Sisters of the Treadmill - Unite!

I have noticed a trend at the gym. Women . . . . just aren’t very friendly to each other there. Have you ever noticed that? Now I am a person who regularly smiles at people in general, in many different situations. I am quick to smile and even say hi to strangers. But not at the gym.


When you walk into the women’s locker room no one meets your eyes. If they do, it seems like pure accident. And you could be crowded around 5 other women getting into lockers and changing and not one of them will say hi to one another or speak at all, unless they are friends that came together. Now I know I’m generalizing, but this is the case every time I go to my gym! And I find myself doing the same. I don’t look at anyone or say hi to anyone.

Since going to the gym is something that is ‘tough’ to do for many reasons: motivation, time, money, willpower, etc., wouldn’t it be nice if us women banded together and encouraged each other? There are days when I don’t want to go, and even as I’m slowly walking into the locker room I’m still trying to find an excuse to turn around and leave. It would be great if the first woman I crossed paths with said, “You made it this far. No turning back. Go get em’ girl.” Or if while I was on the bench next to another girl while we tied our shoes I would say to her, “Good for you for getting here and sticking with it. Let’s kick some caloric ass!” And then when on the treadmill and my heart is pounding, my calves aching, and my butt jiggling, the woman next to me would say, “Just 5 more mintues! Watch the rest of this HGTV show and then you’re done!”

We should be cheerleaders for each other. We are sisters of the world. And the elliptical machine. Why don’t we congratulate each other, instead of looking one another up and down when our backs are turned and either making ourselves feel better, or worse, based on the assessment.

Don't Forget to Relax . . .

When we return from vacation it's all too easy to get sucked right back into the busy life at work, home, and everyday errands. So this visual post is a reminder to me to hold on to the feeling I felt when I stood on the beach at sunset; breeze on my skin, sand and water at my feet, Cancer's full moon rising up behind me, and endless possibilities ahead of me.

 

Animalistic Fashion

Have you noticed the abundance of jewelry/accessories/clothing featured OWLS in the past year? All of the sudden they seemed be everywhere; owl necklaces, owl belts, owl rings, etc. It's such a random creature to feature in retail stores that it really made me notice. (and yes, okay, I bought an owl ring)

But it got me thinking - who decides which creature becomes the trend for the season? Who is the person that sits in their cushy office, reading demographic reports, and gets to announce to all of retail, "I hereby declare, this season we are doing the Owl! The Owl I tell you! It will be a hit! A real fashion must around the world. Everyone will want an owl accessory, yet they won't know why! Mmwhahahaha!"

I have nothing against you, my wildlife Owl peeps. (haha, peep-peep) I just don't understand the selection process. Did fashion decide you were a sorely neglected bird and it was time for your day in the sun (but, oops, you are nocturnal).

Reminds me of a line from Good Will Hunting in which Minnie Driver invites Matt Damon out for coffee and he responds, "Yea sure. Or we could just get together and eat a bunch of caramels. . . . . when you think about it - it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee."

So I would like to declare, if I might, the next creature to hit the fashion world and go viral. Because when you get the chance to be deliberately arbitrary, by God do it. Let's make it the year of the THREE-TOED SLOTH in fashion.
Who's with me? Anyone want sloth earrings?

The End of the Road

There's something that has been on my mind a lot lately and I just can't seem to shake it. I keep thinking about getting old and how we eventually end up. Maybe it's because I just finished the book Water for Elephants and the parts about the man in his nineties in the nursing home broke my heart. Maybe it's because my 92-year-old Grandpa just lost his only friend in his care home, his sweet neighbor from down the hall, and he is alone and wondering why he is still on this earth. Maybe it's because I saw the movie The Green Mile the other night for the second time and once again there is an old man in a care home, remembering times past, sad, lonely, and close to death. And maybe it's because I wore my Grandma's jewelry twice this week, turning it over in my hands and remembering her in the past, and in the end.

I think what is bothering me is how your life typically lacks control near the end. Many people end up losing their minds, and they have no idea what's going on around them, let alone their past. Or they are incapacitated by an injury or disease that steals their life force away little by little.

How many times have you heard someone say "If I ever end up with Alzheimer's/Dementia/or non-functional due to a stroke, please just kill me." Or, "I don't want to be a burden on anyone; I don't want anyone have to carry me to the bathroom, etc." WE ALL SAY THESE THINGS, don't we? No one wants to end up like that. But here's the thing: You could be going along, maybe just in a 'retirement community' and you are independent, but need some conveniences that a place like that offers. But then - BAM, a stroke hits and changes everything. Before you know it - you are there. You are in that place you never wanted to be and you didn't see it coming and couldn't prepare for it, and now you don't have the mind to beg someone to get you out. And soon you are just another empty shell in the cafeteria, staring off in the distance, while the people who care for you never really know you, or your life, or the person you once were.

So what do you do? Set up a contract with someone you trust to perform an assisted suicide should things go in the very last direction you want them to? And what of the religious/moral/legal implications of that? Will the legal side of it ever change do you think?

I'm sorry this is so depressing. Does anyone else get caught up worrying about this? What can I do to ease the worry?

Garden

I haven't posted anything from my novel for a while, I heard some stories about content being stolen from blogs and it scared me off a little. But not much can be taken from these little snippets so here it goes again. To catch you up: Grey's spirit is now visiting a woman named Gwen.

The ladies named Rachel and Carmen arrived at ten o’clock sharp with the ring of the doorbell. They looked like they belonged behind the makeup counters at Bloomingdales. They were so perfectly done up and clothes so achingly fashionable that I thought surely this can’t be real. There was much kissing of the cheeks, and barely-touching hugs as greetings. They wasted no time finishing making the Bloody Mary’s and moving to the deck outside to sit under the umbrella. They settled themselves and began talking in the manner in which very old friends do. They were comfortable and relaxed with each other. The variety of topics they covered and at lightning speed left my mind reeling. Rachel’s daughter’s dance class, Gwen’s house-hunting plans, and Carmen’s post surgery infection (which I gathered was breast implants not only by the look of them, but the motions she made towards the underside of her breast. I shuddered inside when she mentioned a tube). I watched their perfectly colored lips speaking and their hand gestures which seemed much too clique. After what seemed like hours they finally asked Gwen where the flowers and tools were. My surprise that they were actually going to plant flowers instead of drink all day didn’t last long when I watched them perch primly on little foam knee pads and plant four small flowers in a bed, then stand up and grab their drinks and talk some more. And if they weren’t taking a break Gwen was making more drinks inside.


“So Rick has this fantasy for us to have sex at someone else’s house during a cocktail party,” Carmen said while stirring her drink with her celery and rolling her eyes. Now I was listening. And taking the opportunity to check out her body as Gwen stared long at her.

“Oh my god – why?” Rachel said, laughing.

“He says it would really turn him on.” Carmen shrugged.

“Well you are NOT doing it at my house on the 29th! I could never look at my bathrooms the same, wondering which one you were in.” Rachel screeched with laughter.

“Ick. Why would it be in a bathroom? I was thinking in a guest bedroom or something.”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said, looking puzzled. “I just assumed that’s where one would have sex in someone else’s house.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Carmen said. “Gwen – what do you think? Should I do it?”

Gwen was looking away at this point and planting another flower half-heartedly. There was a pause as she pulled off her gardening gloves and looked up at them.

“At Rachel’s house? Absolutely.”

Rachel shrieked again and pretended she was going to throw her celery at Gwen. They must have decided that was enough gardening for the day because Carmen and Rachel turned and went back up on the deck laughing and swaying in their Christian Louboutins. Suddenly I was sidelined by a strong emotion from within Gwen. She had stopped and was standing stiffly, staring at the new flower in the ground. I couldn’t be sure but it felt like sadness, but as her gaze moved up towards her friends it hit me and was recognizable: jealously.

The Bloody Mary ladies stayed a little while longer and the talk was never dull. I felt like I had been given a back stage pass to Estrogenville, and there was a 3 drink minimum. I learned things that I had always wanted to know about women, and a few things I never wanted to know. When Carmen and Rachel left, Gwen wandered around the house with the enthusiasm of a death row inmate. She went from room to room, slowly running her hands over the furniture, taking in each room, but I could tell by her slow and steady stare that she wasn’t really seeing anything. I felt uncomfortable and like something was about to happen but I had no idea what. Her mind felt blank to me. I felt nothing. No emotions. She ended up in the master bathroom and opened up a silk box on the counter and retrieved a prescription pill bottle. The label was turned around in her hand and I could not see what the medication was. She slowly and methodically took one pill with water and then placed the bottle back precisely where it had been inside the fancy box. That one pill had more foreboding with it than if she had taken a whole bottle full. I knew there was more to Gwen than met the eye.

Silent Witness of You

You know the saying, “If these walls could talk”? Well, what if your car could talk? If you’ve had your car for a while, it has gone through a lot with you. And I’m not only talking about the places it has taken you, but how it has witnessed you in many stages of life (let’s pretend your car is a living entity for the sake of discussion).


Your car has seen you belting out your favorite songs at full volume, in the relative privacy, singing your heart out until your throat was even a little sore at the end of the ride. It has heard you play the song of the moment over and over until you got so tired of it you didn’t play it again for months. Your car has watched you cry and grip the wheel tightly as you struggled with life issues like divorce, loneliness, and death. It was there when you prayed out loud to God to get you home safely during a blizzard when the Interstate was shut down and you limped along on a back road, scared that any moment you would go off the road.

Your car has been there during the good times too. When you and your girlfriends went out on the town, applying lip gloss in its mirrors, laughing, and opening the moon roof to glimpse the night sky. It has been there when you and your best friend talked about things that you only talk about to each other. It has seen many a Christmas present be loaded into it to make the trek home; filled to the brim with excitement for the days to come.

It has seen you at your best, dressed in a suit and leaving from a job interview that you knew you nailed. Grinning, rolling down the windows and letting the summer air slip through your fingers, feeling like nothing could be bad in the world. Conversely it has seen you at your worst – breaking down and crying because the evening commute turned into 2 hours due to snow and accidents, and on top of your day at work, and other frustrations, you just can’t take it anymore.

How many different versions of yourself has your car witnessed? If it could talk it might say it knows you better than anyone because it has seen you unfiltered, raw and true.

If your car could talk, what would it say?

On a Date - With Your Cocktail

You are at a new restaurant. You order your typical drink. Or maybe you try a drink you don't usually get, just because you feel like mixing it up.

Have you ever noticed that when we take our first sip of a drink, we pull back, and stare directly into the drink as we assess it's worthiness? Even as we speak, we can't pull our eyes from the drink. Your companion asks, "Is it okay?"  And you study the drink and contemplate its flavor and concoction and maybe nod a little bit while licking your lips, all the while looking into the depths of the icy cold glass.

It's as if you are saying to your drink, "Hello. I think I like you. But you are different than I'm used to. My usual bartender is heavier on the cranberry in this drink, and lighter on the lemon. But just give me a minute. . . . . yes, yes, I can see how that would be, mm-hmm, interesting. I'm willing to get to know you better, let's move forward." And if you really like your new friend, your hand rarely leaves the stem of the glass. As if holding hands while you stroll down the street. "I won't let go, until the end!" You say to your Cosmo as lovingly as Rose did to Jack in Titanic.

But if it goes badly . . . . if the bartender butchers your drink beyond recognition . . . .it's more something like this: "Is it okay?" companion asks. You grimace and pucker your lips, staring at the beautiful thing in the glass that suddenly has turned ugly. How could it be so two-faced? "Oh. No. No. It's. . . I don't know, it's . . . . oh it's just NOT RIGHT. This is NOT OKAY. Who would do this to a Vodka Tonic? I mean, it's just WRONG." You withdrawal your hand and you push the glass further onto the table, away from you. "It's not going to work out," you say. "I'm just not that into you."