A Little Risk

Writing Prompt: Finish this sentence: "Life is short..."

You can't experience a full life without a little risk. So go helicopter skiing, scuba dive to the depths of the ocean. Ride your bike on a windy road. Cruise down a mountain on two wheels.
Fall in love. Have kids. These things will rip you to shreds at times, but you've got one life, so, live it well.

The River Run

Writing Prompt: If you wrote a song about your love life, what would the be? Write the first verse.

The River Run
Like the river changes so do you
A cool touch of the river makes me feel new
so do you

But the river runs through
and I must too
The river runs you
and you must be true
like the river changes so do you
and I must too

Compassion

Sometimes I feel so far from my eating disorder, like it was so long ago that I can’t even claim it anymore. And then other times, like now, it’s like it is sitting right next to me as if we are breathing the same air and thinking the same thoughts. My eating disorder has always had its slight whisperings. On healthier days I can bat away the unhealthy thoughts  like a harmless fly. Yet, in my weaker moments when I feel down and let’s face it, fat. The eating disordered version of myself raises the volume from a whisper into a familiar tune inside my head played on repeat. As I look into the mirror to inspect the days outfit she likes to say, “Lindy this shouldn’t come as a surprise to you but your thighs, they look huge! Just as they’ve always looked. What were you expecting something different this morning?”

I take her words to the gym. I take her words into the day and while it doesn't blanket all the happiness my life posses it does cast a cloud cover. A shade to make things not quite as bright as they otherwise could be.

I’ve been listening to her a lot lately. See, she can sense vulnerability and she can sure as hell sense even the slightest of weight gain. She is there when my jeans fit a little too snug. She is there when I exercise in spandex and she’s there whenever I put on my cycling attire. I try to argue with her I really do. I’ve tried with logic, “Listen, I know my shape isn’t considered ideal. I know I’m short and stout. I’ll give you that . But listen when I say to you that I’m fit! I feel good! I can do the things I need to do! And just let me tell you what my so called big thighs have accomplished. They can out ski just about anyone. They have run countless marathons and triathlons, they climb mountains and bike steeper pitches then you’ve ever dream!” I shout tirades at her trying to defend myself.

Her replies are short and cruel.”Ya ya, you just keep telling yourself that. Live in denial. Whatever makes you feel better.”  

She knows how to get to me and when to get to me because she is me. She’s not the best version of me. She’s not the version I take out into the world. I know her and my husband knows her. Other than that I keep her close to me. She lays on my chest causing distress even as I rest and when I awake she resides on my shoulders weighing me down as I walk.

I am no longer interested in name calling or shaming her into silence and I’m too tired to be angry. Someday. Someday soon. I hope to look her in the eye, gently cup her face with my hands and say, “I see you.”

I want to feed her with a compassion that we have never known. I want to be able to say, “I don’t think you’re cruel. I think your upbringing and the expectations and standards this world places on women fed you and then I listened to you thus nourishing you even more and together we made this twisted life. We have a history, you and I. Albeit an unhealthy one.”

I will sit down with her and talk to her in the same soft tone I reserve only for my children to say, “We have been through so much and I can honor the journey we have had together. From you I learned pain, deprivation and self loathing. We overdid everything you can overdo. Too much exercise, too much self discipline. And because, despite our accomplishments,  you were always telling me I wasn’t good enough this motivated me to just keep going. Run another mile, ace another test and hopefully worthiness would be around the corner.”

But all the self discipline, all the angst, only led to more angst and more self hatred. Somehow we disguised our disorder into races and straight A’s wrapping our filthy habit in a pretty bow where bystanders would ooh and awe.

But the worthiness never came. The accomplishments were never enjoyed.

I will embrace the eating disordered Lindy and tell her I know how lost and alone she feels and that it’s really not her fault. I will hug her tight and let her cry into my shoulder until she and I decide together that her voice, the critical one needs to be replaced for both of us to be happy.

Book Review: Educated: A Memoir

This was well written. And her story is one that needs to be told. Like, holy shit, if your childhood was actually like that than you owe the world your story.

This memoir reminds me a lot of The Glass Castle. So it's something you have to be willing to stomach. But unlike the Glass Castle this memoir had some familiar topics, namely she was raised Mormon. However, it's like no other Mormon upbringing I've ever heard of. The way this family practiced Mormonism was grossly mislead by her bipolar Dad. Yet, even with this understanding it still bothered me. 

I found it made me feel somewhat bad raising my kids as Mormon as if I'm part of a masterfully manipulative plan. In truth it made me even more insecure about my faith and the role it plays in my life and in my children's life. Which is something I grapple with often. So for me, personally, I wish I'd never read as it was triggering for me.

 I applaud this author. She overcomes a hell of a lot and she should be proud of herself. Her story proves that humans are stronger than we know and the old adage that we can do anything we put our minds to may actually be true.

But all I can say is it got to me and not in a good way. I've spoken with a few friends that had similar impressions. I would say if you have the ability to maintain perfect objectification than, okay, read it. And for the others read at your own risk. 

Just another reminder that words are powerful because they create stories and stories make us feel.

Book Review: Born A Crime by Trevor Noah

This is an autobiography by Trevor Noah. You know him, he took over Jon Stewart's Daily Show He's a comedian from South Africa.

I actually listened to this one and I'm glad I did. He read it himself in his South African accent and I totally thought it added an element to the story especially his interpretation of how his mother, Patricia, speaks. Don't we all have a voice in which we imitate our parent's voice? While our impressions are almost never accurate, somehow we all know when a person is impersonating their mother.

This book is all about Trevor's childhood. In fact, none of the book let's us in on a how a poor boy from Africa became a successful comedic TV host in America. I'd love if he would take a whole other book to tell us that story.

Trevor's childhood is something you will not be able to believe, you won't be able to relate to it in the slightest. I guarantee you that. The kind of poor he experienced will leave you sad and perhaps thinking you've never actually been hungry in your life.

His insight and explanation behind the racism he experienced in South Africa was unique to just him. Trevor was born to a black mother and white father, which was illegal. He spent a lot of time hiding from authorities and his mother and father could never lead on that they were together. The flavor of racism he endured comes with a burden you've never thought of before and it will leave your mind spinning.

When I have recommended this book to others I say, "You wont believe the life he had." You'll learn that you don't know much about how the world works. You will learn that you don't know shit about racism and you will learn that Trevor's mom, as Oprah puts it, Is a Bad Ass Gangsta Woman, and even that is an understatement.

Go read it! Or listen to it!

A New Size

Today I went shopping. I got a babysitter and went by myself. While that sounds like a treat, it wasn't. I HAD to go shopping. Yesterday is when I realized it. I wore a pair of shorts that use to fit me. I squeezed myself into them and was completely uncomfortable all day long. My knee fat kept crawling out of the bottom of the shorts begging my constant tug.

The once cute coral shorts were riding up my crotch and the top button was working overtime. After the shorts mocked and harassed me all day long I decided to call it what it is and buy a few new things. I thought it would make me feel better. I tried to talk myself down. Okay I tried to lie to myself. Hey, sizing is different throughout various brands and styles. Maybe an evil villain sized those shorts and perhaps I would just need to size up one puny pant number. Perhaps I'm that far off from the size I use to be. 

I went to mall. I hate the mall, mostly because of the pushy twenty something sales ladies always acting as if they want to get to know me.

"What we shopping for today? Anything special?" She'll inquire, cheerfully.

"Um just looking" I'll say. Which really means, back off bitch.

Then they'll rattle on about there special specials and how If I spend one billion dollars and I can get 30 percent off the next billion.

I think, girl.... you really don't want to get to know me. Underneath these long mom shorts is an angry woman that came here for stretchy fabrics and a bit of silence.

I went around the store picking up one size bigger than whatever the former Lindy was. With each clothing selection I tugged it, making sure it had a little give, or a lot of give. I needed these shorts to stretch from here to kingdom come.

"Can I get a dressing room started for ya?" Asked the twenty something sales clerk.

I handed over the items as she asked my name and wrote it on the cute metal board hanging on the dressing room door. I thought if she dots the "I" with a heart I'm outa here.

I tugged and hoisted a few on and realized, Wow! I've changed more that I thought I had. I settled on some stretchy long mom shorts in a larger size than I have ever worn before. I tossed in a couple forgiving T- shirts and decided my summer wardrobe had been updated, or more appropriately, up-scaled.

As I was checking out the nosy, all too chatty, twenty something sales person asked me, "You buyin clothes for a special Occassion, a trip or something?"

I tapped my credit card on the counter and said, "Honestly, I've gained a bit of weight and I'm tired of being uncomfortable everyday."

She paused, and then smiled and said, "Well, you still look great to me."

I get it. Honesty stuns people sometimes. And I mean really it's not her fault. I know that.

Accepting where we're at in the moment can be difficult. The older I get the more I realize that life is a teeter totter of adjusting expectations. I suppose it's in rejoicing in the highs, even if it's not as high as we anticipated and accepting or God willing, embracing the lows.

So what the hell! I'm going raise my glass to a new size. Cheers.

The Stories our Bodies Tell

Last night I attended my daughter's dance recital. She takes modern dance. The thing I love most about modern dance is the stories that are told through movement. The dancers told the story of, Pricilla the Pink. Each class had a portion of the story they told through movement, props and color.

Her dance studio also hosts adult classes, they also told a number of stories with the movement of their bodies. The production was a beautiful and emotionally driven collaboration of stories told through movement.

By the end of the night I saw a painting completed through movement of the body, a memoir on pain, anguish and anxiety, and a display of carefree happiness. Some had a narrative, some did not. The dances I saw stuck with me.

I was out for a run the next day and I thought, I wonder what would happen if I took a dance class? Could my body bend with the same grace theirs did? I then thought, Aren't we all telling stories with our bodies?

If my body told you its story it would tell of a girl who's body has accomplished a lot. A body that has, in a sense, been to hell and back. I bet yours has too.

A body that was short and strong as a gymnast.
A body that rounded bases faster than anyone else on the team.
A body that lost a lot of swim meets, but one that still loves to swim because it feels good to float.
A body that has ran too many races to count.
A body that bikes more miles in a day than some will drive.
A body that has been injured because it's owner just wouldn't listen when it begged her to stop.
A body, after all its hard work and achievements, was criticized because it wasn't thin enough.
A body that was deprived of well earned calories.
A body that was fed junk and then forced to throw it all up.
A body that miraculously housed and birthed and nourished three children.
A body who was whipped back into shape after childbirth well before it was ready.
A body that never failed me when I continually failed it.
A body who deserves a huge apology for what I've put it through.

I suppose my painting, my dance, my story as seen through my body would be one of beauty and pain. Loyalty and betrayal. A story of deprivation and indulgence. And like all great stories I hope it ends with happiness, appreciation and gratitude.

So today, dearest body may I offer you a heartfelt apology? By amending the wrong and seeking the right? May I for once tell you how much I love you and that my life and all the beautiful gifts, talents, experiences and people that are present in it are from you? And if I spend the rest of my days making these wrongs into rights will you do one more thing for me? That is, to do what you've always done. To carry me through this life as I live it to the fullest.