Getting over an exercise addiction.

I am 35.

I can’t remember a time I haven’t exercised (except for the require period of rest after having babies). Even when I was 8, I was going on jogs and doing sit ups.

I never wanted to stop exercising because, with all the conflicting opinions about healthy eating, exercise has always been the rock of my stay healthy plan.

I am now officially exercise-free for one month. That’s not including the occasional sets of guilt-pushups or daily walks. I’m talking real, heart rate rising, sweat producing workouts. And, I’m afraid. Of what? I don’t know! I’ve never had fluctuating numbers on the scale. I don’t really change sizes in clothes. I’m always afraid of dying, regardless of how healthy I am (thanks anxiety). I guess I’m afraid that if I don’t work out, I will lose my identity.

I’m the health-nut. The exercise-freak. If I quit those things, then what am I?

Every day, my watch shames me for another workout not completed. “Just stand up to me your stand goal!” I don’t even care to meet that. I remain seated. And anyway, what the hell is a “stand goal.” Have we really sunk that low as a society that we get rewarded for standing? Usually mine will go off somewhere during the time I’ve been sitting at my desk for hours without moving. (Maybe I should listen to that stand prompt?)

It’s not that I don’t enjoy working out. I love it. I love how I feel. The energy I have to watch late night television hours after Donnie goes to bed. I just don’t feel like working out. I’m enjoying the “doing nothing” phase of my life. Doing nothing is an inaccurate name for it though. I’m not doing nothing. I’m building things. I’m painting. Boy, am I painting. I’m creating all kinds of art.

I will call this the period of relaxation. I’ve never been good at relaxing. I’m always up and on to the next thing. Can’t sit still. Can’t do nothing. Go go go! I’ve had masseuses (on numerous occasions) tell me to relax mid-massage. I’m always tense. But now, I’m getting pretty good at relaxing. Damn good, in fact. I even binged watched a series on Netflix, while working on a painting. I sat on the couch for 3 straight hours, just reading.

I’ll get back to working out eventually. But for now, I’m not even going to try. I’m enjoying the break.


I am a homebody.

At least, that’s what I tell my family, my friends, my husband and my kids when they want to go somewhere. If I do go somewhere, the questioning goes as follows:
– Do I have to wear a bra?
– Do I have to wear makeup?
– How long will it be until I can put my comfy clothes (ie. pajamas) back on?

What a killjoy!

This morning Donnie wanted to go to the Pumpkin Patch as a family. Immediately I tried to push back the time so I’d have more time with my book on the couch. It didn’t work. Donnie explained the logistics of why we had to be there by noon. At least I think that’s what he was doing while I was staring out the window and nodding. I complied. Alright, we’ll leave in a hour.

And you guys, we had the best time.

I haven’t always been a homebody. I used to go out on the regular with Donnie. I used to sneak out of my parents house. Out is where I always wanted to be. When we were dating, Donnie and I agreed that we’d never become hermits when we got married and had kids and grew older. We’d always go out and do fun things. I think it was even in our wedding vows.

What happened?!

Somewhere between playing air guitar to my friends’ band, bumpin’ n grindin’ to my favorite Nelly songs and getting married, having 3 kids and moving the country, I lost it. I lost the desire to party. I don’t want to go out. I’ve been out. I don’t want to be out.

Is this a funk? Am I in burnout mode? Am I a homebody now?

The older I get, the more I want to do exactly what I want to do. And I’m happy at home. I love my house, I love my reading couch, I love my family and watching The Flash with Logan. Everything I love is at home, why would I want to leave?

I’ll go out when I’m good and ready.

For now, I think I’ll work on being ok where I am. At home.

Well FOK you too!

I’m a sports mom again!

My kids’ sports are in full swing, or kick, or tackle because my kids don’t swing anything in their sports.

I have 3 kids, which means I won’t make it to all the sporting events. Last Saturday, I went to my daughter’s soccer game. My 5 year old HATES going to soccer games and would rather be at big bro’s football game… but he had to go with mom this time.

Because he makes it his life’s mission to not watch even one second of soccer, Riley decided he’d bring something required a lot of Mommy-attention: a preschool workbook. And! Because he knows I love when he learns, he got my attention.

We sounded out words like r-r-rug and m-m-mop together as I taught him about letter sounds, while also making sure I didn’t miss the moments when Anya got the ball (all other soccer is boring unless your kid has the ball).

Next came fog. F-f-o… whoa! Anya’s got the ball there she—


Riley mistook the G sound for a K and enthusiastically yelled what sounded like an expletive during what I would describe as the quietest moment in sports history. You could here a pin drop, and you heard “FOK!” as plain as day. What followed was the most boisterous laughter ever heard at a sporting event.

Red-faced I explained to Riley that it was “fog” and the parents were laughing at something else (I have a sensitive kid).

Some of the nicer parents came up after the game and told me to make sure to read him something a little less profane next time.

There goes Riley’s favorite bedtime story, “Go the Fuck to Sleep.”

What’s with cheesy detective fiction sex scenes?

I’m an avid reader. I enjoy both print and digital… and audio (which I definitely consider as reading, even though I’m listening). Mostly, I listen to self-help books, like most other women her in their 30s. I don’t know what we’re looking for, but we won’t stop even when we find it.

Occasionally when I’m knee deep in self-importance or self-loathing, I need a break. And oftentimes, I reach for some sort of light-hearted fiction.

This time, a detective fiction. While mildly cheesy, these types of books keep my interest because they are easy to digest and can suspend my disbelief… with one very major exception: the sex scenes.

Why? Just why do they have to be soooo overly pornographic. Real sex isn’t like that! Even movie sex isn’t like that. Why must cheesy book sex be like that? When I’m sighing and rolling my eyes, it’s not believable.

For instance, can we stop claiming that virgins have orgasms their first time. It doesn’t happen. It’s never happened, since the beginning of time. I don’t believe you and you lost me. (talking to you, Grey books.)

Second, grown women don’t walk around in a “teddy” alone, in their apartments for no apparent reason. It’s uncomfortable. It’s a wonder women wear them at all since we got the right to vote.

Those are all the examples I can think of for now. Let this be a message to fiction authors everywhere. When it comes to writing about sex, do more research. They say it’s better to write what you know. (smirk)

And we call them weeds

Why are certain flowers, trees, and plants called weeds and others aren’t? I admire my mint and sedum spreading voraciously and without abandon in my newly-planted, otherwise cleanly-weeded flower bed…. and yet, I pull those little sunflower-looking things because I was told “Oh get rid of that! It’s a weed!”

My friend told me I needed to dig out these Elm trees that voluntarily seeded near my house. “Oh, goodness, get rid of those weeds!”

But I like the little sunflowers. And the weed trees are nearly taller than my house at this point and I don’t mind the shade. And I especially don’t mind avoiding the arduous labor that goes along with digging up a weed tree.

As I walk along the path around our neighborhood, I notice purple, and white, and yellow little buds everywhere. Some look like blueberries, some look like sunflowers, some look like foxgloves, beautiful, untamed. My 4-year-old Riley asks me to take a picture of the pretty yellow ones. He doesn’t think they’re weeds.

Ralph Waldo Emerson is famously credited with describing a weed as “a plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.”

What a metaphor for nearly everything in life! People are weeds, animals are weeds, books are weeds and yes, Netflix Originals are weeds.

If we don’t take the time to meet, and discover, and research, and experience, everything will always be weeds. If I look at the world like Riley looks at weeds, maybe I’ll be a little more open-minded.

Except when it comes to crabgrass. Crabgrass was, is and always will be a weed.

You’re the asshole

Someone cuts me off in traffic.
A-hole! (I don't know why I censor this word when I'm alone in my car.)

The coffee at work has a drop left and the last person didn't start a new pot.
What an a-hole!

People talking, meeting and joking behind my desk all hours of the work day.
Shut it, a-holes! I'm trying to work.

Good morning? Good morning! Stop telling me Good Morning!

I don't want to talk to you. I don't want a hug. I don't want a fist bump. I'm here to work!
Annoying a-holes.

"If you run into an asshole in the morning, you ran into an asshole. If you run into assholes all day, you're the asshole."
-Raylan Givens

This is a great reminder on perspective. That morning a-hole can impact my entire day and leave me with a horribly bad attitude. It makes me into an a-hole. If I let it roll, and move on. Those people who WANT to talk to me are no longer annoying a-holes, they are caring friends. (Sometimes caring friends need to know when to shut up, but that def doesn't make them a-holes.)

Me to Jimmy Johns employee: I'd like mayo on that slim.
Anonymous Jimmy Johns employee: It's procedure to not put sauces on these sandwiches.
Me to JJ employee: But, can you just do it? I mean, you have mayo back there, right?
Anon JJ employee: Well, no that's against our policy. I can give you mayo packets
Me to JJ employee: Policies and procedures aside, I have two hungry, messy little boys in my nice clean car and mayo packets will wreak havoc back there. They can barely open them! So I'll be opening 4-5 mayo packets while driving.
Anon JJ employee: I'm sorry ma'am that's all I can do.
Me: *pulls up to window*
Anon JJ employee: Here you go ma'am, we made sure to give you lots of mayo… Packets.

What a bunch of a-holes.

Lake life

Since I moved out to the country (or as Riley says it: crunchy), life seems different out here. I live in a neighborhood so it's not total seclusion but it's close enough. Far away. Peaceful and quiet. The only traffic I hear comes from the lake (this morning it was hot air balloons). There's a reason people retire here.

Driving 10 minutes to the nearest town is now called "Going to town" and we try to consolidate our trips. Life is different out here.

Now that I'm a country girl (for a about 2 months), I HATE going to town.

No thanks.



Yes, even for coffee.

Once you find your happy place, why would you leave? It makes no sense.

If only I could bring my work to me.