OBSESSED

Now that it's summatime, I am a free woman (whoo for being a teacher!). And since I no longer have 25 little loves in my life, I have to fill the void with something.

And that something, my friends, happens to be a little show they call "What Not to Wear".

It's true: I'm hooked!

And lucky me, it's on not once, but TWICE a day. Mmhmm, at 11:00 and 2:00.

So aside from taking fashion notes from Stacy and Clinton, I'm also plotting my own debut on the show.

I'm thinking the way to go would be to make seasonal sweaters (complete with matching turtlenecks, of course), apple earrings the size of 50-cent pieces, and denim jumpers staples in my wardrobe. I'll also have to let my hair air dry everyday (that would be the real ticket. My new third graders would probably go home and cry each day because they have a swamp monster for a teacher. Whatevs -- it'd be worth it for the $5,000 makeover, right?).

So now I think that's on my summer "to-do" list: make my wardrobe and physical appearance atrocious enough that my friends and family would secretly feel sorry for me and covertly video tape how awful I look in order for me to be on the show.

Excellent.

Honest

I chose the title of today's [long overdue] blog post because that's exactly what this will be. Honest.

I've written a number of entries regarding this, but found it too close for comfort to share. And when you blog, you put pieces of yourself "out there". Once "there", they are free for others to judge, pity or not believe. I simply write this evening for anyone who has gone through something similar. And I write, as always, for myself. Maybe tonight, it will give me some comfort. Maybe tonight, it will give me some sleep.

For the past year, I've been sans my monthly friend. For some, this might elicit a fist pump. Lord knows there have been times when we women wish our monthly gift would just stay away on that summer day when we're going to the beach or on the day you chose to wear khaki pants to work. Unfortunately, I'm not fist pumping.

And I haven't been all along.

No one can quite seem to put their finger on why she's gone. Initially, my doctor, a trainer and a nutritionist all suggested my weight. "Gain 10-15% of your current body weight," they instructed (but NO whipped creme Santas, remember? Because they'll go straight to my rear. HA! I maintained my nasty one-a-day habit and haven't noticed any size change yet...). "And while you're at it," they explained, "why don't you cut back on your weight lifting, too. Just to be sure."

And I did as they said.

I stuffed my face.

Little by little, that little number on the scale increased.

And little by little, my pants got smaller and tighter.

I won't lie: it wasn't fun. In fact, there were days that I looked at myself in my spandexy exercise clothes and saw my tummy spilling a little over the edge of my pants. And days when I was stuffing myself into certain pants. On those days, I felt like Jessica Simpson when she wore those mom jeans, minus the great hair she has... and the multi-millions. Don't remember? Let me jog your memory:

Regardless of how I felt about my changing body on some days, I was happy. I was happy to know that this might get me one step closer to having the choice and the ability to have a baby. I was happy to have gained the weight -- after all, it certainly didn't hurt me to put on a little more.

Unfortunately, nothing happened.

When I saw my doctor in April, she was thrilled with the 12 pound gain and told me I should see my monthly friend soon. But, she put me on some progesterone to hopefully get things started, because sometimes when your body's been out of "whack" for awhile, it takes awhile for the hormones to catch up and I might not see 'results' right away.

Unfortunately, still -- nothing has happened.

I cut back on my workouts more now. No more weight lifting for me :( Only yoga. Which is dandy. But lifting was something I really enjoyed, even if it was just once a week.

So I don't think it's my body weight.

They've done a few blood tests -- everything's normal.

So what now?

Just wait and see, my doctors say.

But I've been patient for a year, waiting to see if she'd arrive. And I'm starting to lose that patience.

It plagues me constantly, wondering what's wrong with my body. I go to sleep at night and the last thing I am thinking are prayers that God will fix it.

And I think that's the hardest part. I've learned it before, but apparently have forgotten in the moments that I can't help but tear up over my hopelessness with the whole thing because it seems like "nothing" is working and "no one" has an answer:

God has a plan.

And even though I don't get it right now and I'm frustrated and sad and tired of waiting and I think it pretty much sucks...

He's got a plan.

One day we'll see it.

And hopefully we'll see it in the smile of a baby girl. Or maybe a baby boy.

Hopefully in little eyes that look just like my husband's.

Or in a peanut-sized little girl, just like me.

Hopefully in four or five or however many little ones the Lord blesses us with.

And I'm not going to lie... hopefully we don't have to wait too long to know what that plan is.

Patience.


So. How's that for honesty?

For the Little Ones

After attending mass on Saturday evening, I was handed a bulletin on my way out the doors. Inside, it had a disturbing fact:

41% of pregnancies in New York City end in abortion.

Upon reading this, my husband and I talked about all the people, all the special souls God made, that never came to be.

And maybe it's because we look forward to having a little one of our own, or because we love our soon-to-be-here niece or nephew so much even before knowing them, or because every time we see our niece and nephews we're filled with joy -- but to think of all those little ones who never came to be because of humanity's selfishness is just heartbreaking.

Below is an opinion article I wrote that was printed in my current city's newspaper a few years ago. I was involved in a campus pro-life organization called "CFL" -- Collegians For Life while attending my university. In the spring of 2008, we voted and decided to bring the controversial "Genocide Awareness Project" (GAP). This article was a response to some of the public's detestation of the presentation and abortion in general. If you're not sure how you feel about abortion (and even, or maybe especially, if you are), I hope it just makes you reconsider a bit... that, or change your mind completely :)

Published Saturday, April 26, 2008
In response to Deb White’s article in the April 17 Forum, “Exhibit offensive, exploitive”:

Does Genocide Awareness Project utilize photographs from the Holocaust and of lynched African-Americans? Yes. But it also utilizes photographs of children from every culture. These children are sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, grandsons, granddaughters, sons and daughters of everyone. They are part of every culture. They are the past, present and future generations who never had a chance at life.

That said, I’d like to share some insight from a Rwandan woman who saw the GAP display on her college campus. She walked by and pointed at the picture of a child murdered in Rwanda on one of the signs, saying that it portrayed what happened to members of her family.

The GAP team member expressed deep sympathy, apologizing for any pain the photographs were inflicting, adding, “What do you think?” The woman thought a moment, pointed at the aborted babies in front of her, and said, “They had it worse. My people could run. These children had no chance.”

One cannot say that people “vehemently disagree” with GAP’s message just because it shows how awful their ancestors were treated. In fact, Martin Luther King Jr.’s niece, Alveda King, supports GAP. Last August, she said “the killing of a quarter of the black population of the United States has not been from lynch mobs, but from abortionists, who plant their killing centers in minority neighborhoods and prey upon women who think they have no hope … the great irony is that abortion has done what the Klan only dreamed of.”

In the United States, abortion facilities and offices of Planned Parenthood are often concentrated in poor areas where the black population is especially targeted. King also pointed out that “in the last 40-plus years, 15 million black people have been denied their most basic civil right, the right to life. Roughly one-quarter of the black population is now missing.”

The goal of GAP and Collegians for Life isn’t to show some grotesque images for “shock value” but to increase awareness. If we are so disgusted and repulsed by photographs of abortion, why do we let it happen? Making it invisible does not make it nonexistent. The truth of the matter is this: Abortion is awful, brutal, inhumane and murder. No matter what your stance – pro-life or pro-choice – you should know what you are endorsing.

In September 1955, a young African-American named Emmett Till was brutally murdered for senseless reasons. His body, especially his face, was a horrible sight, but when asked if she wanted a closed casket, his mother said, “No. Let the people see what I have seen. I think everybody needs to know what had happened to Emmett Till.”

More than 50,000 people saw what happened to Till because of his mother’s decision. A magazine also published a photo of his body, exposing millions around the globe to this act of brutality. This event is considered to be the “sleeping giant” of the civil rights movement – 100 days later, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on a bus, and four days after that, Martin Luther King Jr. gave his first civil rights speech.

This truth that Emmett Louis Till’s mother decided to share with the world changed the course of history forever. Was it gruesome and unpleasant to witness? Yes. But did it wake people up to a huge atrocity? Indeed. Maybe if we follow the example of Mrs. Till and share another gruesome and unpleasant truth, people will wake up again.

Whipped Creme Santas

Back in October, I decided to make an appointment to take a seat in an egg-shaped spaceship-esque contraption known as the "BodPod" at my former gym. It informed me that my percentage of body fat was that of an "elite athlete" (um, someone please give my middle and high school P.E. teachers a call. I think they'd go into cardiac arrest). Anyway, since then, I've been trying to gain some weight to hopefully get it into a more "normal person" category.

Sounds like fun, right?

Careful what you wish for. Somehow, gorging myself on sweets and such isn't quite as fun as one might imagine it. Anyway, since then I've gained about seven pounds and had been hoping that meant I was on the fast-track to my middle school self (i.e., completely unathletic in both ability [which, by the way, has gone unchanged anyway] and in body fat percentage). Unfortunately, I had another nutrition appointment this afternoon and found out that I am still too low.

So the nutritionist asked what I've been eating each day. And though I'd intended on pretending like I was a fabulous eater who feasts on leafy greens each night (ha! In my husband's dreams!), word vomit happened and I spilled the beans on my naughty eating habits: candy, ice cream and (gasp!) non whole-wheat english muffins! What a silly girl I've been. What have I been thinking?

Let's just say she was only slightly appalled at my eating choices.

And she shared her disdain of them with me by telling me that though I look slim now, I have many tomorrows ahead of me. Whoopsies. And that the food choices I'm making will do some fancy converting thing (I didn't quite follow what she was saying) and wind up as fat on my glutes.

That's right, my friends. All those fluffy, whipped creme Santas (59 of them, to be exact. If you've been reading my blog for awhile, you'll remember I bought a hefty amount of whipped creme hearts after Valentine's Day last year -- these are the same, only in Santa format) I bought on the day after Christmas for 19 cents apiece are all going to end up making me have something in common with the man who the confections are shaped after: a large butt.

Hey thanks, nutritionist lady. Great way to get me to put on a few more pounds and get where I need to be, body-fat-percentage-wise: tell me I'm going to end up with a monster-sized tush. Granted, I totally get where she was going with it all: to gain weight the healthy way, not the candy way. But still... really?

Anyway, on the bright side, if my butt does get bigger, it might rival that of J. Lo... which is what one of my fellow third grade teachers offered to call me this week because of my enlarging ba-donk-a-donk (thank you, squats and lunges!). At that point, I didn't think I had anything on her -- but apparently if I keep this up, I just may.

Whatevs. I totally decided to not put in a work-out after my nutritionist appointment. And then I totally went home and ate one of those delicious, butt-enlarging whipped creme Santas. Bring it on!

Feelin' Hot, Hot, Hot!

Has anyone else noticed how fast weekends go? Sorry, that's a silly question. It just feels like Friday was literally two seconds ago -- and here I am with the Sunday night "pit". Which is weird in itself, too. By no means do I dislike my job. On the contrary; in fact, the past few Fridays I've found myself disappointed that the week has to come to an end and that I won't see my students again until Monday.

Regardless, I should stop complaining. My dinosaur-sized goal for 2011 is to enjoy and love every single day. Too often I spend time wishing it were the weekend, Christmastime, summertime, babytime (did I say that out loud? Shh! Don't tell), anytime but the present. And what a silly waste of time it is to spend my moments wishing for a different one.

So today, rather than spending my post-Church, Culver's, grocery store Sunday afternoon parked on our near-perfect micro suede couch with hubby's freshman-year laptop warming my thighs, I decided I'd do something different.

How different?

Very different.

As I've mentioned before, pilates is something I really enjoy. However, over the summer the hubs and I moved home due to summer jobs. The Y at home didn't have pilates at a good time for me... but they did have yoga. Luckily I'm not so serious about pilates that I felt yoga couldn't fill the void that pilates was leaving in my abs. So I hopped on the yoga train for the summer! And when we moved back to our former (and current) location, I switched back to pilates.

Tomatoes/tomatos, pilates/yoga, whatevs. All I know is they both help me relax and they apparently make muscles long and lean.

So anyway, unfortunately this new women's gym I joined doesn't offer either at a great time for me -- except for early Sunday afternoons. Now, as a general rule of thumb, I refuse to step foot in a gym A) more than four times per week and B) on the weekends. However, this yoga they're offering on Sundays is a special kind of yoga -- "hot yoga" to be exact. And hot yoga is literally just that -- you go in this room and they turn on space heaters to make the room a ridiculous temperature to do down dog in.

Which sounded entirely unappealing the first time I heard about it.

But then my city landed itself in the midst of an ice age with -30 degree wind chills. And I can't make it to somewhere tropical anytime soon, so why not go to a steamy yoga room with 25 women?

So hubby was extra kind and agreed to chauffeur me to and from the gym. And I found myself on a cushy blue mat in the front row where everyone could watch my sweaty-like-a-pig reflection.

Apparently it wasn't quite as toasty as usual in there, but it was definitely sauna-esque. Prior to beginning, the instructor asked us to think of an "intention" for our yoga practice today.

Beh?

An 'intention' for my one hour of yoga?

Sorry lady, but I only say prayers for intentions. And I don't think yoga is a form of prayer. At least, not in my own personal book.

And then the weirdest thing happened.

So we're supposed to be all solemn and thinking of who we're "offering" our yoga for today and the instructor turns on some 80s music.

Wait, wait... what? You mean we're supposed to be all spiritual-like and let our toxins be released via sweating while "Tainted Love" plays in the background?

A slow, smart-alec smile spread across my face as I tried not to giggle. Note to self: hot yoga is no place to smile. This is serious business, apparently. Everyone else around me had their eyes close and were totally getting their "chi" on... whatever that means.

As the hour went by, 80s tune after 80s tune played on (yes, no lie: a full hour of all the best 80s hits... including "Jesse's Girl" slowed down and turned into a ballad. HA!) and my typically greasy face turned into an oil slick. Luckily everyone's eyes were closed or they probably would've been blinded by the light reflecting off my T-zone, so it worked out.

But all sarcasm aside, the hour was incredibly relaxing. And it didn't at all feel like a workout -- that's what I like about yoga. Not that you don't work hard (because believe me, that perspiring wasn't just from the heat), but it's just not something you keep looking at the clock thinking, "When will this death march be over?"

Plus, the last thing you do in a yoga class is "final relaxation" -- here, you find a 'pose' that's most comfortable for you and you just lie there. Today I think we did this for a good ten minutes, which was a very welcome thing because our upstairs neighbors had us up for a few hours at 3:00 a.m. (yes, inconsiderate neighbor, we could hear you drumming away to Weezer loud and clear. Darn you, Wii Rock Band!). I'm pretty sure I even fell asleep for awhile in final relaxation today.

Unfortunately, I was jolted back to reality by what sounded like an electric pencil sharpener. And in my half-sleep state, it made me deliriously think I was in my classroom with one of my students getting up mid-language arts lesson to sharpen their pencil. Luckily I grasped reality before probing the woman next to me with the question, "can you share with us when pencils should be sharpened?" in my best teacher voice.

Shortly thereafter, adult nap-time (er, "final relaxation") wrapped up and back into the frigid temperatures I went.

Until next week, that is.

Yep, you heard me right. I think hot yoga and I are friends.

Assuming I can move beyond the awful music, of course :)

No spouses allowed!

For some odd reason, I am downright exhausted. Never mind that I had two of my five work-week days sans third graders apparently, because I am beat. I think I'll blame it on the -11 degree temperatures (that feel like -18 degrees...) around here.

But tomorrow's Friday! And the only thing that makes Friday even better are two things: the chance to wear JEANS to school and also that my outfit has been decided for me. Yes, my friends, I don't even have to pick out my clothes -- they've been pre-selected by the main social committee at school, who planned our annual holiday gathering (my first-ever grown-up holiday party! Exciting, right?) for tomorrow after school (no spouses allowed. Not gonna lie: I am beyond ecstatic about that. I have a feeling that spouse-included Christmas parties could hold an ample amount of awkwardness). And they've requested we get decked out in school-spirit wear. Don't mind if I do!

Because, friends, it seems one of the more difficult parts of my day is deciding what to put on the following morning.

So in advance... Happy Friday! :)

Dear Prude[nce].

Apparently 2011 brought along some unexpected twists. Unfortunately, I'm not referring to winning the lottery or being (surprise!) pregnant, because neither of those have happened. Nope, nothing quite that awesome. However, it did bring me somewhere I never thought I'd be: lying on top of a massage table, sans much of my clothing. Yes, my friends: the girl who has spent her entire life being beyond creeped out by massages, got a massage today.

Now, don't be deceived: I did not pay for it. Well, scratch that. I did pay for it -- but not really by choice, in a sense. I've been a faithful gym goer for the past year and have piggybacked on my husband's University wellness center account each semester for pretty cheap. However, due to convenience (or lack there-of), I opted out of that gym and joined another, women-exclusive club that is within a 2-mile radius of both school and my apartment. Hooray for sanity and a few extra hours of time in my classroom every single week! Anyway, along with sanity and being married to my third graders, this new all-woman locale came with a hefty price tag. Well, hefty to this cheapskate, anyway. I signed up for an 18-month contract and it's costing me $39.00/month (minus my "thanks for going to the gym 12 times/month" credit).

Unfortunately, there was a teeny-tiny surprise that came alongside that monthly fee: a $100.00 "kickstart" fee (which, by the by, I was told was optional when I first came and toured the place. Turns out, it's not optional. When I mentioned I was given bad information, they offered to let me split the sum into three separate payments. Laaame. Where's the customer service?) Regardless, like a sucker... I paid it. And it came with a variety of items I really didn't need: a canvas tote that sports the name of their gym (to add to my 8,000 other totes I already own and don't need); a water bottle (again, to add to my 12 I already don't use); a date with a nutritionist and a fitness specialist; and finally, the perk that landed me on a masseuse's table today: a 30-minute massage.

Excuse me while I cringe and/or vomit.

See, massages have always rubbed me the wrong way (sorry for the pun. It seriously wasn't intentional, I kind of hate puns). In high school some kids liked to give/receive them (I think it was a band/choir geek thing) but I never got into that whole bit. It always weirded me out. Anyway, I'd paid $100.00 for this massage today, so I figured I'd better get my share.

Oddly enough, my masseuse shared my same name but spelled it in a quirky fashion. I abide by the general rule of thumb that you can't trust anyone with two first names... or with an extra-quirky spelling. She first asked me where I wanted my massage to be focused: my scalp? Neck? Upper back? Face?

Uh, face? You mean you can massage someone's face? Who knew! And thanks, but no thanks.

She left the room so I could crawl under the puffy, snow-white, down comforter -- and that's when the best part happened: it was a heated massage table. Yes, heated. This may not sound like much to anyone who isn't living in my region at the moment, but this morning it was -23 degrees Fahrenheit. So heated bed? I think, yes. This alone was worth the $100.00! Well, not really. But I'll just keep telling myself that.

It was also at that moment I noticed she had this Chineseish music playing the background. Thank you, masseuse, for making me feel all cultural-like as I wait under these covers awkwardly, semi-disrobed for you to walk in the door.

I'm not going to lie: I'm definitely a semi-prude, so this was quite possibly the most nerve-wracking thing I've done. I'd put it right up there with walking down the aisle at my wedding or being at the highest point on the Wild Thing at Valleyfair.

Okay, so I'm completely exaggerating. But I would be lying if I said I didn't think about slipping out the back door.

But I didn't. And I survived. But I don't think I calmed down once during the whole thing. Especially at the point when she was giving me a neck massage and she put two of her fingers where my skull meets my neck. For one thing, it was extremely painful. And another, I began to seriously wonder whether or not her fingers would puncture that area and I'd be found dead in this back room by the police. Apparently I've watched too much gruesome CSI, because I don't think that's a normal thing to think of.

She also used oils and got them in my hair. Good thing I'm on schedule to shower and wash my hair tomorrow morning, otherwise I probably would have been semi-distraught (yes, I have a hair washing schedule that I strictly adhere to. And yes, I only wash my hair a few days a week. Don't be hatin'!).

Eventually, I was asked to flip over and lie on my stomach and put my head through one of those circle pillow deals that you see on all massage tables. My face got all smashed and contorted and all I could think of was how my face would look smashed up like that. Seriously, that's pretty much what I thought about the whole time.

And before I knew it, my half-hour of thinking about CSI, smashed faces and gross massage oils in my hair was up. And after a semi-stressful first day back at school with kiddos in my room after the long weekend, I can honestly say that I didn't feel really all that "de-stressed" from the experience. Of course, it probably didn't help at all that I didn't once let my mind drift off into China with that cultural music she had going on. Regardless, I don't think I'll ever find myself lying on a masseuse's table again. Yoga and pilates are a way better 'relaxer' for this lady.

Not to mention, I'll probably save up the money I could spend on getting massages and buy a heated bed of my own instead for -25 degree nights like tonight...