroids out there doing things that I can’t police or control.  Saying things like, “Who’s God?” and “My mom buys Lunchables.” 

Being a divorced mom, I feel like I have 2 strikes against me out of the gate.  I always fear that people (especially other moms) might unfairly pass judgment on me; that they might label me with some stereotype of a beer swillin’, tube top wearin’, “woo” girl, who flashes her boobs at NASCAR races.  I know I shouldn’t care what other people think, but when it comes to how I’m perceived as a mother, I absolutely do care. 

When Ryan first asked to play soccer, I decided to go the church league route.  Admittedly, my son is more of an academic than a jock, so I thought with the church league there would be less chance of any post-game swirlies should my son inadvertently score for the other team. (a very real possibility) 

So there we were – my slightly younger boyfriend, my son’s dad and I (sketchy already, isn’t it?) - at the last game of a successful, swirlie-free soccer season.  The coach’s wife was talking to me about how she and her husbanded decided to move their son to the church league because the city league was just too competitive for his young age.  “And you wouldn’t believe some of the things coming out of the other boy’s mouths,” she said, “We just didn’t want our son around that.”  Of course I was nodding in emphatic agreement. 

And I believe it was directly after the coach’s wife wrapped up our conversation with, “We have so enjoyed having Ryan on the team this year,” that my life came to a complete standstill – as Ryan thundered across the field, “You friggin’ SUCK!” to the opposing team….of girls… 

**hushed whispers**  - “Just as I suspected.  That beer swillin’, boob flashin’, floozy is raising a foul mouthed misogynist.  I’ll bet he eats Lunchables and doesn’t even know who God is.”

That might not be verbatim, but suffice it to say we haven’t been invited to any church socials…

With age I've gotten better about being my own person and not looking for acceptance at every turn.  I've also gotten better about not over-analyzing every conversation I have.  In fact, just recently my boss was popping popcorn (or as we like to call it in our office, "crack").  When my boss walked by, I said, "Your crack sure does smell good!"  And I still returned to work the next day.   

I call this progress.

By the way, the soccer anecdote notwithstanding, my kid’s a good kid.  Scratch that, he’s a great kid.  Even at 12 he still kisses me and hugs me in public.  When he introduces me to his friends he says, “This is my mom, isn’t she pretty?”  He’s exceptionally smart, has a great sense of humor and isn’t afraid to take the road less traveled.  This I admire as I’m a conformist to the nth degree.    

He has the kindest heart, a giving spirit, and a love for all things “family.”  I’d like to think that I had something to do with these last three.

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Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a NASCAR race to prepare for…

And the Muffin-Top Takes the Lead

How is it possible that I can wake in the morning with an unwavering resolve to eat better and workout, only to slither my spineless self to the drive-thru for some calorie-fest of a breakfast just 2 hours later?  Seriously, the speed at which I can justify downing a McGriddle mere minutes after vowing to eat clean, almost qualifies as a superpower.

I don’t mean I do this once in a while.  I do it all. the. time.

Today is the day.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said these words to myself or written them on the foggy mirror while getting ready in the morning.  I hesitate in calling these words my mantra, as I think of a mantra as something you live your life by.  Something you say over and over that not only encourages, but produces results.

I’ve seen no results from repeating today is the day.  Well, I shouldn’t say I’ve seen no results – I’ve seen results that are the inverse of what today is the day is supposed to represent; a lower number on the scale and the staving off of any upper arm cellulite.  Yeah, you read that right.  Cellulite on my upper arms.  That’s new, by the way.  Caught a glimpse of it this weekend as the sun was hitting my arm at just the right angle.  I gotta be honest, I didn’t even know cellulite in that region of the body was possible.

Given this new-found discovery, I decided to see what else might be evading me in my daily, full-mirror once-overs.

Sidebar – my mom gets very uncomfortable when things start getting too….shall we say, “real.”  So, in an effort to protect her from any ridicule at next week’s bridge game, I will swap the word “naked” for “in a bikini" in this next portion.

You know how you stand in a bikini in the mirror and look at yourself?  I mean really look at yourself. (uh, yes you do.)

You know, you’re standing there in your bikini, sucking in your stomach.  You do the half-turn to check out every angle and think to yourself, Huh, it’s not quite as bad as I thought.  Well, this past weekend, I tried something a little different.  I stood in front of the mirror - in my bikini - without sucking in my stomach or tightening any muscle groups…

***************I'll give you the moment you need to let that sink in.************

No.  Words.

And then, as if what I was looking at wasn't terrifying enough, I started to bounce up and down.  That's right, just bouncing up and down, still not forcibly tightening any muscle groups.  The bouncing exercise was initially to see what my legs looked like when I ran.  But then I couldn’t stop looking at the rest of me.  I was morbidly fascinated.  I was like a deer in the headlights. (a sad, jiggly, pasty-white deer)  I couldn’t look away.

When did this happen?  Yesterday?  Because I don’t remember the ramp-up process.    

And, look, this has nothing to do with comparing how out of shape I am with someone else.  This has to do with comparing the “me” of today, with the “me” of yesterday. (so to speak)

Let me explain a little something about myself; I think a lot of things are a good idea.  Getting back in shape?  Good idea.  Being a millionaire?  Good idea.  The trick is finding that beautiful balance between what I want and being okay with the work and commitment it will take to get me there. 

And there it is – work and commitment; my sometime nemesis.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t run from all commitment.  I was fully committed to consuming my daily allotment of Weight Watchers Points by 10 am most days.  And I used to embrace the work and commitment of fitness.  Oh, how I long to find that place again - that glorious place that drove my running shoes and me to the pavement each night after work.  That place that was sated by steamed broccoli, fish and green tea.  Not a beer, quesadillas and my comfy-cozy jammie pants.

Yet, even with that horrifyingly vivid, mega-slow mo’ replay of my ill-advised bikini experiment begging me otherwise, I can scarcely think of anything better than a fire, my jammie pants and couchin’ it for the night.

Tomorrow.  Tomorrow’s definitely gonna be the day!