Key in the Door…

vacuum

dust

clean bathroom

pay bills

laundry

wash bedding

This is my TO DO list this week.   Hmmmm, come to think of it, this looks very, very similar to the TO DO list from last week.  Wait, wait, wait…ah yes, here is it.  My list from February of this year (10 months ago) that I found in my coat pocket yesterday when I put on my winter parka.  Well, whaddya know…it’s identical to these other lists.  Nope, nope, “wrap birthday present” was on this February list, but other than that…IDENTICAL.  Oh my goodness!  Is my life really that predictable and monotonous? 

This dull list got me thinking about two things.  First thing: if my February and December lists were pretty much the same, then why oh why do I keep re-writing it?  Maybe I should have a master board with a master list and maybe 2 or 3 blank spaces where I can add anomalies if necessary.  This would save an invaluable amount of time as well as stacks of note paper (note:  I write my lists down, printing them on narrow note pad paper (3.5″ x 7″ or 8.9 cm x 17.8 cm).  Then again, perhaps there is some other twisted reason why I prefer to write lists.

Ok, I’ll confess.  I like being able to grab my click pen (or sharpened pencil, or 0.05 fine tip marker) and dramatically scratch off a completed item from the TO DO list.  As soon as my bed sheets are in the washing machine, I dart triumphantly upstairs, hoist my pen as if it were a sword and masterfully stroke through the words “wash bedding”.  What a feeling!  I’d compare it to winning an Iron Man marathon or being first in line at the grocery store checkout.  WINNING!  

For all you list makers out there, you understand the elation and sense of accomplishment felt when you cross items off this list of chores.  It’s like winning … at life!  You have proven that you can complete assigned tasks and goals.  And perhaps I am also not unique in adding an item to the sheet AFTER it has already been completed in order to be able to strike a line through it.  DONE!  YAY ME!  Yes, I do that…as any normal person with OCD would do.  A list chock full of crossed off words is so satisfying and rewarding!  

This brings me to my second thought, and possibly (probably) even more vital:  is my life that boring and predictable?  This regurgitated list is what I “hope” to accomplish during the weekend.  Saturday and Sunday are my days to fulfill this wish-list of chores.  Yes, they are chores.  They represent grunt work.  A task to be done and I am the self-appointed Task Master.  I know that there are many other things I do on weekends, but those never get scribbled down.  So why am I writing (re-writing) a list that isn’t even accurate?

After much deliberation, I have realized that my TO DO list is more of a may I recommend list or a maybe list.  

 Maybe I’ll vacuum if I’m not playing with the grandkids.

I would recommend washing my bed sheets, but best to toss ’em into the hamper and pull out the spare set.  That’s what the spare ones are for right?  I recommend hanging out with my aunt instead.  

I think I’ll go shopping with my sister on Saturday, so maybe I’ll get around to dusting.

I should clean my tub and sink…or maybe I’ll hop in my car and go for a nice scenic drive to visit my niece.

It was my aunt who wisely explained that the whole cleanliness is next to Godliness mantra is nice and all, but sometimes you just have to “put the key in the door and go live your life.” 

“Huh?”  I was befuddled. 

She reiterated:  “You stand outside your home.  Put your key in the door and lock up your house nice and tight.  Then turn your back to the door, head out into the wild world and go live your life.”  My aunt sauntered off ahead of me and then said calmly, “the dust will be there when you get back.” 

“Yeah, I don’t like coming back to all these chores…the dusting, the vacuuming, the mopping.  So much to do.  My house is a mess!”  I complained.

“Oh sure, I understand,” she mollified me.  “It’s better to make sure your house is clean for when the Pope comes to visit instead of using that little bit of free weekend time you have to hang out with your friends or family,” she snipped sarcastically.  My aunt then held my hands in hers, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Life is short,” she began, “one day you’ll receive news that the person you were planning to see next weekend…because this weekend you were scrubbing toilets…is now gone forever,” she said sardonically.  “Believe me, dust will always be there,” she continued, “but the people you care about might not be.”  Message received Wise(-ass) Auntie of mine.  I love her!

My home will not pass the white glove test.  If you run your fingers along the tables or ledges, you will find a thin layer of dust and a myriad of multiplying dust bunnies hanging out like gangsters in the dark corners of some rooms.  One weekday evening after work they’ll get sucked up into my supersonic vacuum cleaner.  For now, I’ll let ’em live a little since I will be doing the same thing.  

If you are driving by my house some weekend you just might find me standing outside my front door with my head slightly bent over.  I will be inserting my key into the lock and smiling contentedly as I hear my aunt’s voice in my head saying, “put the key in the door.  Go live your life.”

Timbit friendly…

Winter is here.  It has arrived a month earlier than usual…then again, it’s Canada, so no…not really.  However, there is something that happens at this particular time of year which seems to affect the whole country.  Nope, not snowfall, although that does happen.  Lack of sleep?  Oh yes, with the time change “Spring Forward, Fall Back” (we are in the “fall back” an hour stage), it gets expectedly unexpectedly dark early.  (Ok, that was a weird way of phrasing that we know it’s gonna be dark earlier but we are still surprised when it happens.  Read it again.  It makes sense.)  All I’m saying is that it gets dark earlier and it actually seems to be dark all the time so we all seem super tired and sleepy.   Yes, it is a widespread epidemic, but that’s not the epidemic I am referring to.  When the biting winds of winter arrive it seems that everyone has a need to fill their bellies with:  TIMBITS!

Ok, this is definitely a Canadian illness.  It’s a wanton desire.  It’s inescapable.  It’s contagious.  You can go the whole summer without noshing on fried dough, but come the chill of winter your body flips on some invisible switch that makes you desire, nay, voraciously crave something yeasty and luxuriously covered in sugar.  Oh sure, donuts have their appeal, but there is something special about a small dough ball that you can pop into your mouth and devour in mere seconds.  It’s instant gratification!  It’s immediate satisfaction!  It’s a bite-sized piece of heaven.

Other areas of the world have their two-bite confectionary creations.  France is known for their petit fours and their macarons.  How about the Danish aebleskiver?  Then there are chocolatey two-bite brownies and flavourful mini cupcakes. Ok, I’m getting all snack-craving crazy.  You get the idea.  Little treats are good and yummy, but when the Canadian winter hits, we need fried food for sustenance.  Sweet is nice, but you need that deep-fried goodness to help you feel fuller, and happier, longer.

Ok, I am prejudiced about these little balls of deep fried joy.  Sometimes you don’t want to eat a WHOLE donut.  Sure, I love an apple fritter as much as the next person, but sometimes, your tastebuds crave a plethora of distinct flavours.  Sometimes you desire a gooey strawberry donut covered in sneeze-worthy icing (powdered) sugar.  Want chocolate?  Well there is Timbit made especially for you.  It’s your birthday!  Then there is the birthday Timbit covered in rainbow sprinkles.  There is a bite of heaven for everyone!  

If I really want to take this to next level, I really think Timbits could lead to world peace.  They come in a variety of colours and flavours so they are obviously not racist.  When people see Timbits they smile and are happy.  They don’t talk about suicide bombing or making war.  Timbits are all about making people happy.  There is always enough so no one feels left out.  They are affordable so there are no economic discrepancies between rich and poor as all can afford to purchase them.  Timbits bring out the philanthropist in all of us. 

Picture this scenario.  It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon.  The day has been laborious and monotonous.  People are cranky and hangry.  It’s dark outside (yeah, it’s Canada).  Suddenly, the wind whistles and howls inside the office as the front door blows open.  A colleague has entered, slightly disheveled due to the high winds, and with a precocious smile lifts a small box into the air.  The person magnanimously states (almost with a god-like booming voice) “I have brought Timbits.”  The carton is delivered into the lunchroom, and placed ceremoniously onto the counter.  And with an accompanying smirk of self-importance gleaming upon their face they have completed their glorious endeavour.  There is no one quite as special as The Deliverer of the Timbits.  Life has meaning again.

Around the office there are whispers of, “Timbits in the lunchroom.”  The Good News spreads to the far reaches.  Exhausted employees slowly get up and slink off quietly to the lunchroom to grab some little fried balls of sweet energy and euphoric happiness.  Words of thanks are heaped upon The Deliverer.  The outdoor darkness of the afternoon has been metamorphosised into a kaleidoscope of rainbow Timbit ecstasy.  The sugar-hit makes the group cheerful and friendly.  Another afternoon of dread has been avoided.  All hail the Timbit!

Ok, mayhap there is a wee bit of an exaggeration on my part.  Honestly, it’s not that far from the truth.  If you don’t believe me, walk into any office, any classroom, any study group, any hospital, any house of prayer, basically any room where there are a group of people milling about and present them with a lovely box of the Tim Hortons Party Pack containing 50 Timbits…various flavours, naturally.  Just the sight of the box will have their eyes begin to twinkle, their mouths begin to salivate, and their heart begin to race.  No, they aren’t rabid.  They are Timbit friendly.

You are beautiful…I love you

I finally get it.  Oh, it took me several months to finally see what this particular group of people see daily when they look in a mirror and examine themselves.  The realization and comprehension took me by surprise, but I am so glad that I FINALLY GET IT!  Oh, I am talking about thin people looking at themselves and thinking they are fat.  WHAT?!

I reinvent my look every few years.  I am a confirmed shopaholic.  I LOVE buying clothes.  I love buying shoes.  I will venture into designer stores and I will frequent Goodwill.  I am not too choosy about where I buy, but I am choosy about what I buy.  I think my subconscious knows how much I enjoy cavorting in malls so once I have reached my allotted closets space (yes, I have commandeered more than one closet), my body suddenly transforms.  

Ok, it’s not sudden.  It’s more laboriously time consuming…like 6 months or a year, or two.  I will go from a svelte size 6 and balloon to a size 14. I have gone from being a weensy, boney size 4 to a plump and cuddly size 1X (I think that’s a nice way of saying size 18, I believe).  So, I have been all over the board with my body size (and all over the malls…lol).  

My most challenging mind game was learning to love my plus size body; all the bumps and lumps and squishiness of me.  And I did learn to love it… every big bit of it.  Even when my mother mocked and shamed me, I still loved the round cherub cheeks I had, and my breasts…OH WOW…full and quite glamorous.  Though I loved the Mrs. Claus version of me, my lungs were clambering for oxygen after walking up a flight of stairs.  So, it was time for me to start my journey to becoming a healthier me.  Not necessarily a non-fluffy me, but just a person who could walk and not get winded.  A person who could lift a toddler without her back going out.

I began with healthier eating.  Load up my plate with the colours of the rainbow…broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, strawberries, blueberries, eggplant, et. al.  You get the idea.  The bland whites and beiges were absent for a little while.  No bread.  No pasta.  No cookies.  No donuts.  I re-introduced those after I lost 40 lbs, but there were no longer any carb-fests that I had previously enjoyed.  Anyway, after shedding parts of me, I joined a gym.  (Technically, hubby Wiseguy signed us both up).  Well, after a couple of months of “healthy” eating AND three days a week at the gym (for an hour) I have a new-to-me amazing body!  I mean, my body is an incredible thing and it can do some amazing stuff!  

Before this “new” me, I couldn’t lift 2 lb weights without heaving and straining and now I can lift and hoist 40 lbs.  I can lift toddlers without breaking a sweat.  I can do squats like a champ…which means kidlets can be bounced on my lap and I no longer have to worry about getting a Charley Horse.  Amazing!  I am lookin’ goooooood!  I have rounded shoulders, thanks to my newly formed muscles.  My bat wings … non-existent!  My calves and thighs; toned and sinewy.  Look at me being a femme fatale version of Arnie (Arnold Schwarzenegger).  I’m feeling great and looking great!  Or am I?

I’ve been thinner now for about a year, but I started working out about 8 months ago.  Now when I look in the mirror I am finding faults with my body. My thighs only seem toned if I flex them.  The mushy flab around my belly is still wiggly and jiggly.  Where is the 6-pack I am supposed to have?  It’s obvious…I am fat.  Yup, that is what I see when I look in the mirror and see my reflection.  My butt (sorry, not into the big butt look for myself), but I just see cellulite and flab.  What happened?  I weigh 40 lbs less than I used to be so why do I feel and look fatter now?  Apparently, I am not alone with this bizarro way of thinking.

Phantom Fat.  It’s actually a thing. Basically, your mind still believes and subsequently sees the bigger you that you were.  So, after I lost weight I found I was still trying on large size clothes and would be surprised when they were too big.  Even now, I try on small clothes now and am surprised when they fit.  “Must be American version of small which is really like a real-size large,” is what my brain tells me.  

I am still surprised when people I haven’t seen in awhile tell me how great I look.  They ask me how I shed the pounds, which is easy to talk about.  What shocks me is how tiny they think I am.  I don’t see it.  I quickly change the topic because I feel like a fake and a liar.  

I will tell you that when I accepted the soft, pudgy me, I was happy and loving life.  Oh sure, I ate my feelings (food has always been my go-to comfort when life gets hectic).  Now, I worry when I have my latte and biscotti.  I worry when I skip a day going to the gym.  I worry about not fitting into the clothes I have purchased.  I worry about the food I eat thinking I’ll gain 50 lbs after one meal.  Who would’ve thought that losing weight and being healthy could become a mental hazard?  

I wasn’t going write about this, but I thought there might be someone out there having the same unrealistic thoughts and wondering if they were the only person having these crazy thoughts.  Well guess what?  There’s a bunch of us trying to overcome this weird way of dealing with something that is actually a great thing!   

So today I will stop judging myself and go back to my old mantra that I used when I was trying to love and accept my biggy, squishy me.  I will look at myself in that full length mirror and tell that wonderful person, “You are beautiful and I love you.”  


Goodbye … for now

The time passed so quickly.  I look at pictures and see your beautiful smiling face.  You did that all the time.  Your bright smile lit up a room.  Your laughter was part giggle and part ha ha and it always made me smile.  I will miss that smile.  I will miss your laughter.  I will miss you.

You came into my life as a well kept secret.  You had been dating your love, my stepson, for a couple of years before I had even heard about you.  One day, when I heard that you were in town for a visit, I decided I had to meet you.  Being Christmastime, I knew my chance had come to meet the elusive girlfriend.  As I walked into the house I heard your voice.  It was very soft and lilting.  I heard you laugh for the first time.  I turned the corner and saw you.  There you were, sitting demurely on the sofa.  Your long black hair framing your beautiful face.  You looked meek and shy.  I introduced myself.  We exchanged a few words.  Then I went merrily on my way.  I loved you already. Our brief introduction led to a beautiful mother / daughter relationship and friendship.

As months and years passed, I got to know you better and better.  My love for you grew and blossomed.  How could it not?  You were a free spirit.  A happy spirit.  Someone who loved life.

Being part of your wedding planning was such an incredible joy.  Just seeing your eyes shine with happiness and excitement and surprise.  It was wonderful bringing your dream fairytale wedding to life.  Such a stunningly beautiful bride.  An incredibly happy bride marrying her true love.

Then you were with child.  You poor little dear, carrying such a large bundle of love.  Again, I can only be honest and describe you as beautiful…and adorable and cute…a petit large momma.  Pregnancy was not easy, but you loved every minute of it.  You welcomed your beautiful son into the world.

You have been a wonderful wife and mother.  You have been an incredible daughter and friend.  And with your illness there was a new side of you that came out.  You became a warrior.  I have never seen someone struggle through so many challenges and keep such a positive attitude.  You went months at a time in pain with many sleepless nights, yet you were always finding the silver lining.  You would say that “it could it be worse” when I oftentimes thought I would’ve given up and surrendered if this were happening to me.

You were a fighter.  I don’t think I could’ve ever fought as long and hard as you did.  You were my inspiration to see all the good in my life when I took it for granted.  Even when it looked like you might succumb to your illness, you came back stronger, daring fate to come at you again and again.  Your determination, your strong will, your desire to live kept all of us rooting for you and praising your heroics.  There was nothing you couldn’t beat.  Nothing was going to stop you.

Then, in a blink of an eye, everything changed.  Now, you are gone from our midst.  But I like to believe that it’s only your physical body that is gone.

Your spirit is out there somewhere jumping and running and being happy and free.  There is no more illness.  There is no more pain for you.  That is the only thing that makes us try to feel better about having to let you go.

We, the ones who are left behind, are now the ones with the pain and the suffering because we miss having you physically present in you lives.  Our hearts are broken.  We feel such an emptiness, a void that is your absence in our lives.  We miss you so much because we love you so much.

Thank you for being in our lives.  Thank you for changing our lives.  Thank you for all the memories you have given us.  Thank you for loving us.

With love…

Goodbye…for now.

 

The Cold War…

Fall as arrived.  The leaves are beginning to change colour.  The air has a fresh chill to it.  The stagnant, humid and stifling air of summer is no more.   That also means the cold days of summer are finally over.  Yes, I wrote that correctly:  the “cold” days of summer.  I work in an office.  Come summer, the thermostat gets set at something close to minus freezing.  This is to ensure that a “normal” room temperature is achieved.  At least, that is what the men in the building say.  I’ll give you a replay of a “summer day” at my work.

I have just gotten out of my air conditioned car (see, I don’t mind air conditioning) and I’m headed toward the front door of the office building where I work.  The air is thick with mugginess.  My straightened hair has begun to curl from the humidity.  My lacquered toes are peeping out from my strappy light pink sandals.  I am wearing a floral calf length summer dress.  It’s blowing breezily around my legs as the hot air blows around me.  As I open the front door to the building my breath catches in my throat.  The air is frigid.  Holy smokes I’ve walked into a meat locker!  Nope, nope, my mistake.  It definitely is my place of work.  I walk slowly toward my desk.  I am attempting to keep the warm air of the outdoors upon me as a shield until I can make it to my desk.  The final destination has emergency provisions in order to ensure regular blood flow and circulation thus halting any impending hypothermia.

My legs begin to stiffen.  My breathing is becoming shallower.  “KEEP MOVING!” yells my brain.  I finally make it to my desk and slump into my chair.  Blessedly my “office sweater” is still there.  I shakily take it off the back of the chair and slide first my left, then my right arm into the long knit sleeves.  The ice that was beginning to form has now begun to melt.  I am grateful for my office sweater.

The office sweater is a special garb.  It can be purchased in any store, but Walmart, Sears,  Target are good places.  You could even pick one up at a charity store like the Salvation Army or Goodwill.  It needs to be soft because itchy sweaters don’t feel too good on ice cold body parts.  It is usually a large or extra large size making it more or less a one size fits all.  This is imperative as it will undoubtedly need to accommodate other women (sufferers) in the office.  This is especially certain during those times when someone has brought an office sweater home to wash it and has forgotten to return with it.  YOUR office knit will save their life.  Pockets, on this coveted article of clothing, are a bonus.  This is the receptacle for your facial tissue (due to dripping nose syndrome) and perhaps even lip balm.  You will eventually discover you have dry lips due to the chattering of your lips and harsh breaths you will inhale in order to maintain your status as a member of the living.

After putting on my office sweater, I reach under my desk and turn on my space heater.  As the coils start to glow red, I begin to have feeling in my toes.  The numbness in my toes has abated.  I happily wiggle my little piggies.  It feels so good.  I can feel the heat on them now.  My fingers have changed from the blue hue to a lovely pink vibrant and healthy colour.  I pull up the sleeves on my office sweater…to my wrists only…and turn on my computer.  If the sleeves went up any higher my arms would hit the slab of a cold desk and ice me out. There needs to be a buffer of warmth against the chillness of the desk.   After the anti-thaw ritual, I can now begin my workday.

During the course of the day, I will get up to visit the ladies room.  This particular room does not seem to get affected by the office temperature.  It’s a nice neutral room, but you can’t stay there forever.  My red legs (from the space heater) work as a shield as I walk around the office space.  Its defensive properties last about 3.17 minutes.  After that there are no guarantees.  I would liken it to an astronaut being lost in space.  Eventually the atmosphere will get you and kill you.  Getting back to your ship, a.k.a. desk, is the only way to survive.

I have visitors on especially hot summer days.  The OWNS (OWNS = Ones With No Sweater) announce their arrival at my desk with the loud chattering of their teeth.  They stand huddled together around my chair.  We breath sighs of relief as the heat emanates gloriously from beneath my desk.  The steady warmth can be felt for up to a two-foot circumference.  Colour returns to cheeks and lips.  Arms and legs begin to move more freely.  There is much rejoicing after the thaw.

This may sound like a tall tale, a complete fabrication.  I thought this scourge was only experienced by the females at my workplace.  Then one day, whilst surfing the [inter]net, I saw THIS documentary.

 

So here it is…the season of fall.  That time of year when the grand decision is made to ceremoniously unlock the thermostat and transition the office atmosphere from “frosty” to “toasty”.  Ladies!  Put away the communal office sweater.  Let it hibernate majestically for another year!  Now for closing prayer:

Thank you to the sweater gods

Who clothed and warmed our chilly bods

May office warmth be here to stay

So we can live another day.

Hallelujah!  We have survived another Cold War and we are grateful.

Be Careful What You Wish For…

Be careful what you wish you, you just might get it.  When I first heard that phrase all I thought was, “Well if I’m wishing for it of course I want it!”  But have you ever wished for it, got it, and then, surprisingly, it wasn’t what you thought you wanted?  I know I have.  Let me share with you a wonderful example of this.

My story begins in a lovely hall where a gathering (a gaggle?) of women has accumulated.  They are there to celebrate with the bride-to-be.  It is her bridal shower.  The hall is decorated festively.  There is lots of food and drinks and tonnes of good company.  Oh, what is that at the front of the hall?  Why, it’s an assortment of fun games for the women to try their luck at and maybe win a prize.  Guess the age of the bride in various photos.  Guess the spice in the jar (no smelling).  How many candies in the jar?  A lovely collection of amusements for the ladies.

Did I mention that there were children there?  Well, there were.  A gathering of pretty little girls, in their pretty dresses and shiny shoes…tearing around the hall, very unlady-like and loving every minute of it.  Amongst this congregation was a little 4 year old girl who had spied the candy jar.  The glass jar was right at her eye level.  As she was running by the table, the jar twinkled in the sunlight and caught her lovely, brown eyes.  She stopped.  She ogled the jar and wished to have the candy inside it.  She ran back to her mother to see if she could have one of the sweet candies.  Her mother kindly explained about the counting game.  “The person who guesses the number of candies in the jar gets to keep the jar and the candies.”  The little girl’s eyes widened as she wondered who would win this coveted treasure.

As the buffet lunch ended and the desserts and coffee were brought out, there were other games that were played by the women.   The hall was filled with noises of happy chatter and loud laughter.  The little 4 year old girl kept busy, running around and playing with her friends.  Time passed.  The moment had finally arrived to announce the winner of the candy jar.

“And the winner is…” rang out the voice of the Maid of Honour.  The little girl stopped to look around and see who was going to get this best of all possessions.  A thin lady with blonde hair at the back of the room stood up as the cheering and clapping escalated.  The little girl then headed over to see her mother.

“Mommy,” she began, “can I have one of those candies now?”

“No, those candies belong to that lady,” replied her mom, “they don’t belong to us.”

“But I want one,” murmured the little girl, her face frowning.

“Well,” began her mom, “if you really want one, you can go over there and nicely ask the lady if you can have one.”

The little girl looked up pleadingly at her mom.  “You go ask her,” muttered the little girl.

Her mother shook her head.  “I don’t want any candy.  If you want one, you go over there and nicely ask the lady if you could please have one,” the mom said gently.

The little girl started walking briskly away.  She reached the halfway point, stopped and looked apprehensively back at her mother.  Her mother slowly nodded.  The message was implied: “You can do this!”  The child turned about to continue on her mission.  She jutted out her chin.  There was a new determination in her walk.  After several stomping steps she reached her destination.  Her shoulders sagged.  The lady with the candy jar looked strangely at the child as the little girl just stood there.  Finally the woman’s head slowly bent down.  The little girl had begun to speak.  Would she be triumphant?

Our group of anxious women had waited with bated breath and were happily rewarded when we saw the lid of the glass jar being raised and the jar being tilted toward the brave youngster.  There was a loud exhalation at our table as we watched the triumphant return of the wee one and her newly acquired gem.

“You got it!” we shrieked and hollered in victorious voices.  Her wide grin went from ear to ear.  She held out her hand to show us her new prize.  After that, it was time to enjoy her spoils.  Up went her infant hand to her mouth and the candy treat disappeared.  Oh happy day!

Suddenly, her face became pinched.  Her brows furrowed.  Something was NOT quite right.  The little girl turned slightly in her seat to look pleadingly at her mother.  Her jaw dropped and the hard-won sweet dropped to the table.  She shed no tears as she quietly said, “spicy”.   That whispered word had someone immediately bring her some cooling watermelon for her cinnamon-tainted tongue.  Yes, the craved sweet she had worked up the nerve to acquire was none other than the super hot cinnamon heart candy.  Ouch!

I see life lessons in the smallest and simplest of situations.  In this case, I saw before my eyes the perfect example of Be careful what you wish you.  You just might get it.  She saw the candy.  She wished to have the candy.  She got the candy.  It was definitely NOT what she had wished for.  She would’ve preferred a sweet treat.

I find that our adult lives are like that too.  We wish for better paying jobs, fancier cars, bigger homes, etc.  Sometimes our wishes come true and they are better than we had hoped.  Other times, we get our wish, but then disaster soon follows.  Better paying job?  Horrible work conditions.  Fancier car?  Worse fuel mileage.  Bigger home?  Higher heating/cooling bills and more cleaning time.

Just remember, be careful what you wish for…you just might get it.

 

Live longer…and less bruised

What kind of an idiot falls off an exercise ball ?  I prefer not to judge.  I would like to say that it would have to be a special kind of an idiot.  A lovely person who is obviously… a special kind of an idiot.  Oh yeah that special person would be me.  Oh, I do have special tripping talents.  I have managed to fall down stairs a couple…ahem…a few…ok…numerous times over the years.  I have walked into corners and furniture and stairs and I am sure I have broken my little piggies a few times.  Falling off a bouncy exercise ball is a new kind of injury for me.  Now, if you can stop laughing hysterically for a second, I will tell you the story of “The Exercise Ball and the Idiot”.

Once upon a time, about 5 months ago, I started going to the gym.  Wiseguy signed us up.  Wiseguy wanted to strengthen the muscles around his knees.  Me?  I wanted to build up arm muscles so when I fall down (which I do quite often) I would be ninja-nimble and would be able to stop myself from a catastrophic fall OR I would be able to more easily pick myself up instead of laying there helpless saying, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”  Both good reasons to hit the gym.  I must admit that seeing all the toys…ahem…equipment, made me want to have some of those fun things at home in case I couldn’t make it out to the gym.  You know, sudden summer snowstorm or something like that.  I live in Canada, eh?  Anyway, this is how I ended up being the proud owner of an exercise ball.  A very large, round exercise ball.  One that needed to be air filled prior to use.

I am not sure if you know or not, but there are different size balls that you can purchase. When Wiseguy asked me what size I wanted I figured go for the biggest one.  It made prefect sense to me.  More ball for the money.  Hmmm, knowing what I know now the largest ball was NOT the way to go.  It’s sort of like riding a bike that’s too large for you.  If your feet can’t reach the floor, you have the wrong equipment.  Don’t get ahead of me.

I waited for Wiseguy to blow it up.  No, no, not KABOOM! but more like foot pedal and pump to inflate my new ball.  I couldn’t wait to start doing exercises!  Time passed.  My ball, like my spirit, was deflated. I wanted to get rockin’ on some ab/core exercises.  That ball had to be filled!  I decided I had enough smarts to do this on my own.  HAH!

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like reading instructions.  I believe I’m smart enough to figure out how to do stuff just by looking at all the available parts.   Round peg, round hole right?  I opened the box and heaved out the ball.  I dug out the pump.  I pulled out the hose.  Back to basics:  Stick nib on pump.  Stick nib into hole in ball.  It fits…round peg, round hole.  Hose attaches to pump.  Press foot up and down on pump.  HA!  Easy-peasy!  The air whistled as my ball began to expand.  It grew and grew.  It got rounder and rounder and fuller and fuller.  Hmmm, how full should it be?  I had to get the instructions.  Ummm 0.6 psi.  Great!  How much is that?  I briefly scanned over the instructions to see if there were any hints it could give me about the psi.  Then my brain had a genius idea.  I recalled sitting on a stability ball at the gym.   I would test my new equipment with “butt memory.”   I plopped my rear end on the ball, perused the instructions to see if the pictures could give me a clue.  There were a variety of pictures of stick figures sitting incorrectly on the ball.  Large “X” through their bodies.  In picture language that meant “DO NOT” sit like this.  Well duh…of course not.  Right?  Only an idiot would fall off an exercise ball.  Right?

I bounced up and down a bit, ever so slightly to test the firmness and bounciness of it.  That’s when art became life.  I became the stick figure with the grand ‘X’ running through it.  The rest happened in slow motion.  Nooooooooooooo!!!!  I felt my body lean sideways.  I felt my one leg raise off the floor.  In trying to regain balance I managed to get the ball moving in a mostly backward direction.  Ah….the law of gravity…why would my body not break this law!  My ball slowly rolled backward.  My left foot became air born and started heading skyward.  I struck out with my right foot to try and get some floor with it, but that only increased the momentum.  The ball kept rolling backward.  In slow motion I felt my knees heading toward my chest, my back arching on the ball and my head going down to the ground.  No good could come from this dynamic move. Even worse were my volatile surroundings.  So serene when used as a sitting room, but lethal when an “idiot” is rolling backward on a huge exercise ball.

Behind me was a sturdy wood sideboard.  On that sideboard was a lovely stainless steel espresso machine.  The espresso machine was sitting on a glass cutting board.  The cutting board was large and jutted outward approximately one inch from the sideboard.  Beside the sideboard were my extra oven rack and my cookie cooling racks.  My mind worked quickly to assess the damage before the final landing occurred.  Metal and more metal.  Edges.  Lots and lots of detrimental edges.

Thought process:  I am going to hit the ground hard.  I will end up unconscious.  Since Wiseguy won’t be home until late I will die from my head injuries.  Waldo and Lucy, my beloved pets, won’t know what the hell happened and will continue to bark at walking passers by.  Wiseguy will come home and find me dead.  How will he survive without me?  Who will cook his meals?  No one can cook as great as I can.  He won’t last long without me.  What about the dogs?  Who will take care of them?  The grandkids…I won’t see them all grown up.  I won’t see them married off.  Will the kids think I’m an idiot too?  Who will clean up the blood?  Hope it won’t hurt too long.  Wish I had Life Call.  “Help I’ve fallen…” you get the idea.  Then…

WHACK!  CRACK!  BANG!

My head hit the floor.  My right foot whacked into the oven rack.  My left foot hit the glass cutting board.  MOTHER-FATHER!@!!!$#@^$@!!!  It was after my barrage of swearing that puppy Waldo came and sat beside me.  He tilted his head side to side trying to figure out what I was doing.  Lucy bolted for a hiding place.  Obviously the sky was falling.

I felt pain.  The back of my head hurt.  My right foot hurt.  My left foot hurt.  Pain was GREAT!  I wasn’t dead!  Then hysteria kicked in and I laughed and laughed and laughed so hard the tears came out of my eyes.  I might have even peed myself a little.  So then I called Wiseguy to tell him the fascinating near death experience I had.  I could hear him shaking his head through the phone.

Over the next few hours my delightful feet became a living rainbow.  My one inch bruise on the top of my foot became a swollen kaleidoscope of different bruised hues:  red, blue, yellow, even a nasty shade of purple.  It spread like lava til it reached the tips of my toes.  Then I discovered a bump on my shin.  The bruising kept leaching over my body.  That was fine.  I WAS ALIVE! I had fallen and I had managed to get up.

I learned a valuable lesson that day:  Teach your dog to dial 911 for emergency services.

Haha!  Nope.  That wasn’t it, but not a bad idea.

I learned that I need to have patience.  If Wiseguy says he is gonna do something, like inflate an exercise ball, then let him do it.  It might take a week, 10 days, 10 months, but I’ll live longer, and less bruised, if I follow this advice.