Trepidation and Triumph

“Look my hand is shaking.” I said, holding my hand out for C’s scrutiny.

His expression was a combination of sympathy and something that would probably translate into “Just humour the crazy lady”.

We had just loaded my bike, trainer and the rest of my cycling gear into my car for my imminent departure to the inaugural Spin class of the year.

I was nervous, but C’s expression was right – why the heck was I nervous?

My Spin-Family are some of the most friendly and supportive people I know, and when I walked into the bike shop I was instantly reminded of that fact.

I was greeted like a long-lost sister with hugs and how-the-hell-are-ya’s. It was great!

With hands still a bit shaky, I set up my bike and got ready for the Spin.

I know my nerves were ego-driven. I hadn’t ridden much (if at all) during the summer and I was worried that I’d not have the stamina to make it through the class and that I’d look like the slacker I was feeling like.

But I had not right to feel that way. True, I hadn’t been on my road bike outside on the road since, err, ummm, June? But I had set it up on the trainer mid-October and had been making a concerted effort to work out for 60 to 90 minutes two or three times a week. I was ready for Spin.

I was also dreading the ubiquitous question – What races did you do this summer? (Which is a close cousin to the ubiquitous question I dread in March – Which races are you doing this coming year?)

To which (either cousin) I have to reply – “None”.

My past summer was spent hiking, camping and backcountry camping and having a GREAT time in the great outdoors with the always great and wonderful C.

I have no doubt that Summer 2011 will be similarly occupied with hiking and backcountry camping with the wonderful C in the wilds of the wilderness.

And some did ask how I’d spent my summer, and I did tell them, and they all thought it was great.

There was joking and banter as all the old crowd re-assembled. The same jokes and jibes were given and received – some things never change.

Spin started; single-leg drills, hills, cadence, more hills, and more single-leg drills.

Hecklers and other voices from the Peanut Gallery ribbed D – our fearless leader as he barked out orders to people who were slacking off (all good naturedly and said with affection).

At one point I mentioned to G who was set up next to me that he was looking fighting fit (he’s training for Ironman Canada, so he’d better look (and be) fit). To which he replied; “You look good, have you lost some weight?”

To which I grinned and said – “You bet” without divulging the near-panicked state I was in mid October when I started “prepping” for Spin – or divulging the fact that I had spent the last six weeks getting myself in shape for Spin so I could save face.  Not to mention the pre-Spin gitters of just minutes earlier.

The Spin session went well; 90 minutes of exertion, exhaustion and exultation.

I was able to push myself further and harder than I had remembered pushing myself during Spin last year. I was feeling strong and satisfied by the end of the session.

The hard work of the past six weeks paid off. I’m ready to have the next four months of Spin be the best four months of training I’ve ever had.

What am I training for?

Just the sheer fun of training and the reward of being fit, healthy and able to challenge even the toughest hill (whether it be with a bike under me, or with a pack on my back).

Dawning Realisations

I sat watching the sky, waiting for the sunrise. Waiting for the day to begin; it was already 8AM.

I was up and ready for the day.

The day, on the other hand, was not ready for me.

I watched as the sun began to rise; the sky slowly brightening to the east. As the sky brightened it highlighted the oncoming cloud bank from the west, dark and foreboding as it approached.

Before the sun could make an appearance above the horizon, the dark grey cloud bank enveloped it, swallowing the sunlight. A harbinger of the season approaching; winter and winter’s cloak of darkness.

The dark cloud bank was also a harbinger of another one of winter’s companions; snow.

Under the slate grey pall that passed as daylight, I donned my running shoes and headed out for my Sunday run.

I managed to complete my run before the sky felt compelled to favour the city with its first dose of winter.

That was about two weeks ago; I haven’t run outside since.

It’s not that I dislike running in the winter – ok, it certainly isn’t my favourite thing to do.  It just takes more effort, mentally and physically. I have to weigh the tedium of the treadmill against the "wonders" of winter - the poor footing, the wind-chill, the down-right-bone-chilling-cold.

A consideration made easy for my weekday runs - which all take place well before the sun even hints at approaching the horizon; “when you can't see where you’re putting your feet outside, best to run inside” is my philosophy. Last thing I need is to hit a patch of ice invisible in the pre-dawn darkness and end up giving myself a concussion.

So it is, in the winter, that my Sunday runs are generally preceded by an hour or two of me sipping tea, consulting the current weather conditions, peering out the window at the still-dark morning and sighing heavily. Is it too cold to be outside? What’s the wind chill? Is it snowing? What does the footing look like?

So the debate begins –

Inside and face the treadmill tedium or outside and flirt with frostbite?

Inside or outside; either way, hibernation is not an option.  Depending on the conditions and my mood one or the other wins out and I dress and head out.

This is my new running reality.

Welcome to winter.

Losses and Other Wins

When I was in Weight Watchers (oh, about 18 years or so ago) there was one, I'm not sure what you call it; Meeting Leader? Overweight Overseer? who would "run the meeting" and any time she'd mention weight loss she'd always follow it with "I don't like to call it weight loss, because I don't want to find it again. Most things you lose you want to find again, *giggle, giggle, giggle*".  I would sit at the back, roll my eyes and silently ask myself if there wasn't a better way, but at the time, there wasn't and also at the time, it worked! 

I can't remember what trite term she came up with to replace "weight loss" and I think because the term weight loss worked for me (even if the concept didn't always, well, more accurately the PRACTICE didn't).

But six weeks ago something changed. 

I have been harping on, for well over a year, about how much I want to lose some weight but never really did anything substantial about it.

Six weeks ago I did a cleanse/detox and saw a big loss on the scale.  In retrospect that turned out to be mostly water weight, but still, the scale moved and in the right direction, for a change, so I was encouraged.  Since the cleanse, I have been watching what I eat; planning my day's food intake and I have been seeing results.  Down 11 pounds (5 kilos for anyone who thinks about weight metrically) and counting.

But if I shouldn't focus on the losses, than I shall focus on the wins.  I have discovered (at least for now) a sense of control over my body and my weight.  I have found pride in my appearance.  I have developed a level of discipline that I am (and others are) proud of.  How many average folks can claim they have spent the last 41 days, consecutively, of doing 30 minutes, or more, of weights and/or cardio per day?

But, alas, all of this success has gone to my head - no, don't worry, I don't think I am God's Gift to Men - Heaven Forbid!  What I mean is that all this success has gotten me thinking about what other things I have been wanting to do of late that I have been putting off or neglecting.

Blogging, for instance, springs to mind (hence, I sit here madly typing instead of heading to bed) and then there is that pile of paperwork on the desk that I keep pushing out of my way...

I think maybe it is time I expanded my spreadsheet keeping (as that's where I've been tracking my calories consumed and exercise expenditures) to include such things as making time for blogging, paperwork and other worthwhile pursuits.

What other bad habits can I lose, what other good habits can I create that will tip the win/lose percentage firmly in my favour?

Stay tuned and may the victories continue.

The Beat of My Own Drummer

"You tie your shoes really strangely," my sister stated.

I looked at her nonplussed.

"I never taught you to tie your shoes like that," my Mum chimed in.

"Someone must have," I huffed, suddenly feeling like some young child incapable of tying my own shoes.

"No one else in our family ties them that way," my Mum replied.

After vetoing making some snide remark about possibly being adopted (since CLEARLY I am NOT - if you want to know what I'll be like when I'm 60-something, you just have to meet my Mum) I said; "I dunno, I must have re-taught myself this way, because it works for me." finishing off my right shoelace with a flourish before standing up and heading out the door.

At the time, I was just trying to justify the way I tie my shoes – attempting to prove I am not a freak, but the more I think about that day, the more I realize that it is true – not the fact that I am a freak – the fact that I do things my own way.

I am taught things one way and I generally find another way that works best for me and I go with it. Not that I am ungrateful for the initial guidance, it is just I find an approach that works better for me.

Just this past weekend I bought a new filing cabinet that came – “some assembly required” and C and I set to work assembling it. C began looking at the instructions – I began eyeing the pieces and identifying them based on how they looked: “these are the sides of the drawers, these are the fronts of the drawers, these must be the drawer backs, etc. So as C started reading the instructions and finding parts ‘4’, ‘6’ & ‘7’ I was eying the packet of screws and dowels and determining what I needed for where in order to put it all together.

If I had been left to my own devices I would have assembled it in the order in which it made sense (assembling it properly, mind you, but not following the same steps as outlined on the instructions). C, seeming put-out by my random order of assembly, made me feel I should at least give the appearance of following the instructions.

I would have gotten to the same spot in the end – the proper assembly of the filing cabinet – just not by following the steps as outlined.

If my Mum could have input into this blog post, no doubt she would tell an embarrassing story about how I used to crawl; not on all fours like most babies, but sitting up, with my legs folded in front of me, the bottoms of my feet together and holding onto my toes, I would scoot along the floor on my butt, using my heels to pull me along – no doubt destroying countless diapers in the process – but since she doesn’t have input I’m safe – wait, hang on a sec – someone tell me why I am telling embarrassing stories about myself now?

The point is that way worked for me, and the other point is, I honestly don’t mind outing myself.

Though I sometimes get self-conscious about things, there are certain things that I do the way I do because it works for me and I don’t particularly care if others think it odd.

In the middle of winter I often get asked at work “Aren’t you cold?” as the questioner scrutinizes my sandals (without “stockings”) and my short-sleeved or sleeveless top. To which I outwardly say; “No, I’m comfortable.” While inwardly saying; “I’m inside. The temperature is the same in January as it is in August! I don’t walk to work in bare feet; I change my shoes when I get to work.” I get annoyed because I think it’s a dumb question – not because they think I’m oddly dressed for the weather.

The funny thing is, in a lot of cases I don’t mind being a bit different – not being a sheep and following the rest of the herd.

I like that I dance in my kitchen when there’s no music playing – simply because I’m happy.

I like that I can untie my double-knotted shoelaces by just pulling on a free lace.

I like that I can be humourous and slightly flippant at work sometimes.

I like that I am content to wear what is comfortable, wheter it be fashionable or not.

Do I care if someone sees me being goofy? For the most part; not really. If they care about me, they’ll understand and accept it – if they don’t care about me – then why should I care about their opinion?

Excuse, me – I have to go into the kitchen and jitterbug just a bit before I tie my shoes and head to work in my sleeveless top.

Never Far From Fitness

Someone, I can’t remember who right now, once said I was never far from fitness.  Meaning, if I remember correctly, I always seemed to be participating in one form of physical activity or another and he – because I’m fairly certain it was a he – figured I could handle any sport of physical activity put in front of me.

That was many years ago.

The sad thing is that it doesn’t actually take “many years” to loose one’s fitness edge – as I have discovered – it really only takes about two months.

Two months ago, almost to the day, I went on a five week vacation. Now it wasn’t a sit-on-your-butt-on-the-beach kind of vacation (mind you there was fair amount of sit-on-your-butt-in-the-car activity), I did a fair amount of walking and managed the occasional run; but the occasional run is not enough to keep me “fighting fit”.

Then, when I got back, it took me a while to get back into a routine – truth be told, I’m still not back into a good routine – hence the need for this post.

Right now, I am far from fighting fit and rather pissed off about it.

I have no one to blame but myself – I know that. 

I also know that the only way to get back my lost fitness is to work at it.  It is going to be an uphill slog – literally and figuratively.

The main things I need to keep in mind are:
1. It will take time
2. It will take effort
3. It will take dedication
4. It will take forgiveness

Time and effort, I think I can manage – it is the dedication and forgiveness that I struggle with.

I have trained for marathons, I have trained for half-iron triathlons – so I know I have the ability to be dedicated (at least dedicated enough to get through the races, if not excel at them).  But, given my long vacation, I signed up for neither this year.  So, without a lofty goal to shoot for, I find myself lacking in the dedication department and forgoing the forgiveness altogether.

I am inexorable in my self-flagellation – where I lack tenacity in training, I more than make up for it in relentlessness of regret.

I need to be more forgiving.  I cannot expect to pick up where I left off two months ago.  I have to come to terms with the fact that I am starting practically from scratch again – and like any form of starting over, it will be slow, painful and I need to be patient and kind to myself.

On the wall in my Chiropractor’s office, posted on a bulletin board there is a quote that, instead of inspiring me, makes me feel guilty:  “There’s a difference between interest and commitment. When you’re interested in doing something you do it only when circumstances permit.  When you’re committed to something, you accept no excuses, only results.” (the quote, in the office, is credited to Art Turlock, but I don’t know if that is true).

The thing that gets me every time I read it is the second-to-last phrase “…you accept no excuses…”.  Some days I think I am a walking excuse factory when it comes to reasons why I can’t workout – I will not bore you with a litany of excuses but generally the fall into three main themes: 1. No Time; 2. No Energy; 3. Ego.

I think the third category is the hardest to overcome.

Today is the day of the big triathlon I usually compete in.  Today, I am sitting at home at my computer thinking to my self every 10 to 15 minutes: “This time last year I was…[insert stage in race-prep. or race-event here]”  and it is depressing me.

It is depressing me because there is part of me that thinks I should be out there doing the race (but without any training that would be insane – not to mention ego crushing).  I KNOW I CANNOT RACE.  I also know that I CHOSE NOT TO race this year.  But still I feel guilty and left out.

I have no one to blame but myself for feeling left out.  I chose to go on vacation.  I chose NOT to join the group rides once I came back from vacation (Ego told me I’d be slow and left behind and I was too out of shape to ride with my Spin-class-come-cycling-club).  So I haven’t been on my road bike since being back from my vacation.  I think I can count the number of times I’ve been outside on my bike this year on one hand – THAT IS DEPRESSING!

I am tired of the excuses, I am tired of the self-guilt and I am tired of beating myself up. 

“…you except no excuses…”

I have to figure out how to re-commit to myself.  I need to find a goal or two that I CAN commit to and start getting results.

I know I need to get my Ego out of it, be a bit more forgiving when I don’t live up to my expectations and I know, it’s going to take some time, effort and dedication.

Hopefully I’m up for the task.

Schadenfreude's Sister

I don’t know if there is a word or phrase to describe profiting from another person’s misfortune, maybe I’ll just have to coin my own phrase – Schadenfreude's Sister, if you will.

Named or unnamed – I feel like I’m doing just that.

I have a friend, who shall remain both initial-less and gender-less in this blog for the purpose of anonymity. This Individual – ok, for the sake of my sanity, I will call them Ti; since I can predict that writing “This individual” over and over again would get rather tedious in fairly short order. Ok, so, Ti is going though a major life upheaval and is feeling in need of company and support – and I am so there for them.

I am willing to do practically anything; if Ti needs a shoulder to cry on, I’m there. Someone to vent to, I’m there. Someone to laugh at – I’ll attempt to stand on my head and yodel – though Ti might find that more embarrassing and frightening than funny. If Ti wants some company for a hour, an evening, a day, I’m there. If Ti wants to go camping, I’ll go out and buy the gear (I’ll even bring rope, just in case). If Ti needs an odd-jobs person, well then I’ll offer C’s assistance.

All joking aside, the bottom line is; if Ti needs me to be there, I will do my absolute best to be there for them.

Given the nature of Ti’s misfortune (which will also remain nameless for the sake of Ti’s anonymity & privacy), I imagine Ti is feeling very much alone and so I have also taken it upon myself to find things for us to do together; things I’ve always wanted to do with someone, but I’ve never plucked up the courage, or more accurately put in the effort, to ask.

Ti and I, like most people here on Planet Earth, have reasonably busy lives, and I, like most others, I am sure, sometimes neglect to make an effort to make time for other people. I justify my inaction by saying “They’re probably busy anyway”, “They’re probably not interested”, “They probably want some alone time”, “They live so far away”, “I shouldn’t bother them” and so I don’t call, I don’t email and I don’t set aside time to spend with them.

I am not doing that with Ti, but I’m afraid that I am going too far in the other direction. I am beginning to feel that I am trying to profit from Ti’s misfortune. Or that I’m being supportive in order to get “The Good Samaritan Glow” that comes with doing a good deed. Or that I’m trying to leverage Ti’s misfortune as a means of becoming a closer friend.

I’m wrestling with this right now.

I know, at some level that I am not so narcissistic (heck I can hardly spell it with out assistance) that I would only lend assistance because I get something out of it – but my discomfort comes from the fact that I am getting something out of it – I feel needed. I like feeling needed.

I also like making Ti feel better – heck I wish I could turn back time to make Ti feel better (I would willing do it anonymously, no need for thanks, I just want Ti to feel better). This is why I struggle with my guilt, because I am helping Ti, but I am feeling better for being able to be there for them.

I have always counted Ti among my close friends and I have always wished that we could do more things together but we never have. So now that we have the opportunity to do more together, why do I feel bad?

Maybe because it took such a major upheaval in Ti’s life for me to realize that I needed to make more of an effort to be a friend.

I’ve always claimed to be a good friend, but I’m not so sure that I’m as good a friend as I could be. Talk is cheap, it’s time to do more than just provide a little lip service.

Maybe my guilt comes as much from feeling like a lazy friend as it does from feeling glad to be of some assistance to someone for a change. Heck, how many times as Ti had to put up with my blubbering and whining?

It’s my turn to be the strong stable friend!

...hmm, ok, if not "strong and stable" maybe I could apply for the position of "comic relief".

I am really looking forward to spending more time with Ti, I only wish it hadn’t taken such sad circumstances to encourage me to make an effort.

And, Ti, if you read this, fear not - my gymnastic days are far, far behind me and I've never been able to yodel.

...but if it WOULD make you laugh - I'd darn well give it a try!

Almost Flight

I forget in the winter.

I forget, in the winter, all the wondrous things that warmer days allow.

I forget how my skin smells after a day in the sun. I forget the smell of a summer rain storm and the fresh, clean feeling it leaves in its wake. I forget the smell of cherry blossoms and I forget the feel of wind on bare legs.

But most of all I forget how it feels to almost fly!

Though some may remember me tossing myself out of a plane, to me, that was more of a controlled fall than an almost flight. For me almost flight happens, occasionally, when I'm riding my bike.

It happens on those rare occasions when the workings of the legs, feet, pedals, crank-arms, chain ring, chain and wheels all combine in a perfect symphony of sport. When it all feels almost effortless; as if you were soaring though space - untethered, unfettered and unbound - just you, your bike and the symphony of cycling. The wind in my face, wind that I'm generating in my seemingly seamless movement of body and bike. Feeling like I did when I was a child, cycling along pretending to be on the back of a horse or in my own Star Wars Landspeeder imagining effortless propulsion.

I forget about this Almost Flight in the bleakness of winter. I forget because it's better that way. I forget because in the bounds and confines of winter to remember would be too disheartening.

In the winter darkness when I soldier to spin class and cycle fettered to the spot - back wheel unable to propel me forward - I need to forget the freedom.

Instead, as we spin, we swap war stories...
"There was this time when I was attacked by red-winged blackbirds and had to fend them off with my bike pump..."
"There was this time when it was so windy and wet out that I was cycling along with my head down and rode right into the back of a parked truck..."
"There was this time when my husband and I were riding together and I crashed into a ditch and he didn't notice I wasn't with him for about 45 minutes..."
"There was this time when I was hit in the head by a stray golf ball from the nearby driving range and almost fell off my bike..."

Back and forth we would banter - a verbal reminiscent oneupmanship of the worst and the hardest that cycling and triathlon have to offer - the hills, the wind, the wild animals, the weather and the wipe outs.

But the freedom of almost flight is forgotten - like a dormant seed, it waits, waits until the weather improves, the snow goes, the roads are cleared of the sandy debris of the bygone winter, waits until, once again, rider and bike can be loosed and the joy of almost flight can germinate again.

And the day that I remember what it feels to attain Almost Flight is the day I remember all that is good and fun and freeing of cycling and it reminds me why I soldier to spin in the dark of winter.

And, in that wonderful moment of Almost Flight I also forget the hills, the wind, the wild animals, the weather and the wipe outs.

I forget because it's better that way!

On Little Cat Feet

My Mum and I have long held to the theory that her cat can count; we’re not talking major mathematics, at best it could be arguably be considered feline fractions.

Misty (the cat in question) was rescued from the SPCA by my mum several years ago. She (the cat, not my mum) had been abandoned and possibly abused as a kitten and though she bonded well with my mum, she’s never really had a lot of time for anyone else and will, for the most part, runaway when she sees someone other than my mum or she simply disappears a the first sound of strangers.

This is the main reason I believe that Misty learned to count. You see, for the most part there are only two people that she needs to keep track of – my mum and my dad. On rare occasions, when Mum has dinner parties or bridge evenings, then Misty, at the first sounding of the doorbell vanishes not to resurface until well after the last party guest has departed. The problem for Misty arises on those rare (and most likely annoying, for her) times when the guests don’t go home. From time to time (mostly Christmas and most Thanksgivings) Mum and Dad play host to their kids; my sister and myself.

Now, if it were just me being there, after about a day Misty recovers and she will, occasionally, allow me to stoke her and pay her some attention. On even more rare occasions she has been known to come up to me and announce her presence with a “meerrrowww” though most of the occasions, it can be argued that she has mistaken me for my mother and generally she stops dead in her tracks when she sees it is me and give me the kind of glare that only a cat can give as if to say “You are not my person, how dare you impersonate them” before stalking off to return to the safety of my mum’s duvet.

This is why I think Misty can count to three. Three people she can quite easily track as they wander about her domain. She can hear the gruff noisy walker down stairs reading his book; she can hear the stranger walking down the stairs and she can hear her favourite person clicking away on that strange grey platform with all the little knobby bits on it [translation: my mum typing on the computer keyboard]. Three she can keep track of, three, she can deal with, any more than three and she tends to completely disappear surfacing only in the wee small hours when only my Mum is awake.

I was thinking about Misty’s inability to cope with marauding multitudes (since no doubt that’s how she sees it) as I was struggling with my own inability to cope with masses of people. I experienced, for my first time ever, a large Easter gathering.

In the past I have blogged about being an Easter Orphan and have lamented not being able to spend Easter with my family. Even when I was able to spend Easter or other holidays with my family – “family” consists of 1 sister and 2 parents for a grand total of 4 humans, including me! I am so ill prepared to cope with meeting and chatting with 17 other people.

This year I was honoured (and I say that with all sincerity) to be able to spend Easter with C’s family. Having only met his kids a couple of times and having only met his mom and sister once I faced the prospect of spending 36 hours of Easter Weekend with them – not to mention the 12 Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and various others I was about to meet – with a combination of anticipation and panic. I wanted to meet his family, I wanted to get to know them, I wanted them to get to know me, I wanted them to like me. I wanted to not make a complete hash of things – and I wasn’t at all sure that I could do it.

I will admit, it was overwhelming and more than once I wanted to take a page out of Misty’s Big Book of Coping and run away and hide under the duvet. But Alas, I am not a cat and a grown woman hiding under the duvet in the middle of the day would seem too eccentric – even for me.

I will also admit it was wonderful. It reinforced my belief that C is one of the most understanding and patient men on the planet and I discovered that his sister (hmm, also a C – this is going to get complicated – maybe she should be Cf for Female) is also a very caring and understanding individual.

C was first tested on the Saturday morning when I discovered my wardrobe lacked anything even remotely Easter-like. Ok, actually C was first tested about a week prior when my “I’m spending the night at C’s sister’s place with C and his kids” panic set in and remained with me until well after I went to bed on the night I spent the night at C’s sister’s place. But the first set of tears came when I did have the face the fact (a fact I had known about for a few days) that I had nothing remotely Easter-like to wear and that this was a perfect indication of how ill prepared I was to undertake this Easter Escapade.

The second came when I discovered I was displacing one of C’s kids from the hotly contested “spare room”, I felt that I was wrecking the natural balance of things and that I was simultaneously in the way and on the periphery – I was the only one with a door separating me from the rest of the clan. I lay awake for almost two hours that night feeling overwhelmed with the prospect of having to spend the entire next day with C’s family – don’t get me wrong, they are wonderful people, the kids are great and his mom and sister both made me feel very welcome – I was afraid I might say or do something inappropriate.

I was put at ease (well, at least a bit, for a short space of time) by C’s sister Cf with whom I got to spend a quite breakfast, just the two of us – while C and his kids slept downstairs. Cf was wonderful, suggesting that, if I needed to “just disappear” at some point in time that it would be fine. She must have read “Misty’s Big Book of Coping” too!

It was during breakfast that I had my stroke of brilliance for the day – I offered to help Cf in the kitchen and spent the rest of the morning and while the guests were arriving, busying myself in the kitchen – thereby being able to limit my exposure to my “small talk with strangers” phobia. Thus Opertation: "Hide in Plain Sight" began.

To make a long blog a little less long (have you ever noticed that blog and long are very similar words) – everyone survived the day! I only made one small gaff and had one medium sized panic attack (complete with tears – have I mentioned how wonderful & understanding C is?).

Looking back on it – I wish I hadn’t panicked and tears are never welcome, but self-recrimination aside, I had a good time. I was welcomed into C’s family and quite enjoyed the experience. Though I will probably keep Misty’s Big Book of Coping” near by – after all, Thanksgiving is only 6 months away!

The Boy Scout and the Basket Case

I use a little padlock on a locker at work – it is my favourite lock – not because of its reliability and sturdiness, for if it was truly tested I fear it would be neither. This lock has endeared itself to me not because of anything it did (it was just doing what it was designed to do – lock a locker) but because every time I look at the lock I remember the day I needed a hero to come to my rescue.

Besides the aforementioned lock, there are three main players in the melodrama I am about to regale you with – the two title ones – you can guess which of the two of them I am. If you need a hint – I’m no boy scout; that honour goes to my main man C. The third player in this tale, who incidentally has a tail, is my dog Beau.

Now Beau had a problem all his life – which I never understood the origin of – his problem is a fear of abandonment. Every time I leave he’d make a big production out of it. Whining and yapping at the door – as if I was never going to return – which would make me feel very guilty.

I tried to allay his fears; I would sit him down and explained to him where I was going, how long I’d be gone – but it never seemed to help. I also tried to reason with him; explaining that I have always returned in the past and there is no reason to assume that will change – but alas, there is no reasoning or consoling a dog – they just don’t get it.

So I modified my behaviour to help mollify my dog when I’d leave; I’d give him a treat, and I’d try to plan my outings in such a way that I wasn’t coming and going from my apartment over and over again in a day.

This behaviour on my part lead to the events that transpired on the day that I competed in the Toastmaster’s Area International Speech Contest back in 2006.

I had spin class in the morning and the contest in the afternoon – I knew I’d only have about half an hour to go home, shower, change and then leave for the Contest. I decided rather than bother Beau I would take everything I needed for spin class, the contest, and afterwards – plus all my shower supplies and would shower and change in the locker room adjacent to the Jacuzzi in my building.

I got back from spin class and I was right on schedule – C (the afore mentioned Boy Scout) was coming to pick me up and I had about half an hour to get ready. I went into the locker room; opened up a locker, put my keys on the top shelf and stowed my sweaty spin stuff down below. I showered and put the shower stuff in the locker and started putting on my outfit for the contest. I had a bag with a change of clothes for after the contest and some food. I was prepared.

I stood before the locker fully dressed (minus the blouse I hadn’t put on yet) and did a quick double check: – shoes for afterwards, bag containing change of clothes food, water bottle, shirt, padlock

Ok, good to go.

Shut the locker door and lock the lock and…

Oh crap – anyone remember where I set my keys??

The feeling hit me like a kick to the stomach. “No, no no no no no no!” I screamed at the locked lock.

I started pulling on the lock – desperate to open it – I had set my keys, including the key to the lock currently securing my possessions in the locker –

In.the.locker!

Enter; The Basket Case.

There I was, standing in the locker room – shoes, socks, pants, and bra on – and the panic set it. I have to get my keys!! I have to get help!

So I turn and race out the locker room door into the Jacuzzi area – realize that my top is still hanging on the door of another locker – return for it, race out again, buttoning a few buttons as I go and realize I can’t leave the Jacuzzi room because the door will lock behind me and then I will really be in trouble – I need something to prop doors open with.. So back I go again into the locker room and grab my spare shoes, bag and empty water bottle – because you never know when you’ll need an empty water bottle.

The Jacuzzi room door I was able to prop open with it’s own dead bolt; then I raced into the lobby – in total panic mode and searched in vain for help – the office was closed – no maintenance on duty – I asked a guy as he entered the building if he had lock cutters – he looked at me like I was crazy. I tried to explain that I had locked my keys in a locker in the Jacuzzi room and he said – more or less – “Good luck with that” and left. – I needed to find C.

C and I had agreed to meet in the Park adjacent to my apartment building. I was going to have to leave the building. Now the only problem with that was the same problem I faced with in the Jacuzzi room – how do I prevent myself from being locked out of the building? I grabbed my bag and propped open the front door of the building and started hoping to whatever deity I believed in at the time that no one would come along and un-prop the door while I was finding C.

So I left the building. Bag (along with wallet) in doorway and shoes and an empty water bottle lying on the floor in the lobby… Luckily for me I had my watch on and I could tell how far behind schedule I was falling.

Now the water works begin – I start to cry. I race out towards the street and see his car parked next to the curb, but no C. I look left towards the park at the first set of benches where I anticipate him sitting, but no C.

I had to venture further from the front door…I turn left and start slowly running towards the park in dress shoes and dress clothes. I enter the park and start looking around wildly. Repeating his name under my breath – hoping that the universe will hear me and put me in touch with him; like some telepathic cell phone call.

Almost at the far end of the park, across an open field, sitting calmly on a bench looking up at what I can only imagine he imagined was my balcony was the object of my frantic search – C.

I charge across the field towards him full-tilt in my dress shoes (thankfully not high heels), heart pounding tears streaming down my face and mentally I’m yelling at him to look over and see the basket case hurtling towards him.

When I arrived in front of him and he recognized the whirling dervish as the woman he’d just started hanging out with, I apologized for being in a total state of panic; looking and acting my worst, told him the problem and then quickly turned around and started running back to the front door.

I’m not sure how much of my verbal frenzy he actually understood, but dutifully he began running after me but his speed was hindered by the leather slip on sandals he was wearing – even less conducive to running in than dress shoes – apparently…

I was really afraid someone would take the bag away and lock me out of the building entirely – so I sprinted up to the front door of the building and was relieved to see the door was still propped open.

We entered the lobby and by then I was in total melt-down mode – 100% Pure Basket Case. We saw an emergency maintenance phone number so C said he’d go get his cell phone from the car can call it. He hesitated – reluctant to leave me since I was so distraught. I told him – go – I’ll be fine… So he went out to his car.

In his absence I attempt to regain some composure. I pick up my shoes and empty water bottle and put my bag on my shoulder. Try to stop the shaking – me – the human tuning fork.

C came back a few minutes later with a toolbox and wearing his running shoes – always best to be prepared.

He thought he might be able to break the lock open, so, rather than call the maintenance number I rapidly led the way back into the Jacuzzi room C close at my heels so he could try his luck with the lock.

I burst into the Woman’s locker room and he paused at the door. I turned to him to see what the problem was and he asked me if it was empty – It was – the thought that there might be someone in there had never entered my mind.

I pointed out the offending locker. He set down his tool box and carefully examined the lock. He opened the tool box and got out a small pry-bar and a hammer. With one hit – he opened the lock!

He stood up and took the lock off the locker and opened the locker door. – As he stepped back I threw my arms around him and hugged him. The tears came again, but this time they were tears of joy.

In my dizzy state of total relief I almost said – “I LOVE YOU!!” – but caught myself in time and said – “You’re my hero”.

I think I repeated those words to him several times that day. He was cool, calm and collected when I was anything but. Handy spending time with a guy that carries a tool box around in his trunk – all I have in my trunk is an assortment of bungee cords – not sure how many dire situations they’d prove useful in.

C continues to be my hero and my boy scout – but most of all, he is My Man and I am very fortunate that he is.

…Worth a Thousand Words

The day I had to say goodbye forever to my beloved dog Beau I had the wonderful C and my good friend D there to hold me up (literally) and to help me keep it together.  I could not have made it though that impossible time without them.

Immediately after getting home from the vet’s office I packed up all Beau’s things and C and I took them to the humane society.  All his collars and leashes, toys, bedding, extra food, medication, even his carrier bag in which he’d accompanied me on many flights back to my parent’s place (I would bring it out of the closet and he’d immediately get into it and if I wasn’t leaving right away, I would have to encourage him to get out).  All unceremoniously stuffed into garbage bags and removed from my apartment amidst a blur of tears.

The only things I kept, and I have no idea why, really, are his food and water dishes.  One had been a gag gift to my dad, so I suppose I kept it because it wasn’t necessarily mine, though I’d had it for ages but the other was nothing special and yet I kept it.  They are not part of the “makeshift memorial” I have constructed on part of a shelf on my bookcase – which does contain an old collar of his, what few photos of him that I have, a memorial impression I had done of his paws and the wooden box I bought to hold his ashes in.  Instead, they lurk in the back of a high shelf in a kitchen cupboard, untouched, unused and ignored.

For some reason I thought of them today.  I was putting something into the cupboard they are in and for some reason I thought of them and of him and now I sit at one in the morning, unable to sleep, tears running down my face and turning to my blog-therapy.

I didn’t take the bowls down and look at them, just knowing they are there, and he’s not here anymore was enough.   It’s not like it is a significant date to memorialize – Beau’s birth was in December, his death in July; I’ve just been thinking about him more than usual of late.

I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about Beau lately because a couple of friends have recently gotten new puppies which make me both simultaneously want and not want a new dog.  As tonight’s sleepless & tearful blog proves, I am not over Beau’s death – someone please tell me when this ache will end?

I regret very little about Beau’s life, our time together was wonderful, he was an awesome dog (I know I’ve blogged about how great he was before); but the one thing I really do regret was not taking many photos of him.  The problem was he, like me, hated having his picture taken  - he’d see the camera and look like like a hunted animal caught in the rifle’s crosshairs. Anytime he was conscious of the camera, he didn’t look his fun and furry self.  But I wish I took more photos, I wish I had more to remember him by.  I  think my good friend D, who spent 3 weeks living with Beau when I was prancing about Peru took more photos and video of Beau than I ever did.  I know I took more pictures in the last year of Beau’s life than I did in the other 14.5 years he was on this planet.

Since his death, I have carried a photo of him in my phone, as the background of my MP3 player and a metal ring from one of his rabies tags on my shoelace and fittingly, as I booted up my Mini PC to write this blog, I was greeted by Beau’s fluffy face on my computer’s background.  I have spent  more time and effort keeping him with me on a daily basis since his death than I ever did when he was alive. 

And maybe that’s tonight’s cautionary tale (or is that tail).

Don’t wait until it’s too late to remember those you love – be they furry and four-legged, feathered, scaly, etc, or even human.  Take plenty of photos so when they are not around you can still have them close.  And carry those you love, in your heart, memory or even as photos on your phone.  And never miss an opportunity to hug them and tell them you love them.

Small Victories and Acceptable Cheats

At work, for the last three weeks, I have dreaded going down the hallway to the washroom. And before you get all worried about the content having anything to do with washroom activities let me assure you it doesn't. But it does have everything to do with the one thing that has really been annoying me for the last month or more - my lack of willpower.

You see, one of the women in one of the offices that share the hallway with both my office and the washroom has been attempting to sell chocolate covered almonds (as a fund raiser for worthy offspring, no doubt) for the last three weeks. And so, for the last three weeks, I have had to harden my resolve, leave my money in my desk (when I head out to "spend a penny") and do everything in my power to stop myself from buying "evil in a box".

Since I really love both chocolate and almonds I have to admit it was rather challenging. On a couple of occasions my resolve wavered and I put a couple of dollars in my pocket before heading down the hallway but every time, I left the money in my pocket and the chocolate in the hall and proved (if only on a really small scale) that I do have some willpower.

As of Thursday this week, the chair that held the box that contained the "evil in a box" no longer sat, temptingly in the hallway. No longer was the temptation lurking around the corner as I made my way to the washroom - finally, I had safe passage - I was so relieved.

So, what's the point - you may be wondering - why share with whoever is reading my WC willpower? The answer is simple, I want to celebrate it as a Small Victory.

I bang on about how hard it is to keep to a training and nutrition regimen but I don't stop to celebrate when I manage to do something that helps get me to my goal. Or more to the point in this case, I manage to NOT do something that would detract from my stated aim.

Recognizing the Small Victories are probably more important than underlining all the failures that happen in a week. If you say to someone - "Don't think about the elephant in the room" ultimately the only thing they will think about is the pesky pachyderm.

So rather than listing off the things that went wrong, I want to emphasize the things that went right!

To that end, I have to state that I had some "evil in a bag" this week - HOWEVER I don't see it as a failure, because rather than the family sized bag of Old Dutch Baked Dill Pickle Chips I had a small bag (only 50 Calories!) - and I have considered this an Acceptable Cheat.

Though I do feel that abstinence (when it comes to junk food) is best, if the craving really strikes I have devised a series of what I term Acceptable Cheats that allow me to give in to my craving without completely sabotaging my progress or leaving me feeling like I need to spend the next several weeks berating myself for my lack of self control.

I hope this new approach will help get me where I want to go; so here's to Small Victories & Acceptable Cheats! May the former be plentiful and the latter as few as possible!

Spin City

In the darkest part of the winter in 2005 I began attending Spin classes at a local bike shop.

Twice weekly a group of dedicated and quasi-dedicated cyclists and triathletes would troop into the shop, bikes over their shoulders, trainers* under their arms, set up in lines perpendicular to either sidewall of the shop and sweat buckets for 70 - 120 minutes. *Just so as not to confuse and Brits. that might be reading this – trainers are not running shoes; a trainer is basically a bike stand, with a fly wheel, that you attach your back tire to, which suspends the back tire above the ground (and on the flywheel); the flywheel generally has adjustable tension on it so as to simulate increased resistance – like hill climbing.

About 3 years ago, after a bad experience with the bike I bought from Shop #1 (I classify wanting to throw my bike in a ditch, due to technical issues, on each and every ride as a “bad experience”) I switched to Shop #2 (at which I bought my current bike) and THAT has made all the difference.

No, my cycling hasn’t improved scads – though with my current bike I quite enjoy riding now and I have never – not once – wanted to throw the bike in the ditch – though I often think I need to replace the rider somehow. But I have found a great group of people who help keep me coming to class. I know I have blogged before about the community feeling I get from road biking, but the support I get from the Spin Gang is more personal.

As I blogged last week about needing outside accountability for some things, I realized that for Spin I already had it. G, the weeknight spin leader, never fails to give me (good-heartedly) the gears (as it were) for missing a spin session to such a degree that I find myself going so as not to suffer his “wrath” (or seemingly disappoint him with my absence).

The owner and chief technician at the bike shop are also top-notch as they are both willing to tweak and fix and adjust on an as needed basis (generally free of charge) the bikes of any of the spin session participants, sometimes even having to stay late after work to accommodate the spinners’ needs.

I also quite enjoy the group in general – listening to the good-hearted ribbing that goes on between the long-time members, joining in conversations where and when I can (sometimes I have to opt for breathing over conversation) and the general spirit of the sessions generally pick up my spirits (while completely exhausting me physically).

I am always amused at one of the guys in the class who must set up his bike and trainer just slightly ahead of his wife’s and if someone were to come along at move it back slightly when he’s not looking, he notices it almost immediately and moves it ahead again – which never ceases to make me laugh.

Spin class challenges me to push beyond what is comfortable; be it doing hill climbing, cadence, or single leg drills; but it also brings out the competitive spirit in me when I get challenged by other spin members to go beyond what the workout calls for and forgo rest between climbing sets and just keep climbing.

I have learned I need to drink more water, compare myself to others less, stop the internal complaining altogether and just do the best I can and enjoy the music (which helps drown out the screaming in my head).

For me, being a not-so-strong cyclist, spinning is great – I can cycle next to strong and even elite cyclists & Olympians without getting left behind! Though sometimes it messes with my weak and feeble ego, I still go, I spin and I sweat it out with the rest of them – at the risk of sounding cliché, I give it my all!

The more I go the more I learn; about me, about my ability, about the proper cycling technique and not least of all, about what a great group of individuals I have to spin with.

Outside Accountability

I hate to admit this, it rankles – since I often think of myself as fiercely independent – but I just done seem able to do it on my own. I have tried.

More specifically I have failed miserably because I seem to hardly try at all! Obviously, I cannot do it on my own, so it is now time to call in the big guns.

Since having ranted last week about not being able to adhere to any sort of fitness and nutrition regimen; I have thought about it, while eating more junk and skipping workouts (oh, if ONLY I WERE joking), and want I really need is outside accountability.

Like a child having their homework checked when they claim to be done I think I might need to enlist the aid of some friends to help “encourage” me (read: kick me in the arse and slap me upside the head) on my fitness and weight loss path.

I have goals - that I believe to be realistic. I have a plan - that I believe to be not too challenging (for the fitness side of things) and not too restrictive (for the nutrition side of things) so maybe what I need to do is start tracking the reality of executing that plan and show it to a few close friends on a regular basis and have them - check my progress (read: pat me on the back or slap my wrist).

I recently saw somewhere that in October of 2009 the World Health Organization declared that Obesity was now killing more people that Starvation – so I know I am not alone in my struggle.

Tonnes of people (pardon the pun) are part of Weight Watchers and PART of what makes WW work (at least for some) is the Outside Accountability - you show up every week and get on a scale in front of some stranger and have to justify how much you weigh this week versus how much you weighed last week - and though I DO NOT agree with the "scale as your benchmark" focus, I do like the idea of having to justify my actions to others.

Well, at least in principle...

I think that I could ask my friends S & C to help keep me honest – but the trick will be accepting the kick in the pants when they are required (and I hope C & S are brave enough to apply their foot to my backside) and ULTIMATELY being honest with them. After all, they can’t be around to KEEP me honest, and they will only know what I report to have done (sorry C, but random spot-checks of the contents of my kitchen garbage will not be sufficient to keep me honest).

Maybe just the act of consciously thinking about having to account for my nutrition and exercise on a daily basis will be enough to help me think twice about cheating.

Maybe, since I don’t want to lie to C & S, I will be able to be honest with them – and ultimately honest with myself.

Maybe, if I’m really lucky, I will get a Gold Star on my homework.

It’s Not Rocket Science; So Why Do I Crash and Burn?

It is not complicated, it’s bloody simple and yet I am still not capable of doing it!

It is merely a matter of accounting – is you spend more than you get than you run a deficit! And darn it – I WANT TO RUN A DEFICIT!!

Sorry – maybe I need to apologise for this being a rant – I try very hard not to rant in my blog – to paraphrase (read bastardize) something from “Anne of Green Gables” said – if you only knew how much I’d like to rant about but don’t you’d forgive me this rant.

Now that I have added this disclaimer and taken a deep breath I can explain what I am actually ranting about. I’m trying to lose weight – well probably more accurately - I would like to weigh less; because claiming that "I’m trying to lose weight" would imply that I’m actually making a true concerted effort.

AND THEREIN LIES THE RUB – OR THE RANT.

I WANT to lose weight but I seem incapable or unconsciously unwilling to MAKE the concerted effort that is required.

As I stated before – it is not complicated – the theory s relatively straightforward – run a deficit! Expend more calories than you consume!

The problem is I don’t seem to be able to stick to either side of the equation – I can’t seem to resist eating the junk that I (almost daily) sabotage myself with; and I keep skipping workouts that I plan to do during the week.

So why – when I HAVE the DESIRE; do I LACK the WILL!?!?!

It’s not that I have done it for several weeks and then fallen off the wagon after feeling completely hard-done-by. I can’t even manage to go ONE BLOODY WEEK without detouring down the junk food aisle on my foray to the grocery store. And it’s not like I am doing a crazy reduction (read starvation) diet – ALL I am TRYING (ok WANTING) to do is to cut out the CRAP (chips, chocolate, etc.) and adhere to a reasonable fitness regime.

I would really like to know why the WILL is lacking when the DESIRE is there!

I know some will argue that’s it is part of the Human Condition, (finding it easy to do what you ought not to be doing and finding it hard to do what you really want to be doing) – heck there is even some poetic bit in the Bible about it – but darn it – wanting to better oneself is ALSO part of the Human Condition – as is being the BEST THAT YOU CAN BE – or maybe that’s just American Military propaganda.

But still I ask: why – when I am clearly unhappy with my current physical state and I have the tools at my disposal to do something about it – am I unwilling to make an effort to change things?

I wish I could answer that question – because after all my ranting and wishing – I’m now craving a bag of Baked Old Dutch Dill Pickle Chips (more easily referred to as: Evil in a Bag) and really hope I can avoid the grocery store on my way home from Spin class tonight – but I’m not sure I have the willpower to do so.

The Utmost Respect

I think I have gained a newfound respect for my Mum. Not that I don't have respect for her. There are a lot of things about my Mum that I truly admire. I guess in this case, it's more of an unsung hero kind of thing.

I have, in recent years, gone on three significant travel trips, Belize, Peru and New Zealand - all, as it turned out, with my parents and sister. We all wanted to go to these places so we thought, heck why not just go together. So we did.

When planning for the Belize trip, I just left it up to my Mum, because I was about eight when we lived there and remembered very little about the place, so I figured if a trip down memory lane was planned, I'd better leave the planning to those with the memory of said lane. So Mum planned the trip and we had a great trip. She came prepared with maps, details of each town we were staying in, where we could possibly go and what we could possibly see. It was a fantastic trip!

Peru, we went with a guided tour group, so all the planning was left up to a third party - which was, for the most part, acceptable. Though there were a couple of times when we would have liked to strike out on our own. Even with the guided tour, Mum still came prepared with write ups on all the places we were going and maps of the ones that we were going to have some "independent exploration" time in.

Our last trip was to New Zealand, for which I did a little reading and flipping through of travel brochures to get an idea of the places and things I wanted to see. Again, the lion's share of the planning was left to my Mum, who, once again, came up with an Itinerary that we would all follow, found the accommodations we would stay in and once again, showed up with maps and write ups on every single stop on our trip. Everyday she would pull out the appropriate pieces of paper and say - "these are our options for today". The trip was great! Once again Mum's plans were ideal. And I don't think I ever told her how much I really appreciated her pre-planning and effort.

I have gained a new appreciation for how hard it is to come up with such a plan and I can't help thinking my Mum possesses skills far beyond that of mere mortals like myself.

You see, I want to go to the UK for six weeks this summer. I want to see bits of Scotland, England, Wales, Ireland and N.Ireland. And really, that's almost as much as I have managed to plan thus far. The "bits" have not yet been researched, the itinerary is vague at best and I have to somehow combine and accommodate (if you pardon the word) four people's schedules and four different arrival and departure times and places while avoiding being certain places on certain days but managing to be in others on other days.

It has left me all a bit overwhelmed and so I blog about it instead of working on it because it is, by far, easier to write about how hard it is to plan it than it is to, well, plan the thing.

So I sit in C's living room - where I can't possibly procrastinate from the task at hand - surrounded by maps of the UK and cuttings from brochures and copies of the months of May and June with various place names pencilled in on various days - feeling that I never gave my mum enough praise for all the hard work she's done over the years for the trips we have taken.

So to my Mum I want to say officially - THANK YOU for all the trips you have planned, all your hard work and all the planning you did made the trips fun and easy for me and I hope you don't feel taken advantage of. You are an awesome person!

...and to C - I'm sorry - it was awesome of you to suggest I work here by way of preventing my procrastination but, apparently, I can still procrastinate no matter where I am - what can I say - it's a gift - and alas, it's not what I had planned to do this afternoon.

Aging Gracefully

About a week ago I watched a documentary called "Young @ Heart". It is about a Choir that tours around the world doing their own special versions of songs by popular groups like "Rolling Stones", "Radiohead", "Coldplay" and the "Ramones", just to name a few. Their concerts invariably sell out. I would love to be a part of that choir - only problem is I'd have to wait a while, a really long while - about 40 years actually.

You see, the Choir, also called "Young @ Heart", is comprised of members who range in age from 73 to 89.

What impressed me most about the documentary (a copy of which I would be more than willing to lend to anyone who’d like to see it) wasn’t the choir members’ ability to sing, but their spirit and dedication to the Choir. How many octogenarians to you know that would be willing to listen to, let alone sing, a song like “Schizophrenia” by “Sonic Youth”?

Or have such humour to sing “I Wanna Be Sedated” or “Road to Nowhere” or “Staying Alive”? - All of which can be found on YouTube and are very amusing.

Or bring such poignancy to songs like “Fix You” by “Coldplay” or “Forever Young” by “Bob Dylan” (both of which still give me goose bumps when I watch the videos).

They all seemed to have such a love for life and a loyalty to the choir. They faced health issues and even death of fellow choir members with poise and grace and in true showbiz fashion – the show must go on.

All of which has left me hoping that I can age that gracefully.

I hope that, at 80, I will have such a love for life and a desire to try new things. Watching the documentary has reminded me that I can learn a lot from my elders – probably the most important of which is to always stay Young @ Heart.

Creative Unhappiness

Sometimes I think my best blogs are done when I am in a bad mood. Like some kind of literary lustration; the impetus is there to write – I write and I feel better.

I have always done this. I have many really bad poems from high school and was an angst-ridden teenager (alienation and heartbreak seemed to be my lot back then).

Even in recent years, when I was dumped; I wrote a poem (and ate a lot of chocolate, but that’s for another blog some other day) and was inspired to write a self-help book (which was “Book 2” that I started and never got very far with).

When I had to euthanize Beau; I wrote a poem (about a month later, when I started being able to breathe without crying) and several blogs posts since to help come to terms with his absence from my life.

When I’ve been fearful, or perplexed, or “in a funk” – I have blogged about it.

I am beginning to think that I am like Van Gogh (ok, I know I AM NOTHING LIKE Van Gogh, he was a true artist, I am not, but go with the analogy anyway, I know I’m not brilliant, or bi-polar – for which you are all grateful, no doubt)… where was I… Oh, yes …I am like Van Gogh – who did his best work when his depression was at its most acute. Am I best inspired by angst and anger?

So what happens when I’m NOT unhappy? What happens when, like now, I am quite content, shockingly enough, with my life as it is right now?

As it happens, in an attempt to prove I can be creative and happy at the same time (well, not really), I have once again embarked on attempting to do some creative writing. So far, I have managed to start one poem – which I intended to post as a blog in November (maybe February, as it is, as yet, unfinished); unearth an old “funny thing happened to me” story and turn it into a blog and, wait for it…I have, yet another idea for a book (or long story, which is probably a better name for it).

My long story is behaving exactly like my long stories of old – it exists as multiple parts – like scenes in a movie and they are currently occupying several draft blog postings.

If I can figure out a way to turn my “long story” into a series of short stories, I’ll post the blogs, but they would, most likely, not be posted in the appropriate chronological order which would, I imagine, annoy and confuse those who have the misfortune of reading them.

The problem is I get a part of a scene stuck in my head and I quite like it, then I write it down and try to complete it and take it to some logical end and then I get stuck. The imaginary world in my head requires too much explanation, it would seem – or it’s so far from reality that no one would be able to suspend their disbelief for long enough to enjoy the story.

So if you wonder why my blogging is lagging it’s because in my happy days I am trying to be creative; which is beginning to both stress me out and annoy me – oh, happy days!

I Resolve

I must admit to having a bit of a love-hate relationship with New Year's Resolutions. In all honesty, I think it tends more to the “hate” side more often than not.

The problem with New Year's Resolutions is that the VAST majority of time I am absolutely, completely, totally and utterly unable to keep them.

Even when they are not completely declared as Resolutions such as my comment to C last week stating that I was going to deprive myself of junk food for a while and see if I can shed a few pounds – that resolution lasted less than a week as the empty chip bag and candy wrappers that I hid in the bottom of the garbage prior to C’s coming over yesterday.

I think where I fail with New Year’s Resolutions is that they are generally restrictive statements – like: “I will not eat junk food”; or they are unrealistic – like “I will exercise twice daily 6 times a week” – yes, I really made that resolution one year. Both restrictive and unrealistic statements set me up for failure; restrictive resolutions make me feel I’m depriving myself of something and unrealistic ones are, well, self evident.

I know I’m not alone in setting these restrictive and unrealistic albeit well meaning resolutions. How many smokers declare at the beginning of every year that they will stop? How many people start diets in the New Year with a vow to lose the 5, 10, 20, 30 pounds they need to lose?

Why do we not set fun resolutions – like; “I resolve that I will see one movie a month” or “I resolve that I will spend more time with my friends” or “I will buy myself flowers on the 22nd of every month” or “I will do one thing I’ve always wanted to do, or go one place I’ve always wanted to go”.

But what happens if even the most pleasurable of resolutions are unattainable?

Maybe we need to stop setting New Year’s Resolutions at all; maybe setting ourselves up for potential failure is really a bad way to start a year.

So this year I will set no resolutions; I will just try to do more enjoyable things, to be healthy, maintain a balance in my life, spend more time with my friends and take a fun trip. All things I strive to do all the time regardless of the dawn of a New Year.

This is simply how I live my life – and I am resolute in that.