humor

Spike my Egg Nog… Please

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Tis the season for beautiful twinkle lights and fancily-wrapped presents… A time to celebrate the joy of giving and count one’s blessings whilst surrrounded by those we hold dear. Yet for many people… Tis the Season of Overcommitment. Overcommitment of time. Overcommitment of money. Overcommitment of energy. Overcommitment of worry and resources.

Years ago, for me, this used to be (sing it with me, you know the tune) … The Most Stre-ess-ful Time of the Year… They’ll be much over-charging and customers barging for the Greatest Deal… Yes the most Stre-ess-ful Time of the Year!

I know it doesn’t exactly rhyme, but I think you get the idea.

In two words: It sucked. There were cards to be sent… Shopping to be done… Pageants to rehearse… Concerts and live nativities and office parties and gatherings with friends and gatherings with family to attend… Obscene amounts of food and wine and chocolate followed by more obscene amounts of food and wine and chocolate to be consumed… and before I knew it I didn’t know what was buldging more… The bags under my eyes, my muffin top over my favorite pair of jeans or my Visa envelope come January.

I am now on a personal mission—you might say—to restore the joy and peace that is, by the way, SUPPOSED to be the purpose of the season in the first place by ridding myself of the commitments, obsessions and stresses that typically accompany holiday-related things.

I don’t send cards. My friends and family don’t need to hear me paint a far-prettier-than-reality picture of my life by reading some fluffed-up letter full of superlatives and exclamation points.

I set limits on gifts and I stick to them. And when in doubt about what to give to my seven (COUNT THEM… S-E-V-E-N) nieces and nephews… money is always a safe bet — and an amount of money that I can actually afford as well.

I don’t do pageants. Someone else can stay up until midnight every night for the three weeks leading up to Christmas and sing the solo. I’m done. I much prefer the sleep. I might attend the pageant… if I feel like it.

I choose carefully the events that I commit to. At 36, I am beginning to understand my physical and mental limits when it comes to the amount of myself that I have to “spread around.” If I feel too thinly spread. I just say no.

The food, wine and chocolate… OK… THOSE are OK. They are called “coping mechanisms” and that’s why I’ve learned to keep a larger size of jeans in the closet. That can be our little secret. Let’s just call it Christmas Grace, shall we?

Please don’t misunderstand. I am not a scrooge or anti-holiday. I do find infinite joy in lounging on the couch and staring at the twinkle lights on the tree late at night while watching Cousin Eddie slurp egg nog from a moose cup in his black dickie / white sweater combo on National Lampoons Christmas Vacation…

I do find infinite peace in closing my eyes during the Christmas Eve candlelight service while the soloist (who isn’t me) sings my favorite Christmas Hymn, Oh Holy Night…

And I absolutely find infinite enjoyment in watching my nieces and nephews glow as they show me their loot on Christmas morning with all the excitement they can possibly muster after only four hours of sleep.

But just in case you DO see me at a party or pageant or family gathering this holiday season, please do me one solid favor… and spike my drink already. Trust me, it’s really best for all of us.

Me… Naughty?

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Last December I came home to find a red plaque hanging on my backdoor. It had 4 simple words on it, presumably for Santa. It read: I have been naughty. And I knew right away who the culprit was… it was my dad. He is famous for finding these unique little items that no one has ever seen and then leaving them in surprise places for you to discover.

For example… a few nights earlier… at nearly 11 p.m., I discovered a hobby horse at the top of the ladder up to my loft and it scared the shit out of me! Hobby horses are a joke between my father and me that goes back to elementary school… but that’s another story for another day. Anyway… this hobby horse was just sitting there… silently centered in an obviously very carefully chosen location. It felt just like the sort of thing a killer would leave to let you know he’s there… right before he leaps out of hiding and murders you.

I know, I know… I watch too many movies.

But back to the “naughty” thing… I honestly don’t know where he is coming from telling Santa I’ve been a naughty girl. I mean honestly, I think I am just a misunderstood, passionate person with a unique zest for life who requires a healthy amount of “me” time and who also happens to have a bit of a preoccupation with the macabre.

Dear friends, read the following and tell me…

Is It Wrong To…

1. feel like sleeping until noon everyday and then seriously entertain the idea of doing absolutely nothing after that?

2. expect that radio stations ought to play music instead of combing through the minutia of pervy Herman Cain’s sexcapades as well as the cognitive integrity / mental stability of each of the Republican Party candidates for the entirety of my 20 minute commute into work?

3. yell obscenities (with the windows up of course) or honk the horn at the driver in front of me who doesn’t use his/her turn signal, drives under the legal speed limit, cuts me off, or just doesn’t follow the rules of the road in general?

4. drive 10 MPH in front of someone who has been tailgating me for the last 15 minutes when they can’t pass me because of oncoming traffic and then floor it when they are able to pass me? Oh… and to thoroughly ENJOY this while I am doing it? I mean… absolutely, totally and completely DELIGHT IN IT to the point of drunken giddiness?

5. find joy in feeding the dog peanut butter just so I can watch her try for over an hour to get it all off of the roof of her mouth?

6. fantasize about taking an ice-pick to all of those inflatable Christmas lawn decorations? You know… to every last one of them that I see? Or after I’m finished unleashing my misguided torrent of rage on all of those unsuspecting Santas and Rudolphs… then to consider driving around and actively searching for more in which to slay? Or should I say: sleigh? Get it?

7. continuously assault you, the reader, with bad puns purely for my own enjoyment and simply because I can?

8. wish for a winter storm SO severe, and SO widespread that it knocks out power to everything within a 50-mile radius, making the roads impassable and thus causing everyone to stay inside for days and days with nothing else to do but sleep, read and play UNO, Monopoly, Yahtzee or Scrabble? Or did I mention sleep?

9. insist… when playing Monopoly… on being the banker in order to eventually cheat everyone, dominate the entire game and ultimately win? You know, like bankers do in real life?

10. text message a last-minute decline of attendance AND my sincerest apologies for not making it to the Christmas party / family gathering / function where everyone was expecting me by pulling a “Marcia Brady” and saying that “something suddenly came up” when in actuality I just didn’t “feel” like going because truthfully, I would much rather be outside slaying inflatable Christmas lawn decorations?

See, I don’t particularly think there is anything odd, strange, “twisted,” “sadistic,” “demented” or “naughty” about any of those things… but then again… maybe that’s just me.

Nevertheless… I guess I will find out in less than one month whether or not Santa agrees.

Roll Patrol

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It’s a Thanksgiving tradition everywhere. Everyone in the family coming together to share in a great feast featuring such culinary delights as turkey, stuffing, candied yams, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. And of course there are the additional items that make the meal complete like the salads, buttered rolls and other sweet treats.

In many families, such as my own, the responsibility of providing all of the food is a shared one. Someone (usually the hostess) provides the bird and stuffing and others do their individual share to contribute to the cause with their “specialty.” My sister’s, for example, is green bean casserole. Hers is hands-down the best so she provides that dish year after year, among other things. My mother brings the candied yams and usually a seven-layer salad… sometimes a dessert as well.

I’m not certain where all of the other food comes from… like the mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, cranberry sauce, deviled eggs, garnishes and pumpkin pie. I only know that it doesn’t come from me. I am—99% of the time—relegated to roll patrol. When I inquire as to the item or items I might contribute to said smorgasbord, I am always told by my sister, mother or cousins in a very soothing tone: “Oh… That’s OK Joanna. I think we’ve got it all covered. But, I’ll tell ya what… You can bring the rolls!” and their voices slide up an octave as they deliver this news… probably relieved to have thought of something I can actually provide that poses little risk to the continued gastric integrity of themselves or others.

Ah the rolls. Now that’s a prominent role one longs to fill in the grand scheme of things (my apologies for the bad bun… I mean pun). For everyone knows that the roll bearer is usually some sorry sap that is either A. Poor as a church mouse. Or B. Good for nothing when it comes to the kitchen… Or C. Has been totally overlooked in the planning of the event for any number of reasons… Or D. Is still considered a “child” by their family because they are unmarried with no children.

In my case it is neither A or C. It is firmly BOTH B and D. I am not ashamed to admit that I am… shall we say… culinarily challenged. Neither am I ashamed of the fact that I have borne zero offspring. I just find it interesting from a sociological standpoint. Like marriage and children is equal to having wicked-good skills when it comes to cooking. I can tell you with great confidence that I DO know how to cook things (beyond boiling water). Though most of the time, I choose not to. What do I need to cook for?

Truth be told, I did imagine myself at this age, with a husband and a couple of rug rats in tow, carrying a warm, covered dish to the gathering complete with seasonal oven mitts on both hands. And although I definitely never thought I’d still be the roll bearer at age 36… It sure makes for one hell of a quick and easy shopping trip.

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone! Watch for tumbling turkeys on those tootsies at 5 a.m. when you arise to turn on the oven. And don’t forget to take the bag of “stuff” out of the bird before you slide it in to cook it. Even a roll bearer like me knows that.

Anyone Else Hear That Buzzing Sound?

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I’ve been a little swamped lately so I hope you’ll forgive me for posting something I wrote a few summers ago when I first moved into my “new-to-me-but-very-old” house and discovered I had roommates… of the buzzing, stinging variety. Yep… yellowjacket wasps. And I am DEATHLY afriad of bees or bugs for that matter… especially ones that fly. And buzz. And sting. So, although I feel too busy to breathe right now—or at least fearful of forgetting HOW to breathe—I’d rather post SOMETHING than nothing… so I reached into the archives for this one. My hope is that you will find it as entertaining as I did horrifying… Enjoy. Oh and maybe grab your fly swatter.

Just so you’re aware, and I hope you NEVER have to find out… here is what it’s like to share your home with yellow jacket wasps…

For almost 2 weeks now, every morning, I do the “Walk of Shame” in my pajamas. At day-break, bra-less and with pillow-marks and wild hair, I scurry over to MY house from my parents’ house. I do everything at my house, except SLEEP there. The thought of one of those “creatures-from-depths-of-hell” (as I have grown fond of calling them) crawling on my pillow in the middle of the night creeps the shit out of me! What if I roll over on it, and it stings my cheek, or worse… I accidentally swallow it!?! I shudder even as I type this. I can only imagine what the neighbors must think though… a 34-year-old woman who has her own home, STILL sleeps at mommy and daddy’s every night?!? Talk about having “issues”…

Once inside the enemy’s territory, I sneak around my OWN house, tip-toeing like a cat burglar, with my WMD’s (a fly-swatter and a can of Mega-Freeze hairspray) close at hand. I enter rooms as though arriving at my own previously-anticipated surprise party… You know, because I want to surprise the surprisers that are hiding and laying in wait.

I compulsively throw open doors, blinds and curtains as if this element of surprise gives ME the upper hand against AN INSECT THAT FLIES!! I thoroughly shake out my clothes before getting dressed, I closely examine shoes and slippers before placing my foot inside—lest I squash one of them and my foot swells and it looks like I have elephantitus or some such disfiguring disease. I gingerly lift towels, rags and laundry with my thumb and fore finger in case one of the demon-spawn is hiding there. I’ve learned to RELY on the mirrors to tell me if one is sneaking up on me from behind. I suspect NOWHERE is safe, and I trust nothing.

However, I AM beginning to wonder if I am going about this ALL wrong. Perhaps the yellowjackets and I should maybe consider a less harsh solution like… couples therapy? I mean, me and the hive, could just sit down in a neutral setting, where there is no judgement or preconceived notions about “good” and “bad” and everyone is equal and we can air our grievances in a calm and cool manner. My sister once talked a raccoon into leaving her garage after several weeks, by simply speaking rationally to him, maintaining eye contact, and then leaving the door up that night when she went to bed. Soooo… anything’s possible.

Maybe I should just open up the phone book and find a family therapist who specializes in “unique” problems. I mean, OK… so MAYBE poisoning them with Aqua Net isn’t the right way to go after all, maybe it is a tad harsh. I’m not perfect. Perhaps we just need to learn to live in harmony with one another. You know, respect each other’s space. Bee considerate… and by all means, COMMUNICATE.

OK, it’s settled, I have the yellow pages, and I’m looking for therapists… I think I’ll start with the B’s…

To Be or Not To Be… Carded

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There comes a time in every woman’s life when they just stop asking. And unlike the fantasies we may have entertained when we were 16 or 18, it turns out it really isn’t all that great a feeling.

We spend our under-aged “kitten years” wishing we were old enough to wander casually into a grown-up establishment, brimming with cool confidence, make eyes at the handsome bartender and seductively order something “neat,” “dirty,” “extra dry,” “shaken, not stirred” or “on the rocks” like it’s our job. In other words… we can’t wait to be viewed as independent, mature members of society.

But in reality… when that magical times comes when we CAN wander casually into a grown-up establishment, brimming with cool confidence, make eyes at the handsome bartender and seductively order something “neat,” “dirty,” “extra dry,” “shaken, not stirred” or “on the rocks” like it’s our job… we sit there secretly praying he will ask to see our I.D. In other words…  we hope to be viewed as that long-gone “kitten,” perhaps not even old enough to grace the place with the innocence of our presence.

And the “eyes” we make at him, well… they are one of two varieties… the pleading or the daring. Pleading with him: OH PLEEEEEEZE ask to see my I.D. you know I can’t possibly be older than 21, don’t you? Or daring him NOT to ask, thus threatening his very life on what might happen next. If NOT carded (gulp) we are likely to fling ourselves across the bar, grab his towel and strangle him with it for so much as THINKING we are so obviously “of age” that we aren’t even worth the asking.

The only time… THE ONLY TIME that I DO NOT want to be carded is when I’ve forgotten my I.D. Which is, of course, as Murphy’s Law clearly states… the exact moment the poor bastard will ask. This happened recently after an Ohio State game and Lee was concerned that I would not be permitted anywhere without my I.D. Not because I look that young, but because they were college bars and college bars tend to be ultra cautious. But we played the whole “Guess Who’s More Likely To Let You In Without An I.D. Sociology Game” and chose the right bouncer… and it worked. And I got in. That time.

Had they not let me in, I was going to execute a new strategy where I put my face up REALLY CLOSE to the person making the judgment call that was going to effect the entire rest of my evening and ask them whether or not my crow’s feet would be an acceptable form of identification.

Poor bartenders and bouncers. It must be tough to be them… dealing on a daily basis with women perched ever so precariously on the edge of sanity as we wrestle with this whole getting older thing. But here’s an FYI… I am 36. Yes 36. Fifteen freakin’ years beyond the legal limit, and far from being considered a “kitten” but I still want to be asked if for no other reason than to flatter my ancient ass. For what it’s worth… There’s an additional 20% in it for you if you do.

Me? A Morning Person?

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As many of my regular readers probably already know… I am NOT a morning person. In fact, I am not even really an “awake” person. I love sleep. I adore sleep. I like falling asleep, staying asleep, going back to sleep, talking about sleep, writing about sleep, planning for my next sleep and finding extra time in my schedule for… you guessed it… sleep.

But, you see… I started something this week. It was kind of an accident and now it has snowballed into this whole “morning person” thing. And well, let’s be honest… mornings interfere with sleep… So I have what you might call a bit of a dilemma on my hands.

While trying to make an important deadline for work, I stayed up one night until I just hit the wall. It was only midnight, but I could go no further. So… as much as I HATED the thought of it… I had but one choice. Go to bed right then, set the alarm for an hour and a half earlier and get up and go to the office in the wee hours so as to meet said deadline.

And you know what? I got up, I ate a healthier, low-calorie breakfast, I encountered little traffic on my commute and the time alone at my desk proved to be quite productive. By the time my co-workers began to arrive, my early-morning-I-hate-everyone-and-am-bitter-because-I-am-awake fog had begun to lift. I felt alert and ready to tackle whatever challenges the day had to offer.

However, as with anything worthwhile… there is a price. By 5 p.m., though there was definitely still work to be done, I was done. I could work no more. I was tired and cranky and ready to hit the couch in my favorite baggy t-shirt and sweats. Well, I thought… I guess I’ll get up early again tomorrow and finish up this work before the real day begins.

This time, I went to bed one hour earlier and set the alarm for two hours earlier than usual. I got up, ate the healthy, fiber-packed breakfast, sped to work like a demon, got the best parking spot and finished several projects before anyone else dared darken the doorway.

By today—the third day—co-workers and Facebook friends have begun to wonder what the hell I’m doing up so early. (Like I’m not wondering the same exact thing…) “What are you doing up so early? What are you doing up so early?” everyone keeps asking me. And I tell them that I’ve just been finding the mornings to be a great time to get work done…

Not to mention that (as an aside) I’m secretly hoping the uber-early, super-healthy, low-calorie breakfast of champions combined with multiple cups of coffee may help me shed these unwanted pounds in time to break out my sweater dresses. Because, let’s face it… no amount of Spanx or control-top panty hose is going to hide an extra 10 pounds when it comes to body-hugging knits.

Anyway… back to mornings. So I guess what I’m saying is that there may be hope for me yet. Perhaps I can finally make peace with my alarm clock and stop abusing the snooze button after all. Maybe I can be a morning person! Maybe one day I’ll even get up and do one of the five different yoga DVDs currently collecting dust in a basket by my bed! Or go for a walk in the brisk, morning air… or take up kickboxing again…

But hear this… Morning person or no morning person… Nothing… and NO ONE is going to TOUCH my 12-hours-at-a-time-weekend-sleep-marathons.

The Stupidity of the American Consumer: An All Time Low

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Yesterday I found myself in desperate need of chocolate while on my lunch hour so I stopped in Walgreens to peruse the aisles looking for that certain something that would curb my craving. After careful consideration and deliberation I chose a pack of Rolos and headed for the check out.

There’s always been something I have found infinitely fascinating about the items lining the check out area. They are those last-minute impulse buy items… you know, batteries, lighters, matches, decks of cards, emery boards and toenail clippers… candy, gum, mints, Rolaids, miniature tools, scotch tape, pens and lint removers… chapstick, hand lotion, miniature bottles of Jack Daniels (depending on your state’s laws) and tiny packets of aspirin.

I’ll bet stores make a killing off of these items. If you don’t actually need them right then, you certainly will think that you do immediately upon seeing them. They are practical, every day items that will probably never go to waste. So what’s the harm?

Though it was during this time while casing the cache of goods otherwise known as the Gullible Buyer’s Trap, patiently waiting my turn in line (because only ONE of the THREE cashier lines are actually OPEN — which I’ve decided, by the way, is totally a ploy by upper management to move more of this nickel and dime crap) my eyes fell upon something new!

In the center of all of those must-have trinkets was a little display simply called: “help.” It was colorful and unique with kind of a cool design which is probably why it grabbed my attention in the first place. However, upon closer inspection, I discovered how completely ridiculous this thing actually was. In fact, I found it to be so completely stupid that I laughed out loud as I whipped out my camera to document this odd and asinine find.

Oh yeah… and I knew without a doubt that it would also be the subject of my very next post. Which, as you see, it has become.

The rack held six different color-coded boxes each containing a different product for a different “need” spelled out in very simple letters on a plain white cover. They were (yes, in all lower case lettering—probably because some focus group of imbeciles told them it looked cool): “help I have a headache, ” “help I have a stuffy nose,” “help I can’t sleep,” “help I have allergies,” “help I have a blister” and “help I have an aching body.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Are we really THAT stupid that we either A. Don’t know what the hell to buy for what ails us? Or B. Don’t know how the hell to ASK the pharmacist for a suggestion on what to buy for what ails us?

Listen people, if you don’t know what to buy then you should be talking to a doctor not searching for boxes at the check out counter as though it were some sort of pharmaceutical Magic 8 Ball!

So, I thought that perhaps I could help by offering a bit of advice of my own to assist anyone who feels that THIS is indeed the place to go for medical “help”…

  1. Problem: You have a headache. Solution: You have a hammer in the shed?
  2. Problem: You have a stuffy nose. Solution: Suck it up. It will pass.
  3. Problem: You can’t sleep. Solution: Try a bottle of wine and some Leno. His jokes put me to sleep every time.
  4. Problem: You have allergies. Solution: That hammer still lying around? Seasons will change soon enough.
  5. Problem: You have a blister. Solution: Ever heard of gloves?
  6. Problem: You have an aching body. Solution: Stop doing the thing that makes your body ache.

See how simple that was? And it didn’t even cost you a trip to the store or God forbid — interaction with another human being.

Only the Names Have Changed

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To borrow a line from Jon Bon Jovi: “It’s all the same, only the names have changed…”

This weekend I was back at my old high school to attend a play with which my niece and nephew were both involved. Going back there is always like traveling back in time. Looking around at the familiar speckled floors, weathered wood and red and gray painted cinderblock, I can’t help but remember what it was like to inhabit this space on a daily basis 18 years ago.

In the bathroom at intermission I found myself alone, gazing into an all-too-familiar mirror. The face in the reflection was the same yet different. I squinted at the glass trying to remember what I looked like all those years ago. A million stories have now been written in the laugh lines and worries have a funny way of hiding in the crows feet. If I had known then all that I know now… would my life be any different?

I ducked into a stall and that’s when the real fun began. Reading the graffiti on the walls reminded me that although life has a tendency to rush past us at an alarming pace, much of it stays exactly the same. Though the walls had been painted over and over again—layers of industrial gray paint attempting to hide years and years worth of crude comments, jokes and etchings—the messages still remained.

It was then that my thoughts turned from deep introspection to the much more entertaining realization that there are four kinds of graffiti artists in women’s bathrooms. They are, in no particular order: The Insulter, The Defender, The Editor and The Random Messenger.

The Insulter needs no introduction or explanation. They are the voice of the accuser… The nasty novelist, the crass critic… the bitchy biographer. They pen their dirty, little messages in this place for all to see. Hurtling insults at the speed of a flush.

But Insulters, usually blind with hatred or bent on revenge, tend not to be the sharpest Sharpies in the backpack. And this is usually where the Editor steps in. The Editor feels the need not to correct the sentiment or the morality of the statement being made… but rather the grammar and spelling with which the acrid accusation was crafted.

Inevitably, the Defender WILL step in. Usually a friend of the Insulted… they feel compelled to set the record straight. This might be done by lodging a similar and equally ugly complaint about the Insulter or simply saying something kind about their friend. Sadly, the impotent Defender typically does nothing more than toss additional fuel on the fire.

And the Random Messenger? Let’s not leave them out. For they are a vital, albeit random, part of this primitive femme culture too. They’re the ones responsible for drawing the peace signs and daisies, quoting song lyrics and writing poems. They are the peace keepers. The hippies of high-school toilet hieroglyphics. The members of the why-can’t-we-all-just-get-along crowd. And you gotta love ’em… because they mean well… And they entertain us.

As I left the stall (I know, it seems like I was in there a long time, doesn’t it?) Anyway… as I left the stall I had forgotten about the laugh lines and the haunting memories of days gone by… and I was laughing at the thought of this graffiti and how it hadn’t … in 18 years … changed one bit.

It was then that I ran into a former school mate. We briefly exchanged pleasantries and I remarked about the graffiti and how it is probably exactly the same as it was when we were here. She laughed and said: “Yep. Only the names have changed.”

To which I countered: “I know… According to the third stall… some poor girl named Courtney is the one to call for a good time this year.”

Fun with Words: Cafegymatorium

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It seems that a new cost and space-saving trend has developed in school buildings, and it is called the “Multi-Purpose Room.” This space is usually part auditorium, part cafeteria. It is used for gatherings such as concerts and plays, as well as serving as the lunch room for the kids during the day. The “proper” name for such a room is “Auditeria” or “Cafetorium.” And my former middle school and high school now have one of these rooms in each building.

So popular is this trend in modern scholastic-architecture that it was recently mentioned on an episode of The Simpsons. Lisa Simpson was differentiating a “good” school and a “bad” school, by whether or not the facility had separate auditoriums and cafeterias. She excitedly exclaimed of her new (better) school: “… And the cafeteria and auditorium are actually in separate rooms!!!”

With a mother and father both employed by the schools and six nieces and nephews in the system, I love to tease them about this current Cafegymatorium-Craze. (Technically cafegymatorium is not the correct terminology, but I like to call it “cafegymatorium” because it sounds funnier to me and it annoys them).

In an exchange with my mom this past summer, I had some fun with word-play that prompted a few more potential names for such Multi-Purpose Rooms. How about: Cafegymatoriumeria? Or Cafegymetoriasium? Or Audigymaterianasium?

When my mother finally got fed up with my non-stop harrassment she said: “STOP the madness! I agree that this has gotten totally out of hand! We do have a cafetorium. OR an auditeria, depending on which you think is more important: eating or performing. I know some kids who definitely perform while they are eating. It is amazing to behold.”

My mom’s plea for me to stop led me to wonder (aloud of course): What do you call a kid who performs while he or she is eating? Would they be considered an Eator? Or maybe a Thesbavore? Or perhaps, my personal favorite: a Fooctor?

As of this writing, I have received no official answer on the matter.

Room for Living

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Once upon a time—8 years ago to be exact—I lost about 35 pounds through diet and exercise, landing me at a svelte 100 lbs. Certain I would never again see those 35 pounds, I got rid of ALL of my larger clothes… every last stitch of them. My closet was full of nothing but tiny things to fit my newfound frame.

Fast forward three years… enter a job loss resulting in crushing depression and an inability to keep paying my $55 monthly gym membership… and the 35 pounds came back with a vengeance. When those unwanted pounds returned they brought about 35 more of their friends along for the party. I was the heaviest I’d ever been in my life. And having little money from my minimum wage, substitute job — buying clothes to fit my new fat @$$ was a challenge.

But I had no choice. The job required me to look professional so I had to have a new wardrobe. Little by little and piece by piece I bought back some key items in the larger sizes, but vowed I would get back into those smaller ones as soon as I regained my sanity and sense of self-worth.

Fast-forward another three years toward a satisfying new job in my career field, a supportive, wonderful family and the love of an amazing man and I lost 50 of those pounds again. I’m still not that teensy 100 lbs. but I am healthy for my age and height and I feel amazing by comparison.

For two years I have managed to keep it off. Well, most of it anyway… Save for a few of what I like to call the “fun” pounds. The fun pounds are the little cushion (pardon the pun) that I have decided to give myself without beating myself up or feeling like a failure. As long as I stay within that pre-determined range, I’m OK.

For what exactly are the fun pounds allocated? They are set aside for an 8-day trip up the New England coast where one may choose to eat lobster drenched in drawn butter, varieties of other deep-fried gifts of the sea, maple confections and saltwater taffy every… single… day. They are for summertime ballpark beers, festival food and autumn tailgating fare. They are for fun-size Halloween candy, Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas ham.

Fortunately, this time I did not throw away my larger clothes. Not because I have any intention of going back to Supersized Me, but because Life does happen. The fun happens as well as the stressfulness or unpredictability of everyday life. The curveballs you get thrown so then the ice cream tastes particularly good, the nights you end up working late and pizza is an easy fix or the injuries and illnesses that can wreak havoc on your daily discipline.

And it’s good to know that if the “fun” pounds come back and pay me a brief visit, I don’t have to squeeze into that smaller size and feel like I’m going to rupture my spleen or pop a rogue button. I can slip on my jeans that have a little grace in them… a little forgiveness in the waist, butt and thighs… and I can feel like I actually have some room for living.