Category Archives: Body

Cinderelly, Cinderelly, All I Hear Is Cinderelly

I have a problem. Well, okay, more than one (obviously), but one of the biggest problems I have is giving away too much. I thought I learned my lesson, but apparently I am a serial giver. And I am also a doer because it takes more energy for me to bitch than do. There are dishes in the sink, so I do them. There is a trash avalanche about to happen, so I rectify it. There is a light bulb blown, so I change it. There is a dead dog, so I bury it (well,  attempted…long story). Whatever needs doing, I do it because it is there to get done and these people I live with have terrible initiative. Sure! Let’s be hoarders! Said no one…ever.

I do not know how not to do. My mother is a flitter, too. She flits from one end of the house to the other—sorta like a humming bird. I don’t even know if she owns pajamas or if she just sleeps in her clothes. My dad, he’s a doer too, but there are levels to his doing. He is cutting grass, doing man stuff to cars, wood, machines, whatever. When his man stuff is over with, he parks it unless he’s hungry or thirsty. Meanwhile, at opposite ends of the house, the flitter is buzzing about. Honestly, I think my dad sometimes just finds stuff to do because all of her buzzing, but then he gives up because he knows she can do this all night.

I have become a flitter, only less gracefully. My mom manages to do it while popping chocolate kisses in her mouth like it is the easiest thing in the world. Me? I run around like a mad woman: boobs popping out, one shoe on, hair everywhere, ashy everything. I am dusty, sooty Cinderella.

On average, I get about a good three to five hours of sleep a day. If I manage to get five hours it is because I fall asleep in the bathroom (yes, on the toilet–don’t judge). I am up at 3 or 4 a.m. and I don’t touch the bed (or pajamas) until well after midnight. I am working, driving, doing dishes, cooking dinner, washing clothes, washing tiny humans, feeding tiny humans and walking flea ridden dogs—amongst other things. I do take blame for some of the load. I put it on my shoulders, sure. Running around like a banshee pointing fingers and giving directions is just not my thing. Instead, I explode.

I cannot remember what triggered me exactly. I think it was the folded up clothes I neatly placed on The Boy’s bed. Something about him sleeping, my eye bags begging for rest and the house being library silent sent me over the edge. I told Young Gun all about my Cinderelly thoughts and soot filled despair. I. Was. Tired. As far as I was concerned, all I needed was a tank of gas and a pair of undies and I was out the door. I quit dis bish. For months and months and months I have been hauling a pretty hefty load with little help (and I was pregnant for most of them I might add). I was holding onto everyone’s feelings, best interests and chores, while good ol’ Cinderelly was being ignored. Young Gun reminded me of the problem: I stopped putting myself first.

“If you don’t take care of you, everything stops,” he said. He also apologized for letting me take point on the whole thing.

It will take some time to get back into the swing of doing for me first, but I can do it. I need it. I am going to take the time to inventory everything around me and figure out what fits best in my life. Whatever does not fit or whatever causes me more aggrevation than not, I’m cutting it.

This is exciting! It is exactly what I need–a plan (teehee).

~SM

 

26 Point 2: Chicago Bound

It has taken me a minute to actually write this down. It has actually taken a moment for it to sink in (which it still hasn’t just yet). On October 11, 2015 I will be running (or crawling…whatever) 26.2 miles through Chicago (or as The Boy likes to say Chiraq). I get butterflies just thinking about it.

I applied for the Chicago Marathon lottery on a whim. Who ever really gets picked for that anyway? Well, obviously people do or else there wouldn’t be a race, but you know what I mean: I would never get picked for that anyway. But…I did.

Because I got picked (Brooklyn did too btw), I certainly cannot turn it down. Why would anyone do that? It is the Chicago Marathon after all. From what I heard it is a great first marathon, it is a beautiful run and it’s Chicago. I have never been there. I get to experience something new.

So, I paid for the registration, bought a plane ticket, booked a hotel and started marathon training via Nike+ on Tuesday. Will I make it? I dunno. I’m damn sure gonna try though. Why not? Besides, I also have the Rock n’ Roll Savannah Marathon in November and the Peachtree in July so I have to start seriously training anyway. Might as well throw another race on the barbee.

Hi, I am Sadie, and I am running the 2015 Chicago Marathon. Yes…on purpose. Yes that is 26.2 miles. Yes…I think I am a little crazy 😛

~SM

PTRR: New Found Independence Like A Motherf***er

I have probably told this story 90 million times, but for those who do not know I was pretty fat (293 lbs to be exact) for my height and I needed to get rid of it. I had tried everything on this side of the sun and figured the only thing that would get me moving in the right direction was to challenge myself with something way outside of Zone Comfort. So…I did. I decided to run.

I got picked for the Peachtree Road Race that year. I trained. I ran. I wobbled for two days. I ran the following year and the year after that. The third year was the most emotional year. During this time The Marriage was in undeniable trouble and my life was coming apart at the seems. That year, I ran the entire 6.2 miles and Cardiac Hill (killer hill at mile 3). I ran to the finish line with Kay who pushed us and when I crossed I broke down. If I could have laid in the road and wept I would have. I was happy because I had beat myself and won, yet I was sad because I knew that at that moment everything had changed. The Spirit never lies.

The next year I didn’t get in and I didn’t really care to run either. I was sad and angry and I did not have the energy, nor the respect, for the process of running the Peachtree. But oh what a difference a year makes. This year I am celebrating my new found independence the only way I know how. Running. Running my race.

When the email came through congratulating me on making it in, I leaped out of bed and squealed with joy. I get to celebrate independent Me from where it all began. I get to do this not to prove someone wrong or to lose myself. I get to do this on my terms, for my reasons and be present for it all. When I cross the finish line this year, I cannot guarantee I won’t break down again, but I can be sure of one thing: nothing will be the same.  I can’t wait to see the amazing things in store.

It is cool how Life works. It is even more astounding how the Universe rises up to meet you where you stand. This phase of my life is about celebration and enjoyment and pacing and exploring. I cannot possibly see tipping my hat to this phase in a more fun, liberating way.

~SM

Going Crutchless

Remember that whole spiel on being focused? Well, so far I have been, especially with my health. Understanding the many facets of health helps a person make good decisions about what they are willing to allow into their space. I decided that poisoning my mind and body was not at all a good decision. When forced with making a hard choice, people often say ‘pick your poison’. Well, it is safe to say I picked several and one of which I have put down.

I am not sure when it happened. I think it was the day I stood in the booze isle of Kroger and saw my fave bottle of wine as addiction rather than a relaxing evening. Alcoholic, no, I don’t believe I can claim that title, but I could very easily see myself fitting the description in a few more years at the seemingly innocent rate I was going.

Some people are born with addictive personalities (imo) and I am one of those some people. Mostly due to emotional issues (which I am happy to announce I have less of these days), but also due to genetics. I clearly saw a path to self-destruction in a way that would not end well for anyone.

Of course, that does not mean I cannot enjoy an occasional drink now and then, but it does mean that I cannot enjoy it frequently. It was a necessary crutch for the time and space I was living, but not now. Said crutch is no longer needed.

I am focused on having a better life, a better body, and a better mind. Those things are essential to happiness. I crave happiness much more than I crave voluntarily poisoning my body. It is sort of strange how things and views change in what seems like an instant. Sort of miraculous to actually witness it happening to you for you. God is certainly good–all of the time.

~SM

Warning! Warning! Undies Are Rolling Down Yo’ Belly

Picture it: Black leggings, black knee high leather boots, black sweater, make-up on, lips glossed….undies rolling. It has happened to me plenty of times. I look fab and feel fab only to have my underwear slowly roll down my belly and slip to a stop under the gut. Can you say mood ruin-er?

This, ladies, is a warning. Your undies are saying “warning! warning! your ass is getting fat!” Any time your undergarments start oozing out flesh or wedging in uncomfy places or rolling down your gut, this is a warning that you are, indeed, getting fatter. So…here…I will admit that I am getting fatter.

I have been training for the Tri for a few of months. I cannot say I can actually complete it with out dying, but I can say my body is more than ready for better nutrition. Young Gun threw down the weight loss gauntlet a few weeks ago and he’s already getting slimmer (in the waist anyway–and currently I hate him so hard right now). Over the past few days I have laid on Mommy’s couch eating cake for breakfast and cookies for lunch. I am deathly afraid of stepping on that scale, but I have got to put my too-small-for-me big girl panties on and hop to it.

No more games (yes…I have muttered those words before). No more excuses (yup…those too). No more slipping and getting lazy (mmhm…this too). Not only do I have a triathlon to finish training for, but I also have a marathon to train for and a friggin weight loss challenge with a young cat to complete. I have no more room for failure. Besides…I am sick of rolling up my underwear.

I will do what I have to do. Eat what I have to eat. Run what I have to run. Lift what I have to lift. I will get to wherever my body wants to take me. The pressure I feel is good pressure. I’m not worried. I am, however, a little annoyed that Young Gun is trying to beat me. There is no way I can let him win…him or my underwear…

~SM 

Getting My Shit Together

I have got to get my shit together. I finally snapped out of the cloud of ambiguity and now I am slapping myself for not planning accordingly. There are several items on the List of To Do’s for 2015. Normally, I do not engage in the whole new year’s resolution thing, but I am afraid I will have to give it the ol’ college try (only better than I actually did in college…sigh).

I do not plan on revealing everything on the List of To Do’s here because I am still working on the whole transparency/vulnerability thing (ok…there’s one for the List), but I will reveal two of the most important for (mostly) selfish reasons: accountability.

Numero Uno: I gotta get this fat off of my body. I have been complaining about this forever and the older I get the more I want it gone. Young Gun challenged me to a weight loss duel. I probably should not have taken the challenge, however, I am a sucker for competition. Dude is 11 years younger than me with strength and reflexes like Superman. I, on the other hand, have the strength and reflexes of an old fat cat. Never the less, I took him up on his challenge and now I am adding another ticking clock to my already crowded shelf of ticking time bombs (Half Iron Man 2015, Marathon 2015…should I bother naming more craziness???). The goal: Reach 175lbs by June 30th. Doable, right? You’d think so considering I should know how to do this shit already but, err, uh…my brain/body is revolting.

Numero Dos: I gotta get my finances under control. Luckily, I do not have much debt–hardly any really–but the little I do have, I want it gone. I want to be able to sign on the dotted line in 2020 for the Beach House and pay cash. I want to be able to support the kids financially while they are in college so they don’t pick up the bad habit of being 18 with credit cards. I want to be able to start the Business and the Foundation. Shoot, I want to use my passport before it expires naked! I don’t make much but living takes everything I have. I need to operate on a budget and stick with it, no matter what.

Those are some grown up, important goals, right? I think so, too. Life is what it is, we all know that, but we have to strive to live our best lives or else it will be wasted. My best life is being fit, both physically and financially. Guess I’d better get to workin’ on that. I can’t keep letting life pass me by and I can’t keep living in this fog of numb. I gotta get my ish together–it’s about time. ;P

~SM

The (Parental) Hair Debate

I have always been against people telling me what to do with my hair. It’s. Just. Hair. It’s hair! Cut it and it will grow back. Color it and it will grow out. Shave it and it will come back. Braid it and they can come out. Hair is hair is hair. It’s hair. So when the Ex and I had a debate about the Girl’s hair last night, I could not help but to get a little pissed.

First things first, I have never been a parent before. Second things second, I have never been a divorced parent before. I am flying by the seat of my pants and have been doing so for the last 14 years. So far, the children are not (a) thieves, (b) murderers, (c) gangsters (d) whores (e) rapists and/or (f) on Maury with any of the above. Of course they lack more to be desired, but they are teenagers. Spoiled teenagers with a large side of attitude and ungratefulness, but that can be easily fixed (ask the Boy who I wrestle to the ground and show who’s boss when it is needed). All of that being said, there is something to this parenting game I have learned over this 14 year stint: allow expression.

I am a free spirit and I parent sorta accordingly. You want to wear stripes and polka dots with monkey slippers? Go for it. You want to paint your room and draw on the walls? Have at it. I. Don’t. Care. Express yourself in the safest, most benign manner, and it can save the world from frustrated angry individuals (imo). Of course there are somethings I fight: sagging pants, odd body piercings, skank wear, certain music, R-rated movies, and personal bubble popping. Other than that, life is a coloring book with blank pictures–I encourage coloring outside the lines. The Ex obviously feels differently.

The Girl wanted to get her hair done, and I obliged. I preferred her in an afro, but she preferred herself in some sort of relaxed style. Fine. Your hair. Not mine. This time she asked if she could get it colored. I obliged. The Girl ended up with beautiful burgundy red highlights. Instead of him gushing over her hair, boosting her self-esteem, he proceeded to debate with me over her hair being colored. “She’s 12!” He says. “She doesn’t need color in her hair. I am her father and I have a say in something that big. Blah blah blah.” Is it that big of a deal, really?

Hair, clothes, nail polish, art work, tattoos even–is all an extension of the person and their need for expression. Everything has a limit and maturity date. The Girl has suffered quite a bit at the hands of adults and mother nature. She has had her home sold, her family changed, major surgery, and puberty knocking at her door in a 12 month span. The least I can do, as her mother/supporter/cheerleader, is allow her to test life and move outside of the lines…just a little bit. He had a point. She is 12. Which, for me, is all the more reason to allow her to express herself safely. She is an artist at heart–always has been–why not allow her to move within that? If you made it to the end of this long post, riddle me this: Was I wrong for allowing her to do it? Was I wrong for not telling him? Should her hair be a joint adult decision? I am curious to know.

~SM

Today I AM: Detoxing

Today I AM detoxing. There is debate as to whether detoxes are necessary. Some experts say it isn’t and some say it is ok to reset your clock every now and then. I think, whether you are for or against detoxing, we can all agree on one thing: If you let too much junk in, you are eventually going to pay the ultimate price–your peace.

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I ate 6 added pounds worth of crap. My belly is bloated, I feel icky, I have low energy, and my body just overall hates me right now–and with good reason. The peaceful balance had been up-ended. I stuffed her full of food. So, this morning on the way to work, I decided to commit to a (2) day juice detox. Just juice for (2) whole days (ugh). I can’t say for certain (right now at this very carb cranky moment) that I feel all that cleansed, but I know in the end I will.

Sometimes, you have to stop yourself, take inventory, and clean house. It could mean deafening the outside world for a bit. It could mean keeping your purse closed for a minute. It could mean swearing off dating for a second. It could mean being silent and listening for a long while. Or it could simply mean drinking juice for (2) straight….days (ugh).  But no matter the reason for the detox, it is always a good idea every once and a while. Re-up. Re-load. Reset. And (for no other reason than not looking 6 months pregnant) I plan to do just that today. My stomach is growling, I think I actually saw my fingers as chicken tenders, and my bladder is about to burst but it is all worth it. I have peace knowing I loved myself enough to clean house.

~SM

Crazy Is And Crazy Does….Literally

We have discussed Brooklyn and her many, many ridiculously crazy ideas. We have also discussed how I manage to suck my own stupid self in to her many, many ridiculously crazy ideas. This particular idea might not be extremely crazy (unlike some of the other ones she has presented), but to me it is just insane enough to have me shook.

Running. I love it. The other day I was in need of some free thought space and I strapped on my tennis shoes and high-tailed it out of the office. I pounded the treadmill until my body hurt. It is abuse, I am almost positive. Running is my way of escape. It is what brings the world back into focus. When I run, I am free….but…err…that run lasts about 45 minutes and on a good day that freedom equals 3 miles. Never, ever in a million years did I think that freedom would equal 26.2 miles on purpose.

Yes, I said it. 26.2 miles. No, that is not a typo. That number represents the amount of miles my size 10’s will travel in November 2015. Even typing it is giving me gas (or perhaps it is just the morning coffee talking). What the hell did I just do??? Am I nuts?! Yea, I would say so.

I am already training for the Iron Man 70.3 in September 2015 (I am pretty sure I won’t make the May 2015 race) so I suppose I could just add extra umph to accommodate for the 26.2 in November. The extra work is not what is catching me in the gassy throws of fear–it is the actual task of completing the race. Tattoo my face? Let’s get it. Sky dive? Hell yes! Lay down in a bed of snakes? Sure, why not. Rely on my 35 (well…36 at race time) year old body to carry _____ pounds for 7-8 constant, pavement pounding hours? Yea, no, I am certainly not feeling that one.

What is done is done. I suppose I can’t or won’t spend my time going down the long list of worries spinning around in my head. I will just focus on getting it done. I will focus on staying healthy so I can make it through. I will focus on the positive aspects of going balls to the wall crazy with Crazy (aka Brooklyn). Not everyone can pull that kind of challenge off. Not every 252 lb woman can push her body and her spirit to complete that particular task. Not everyone can do crazy….but crazy is and crazy does.

~SM

Sex and The Naked Vagina

Brooklyn and I were having our regular girly, whiny text session one Sunday evening when the subject of sex and the holidays came up. It was inevitable I suppose. I’m alone. She’s alone. Its cuffing season and it’s cold. The whining about cuddling up in front of a fire or tv or movie screen with some one of the opposite sex was about to come up eventually. And….so was sex.

When you are married, sex is never an issue unless he/she is repulsive, there are multiple children, or he/she is broken somehow. When you are single, things get tricky. When do you have sex? And who do you have sex with? And what the hell do you do with your vagina?! (Note: I am a virgin, so this does not apply to me, but it applies for those people who are not 35 year old virgins)

Steve Harvey says 90 days at least. But what if he is extremely hot and (or) you are completely drunk? What if it’s winter time and you are lonely? What if he buys you lunch? What if just a nice guy holding the door open for you at the dry cleaner? What if you are both fat and flawed? Is it ok then?

And then there is the vagina. The perfect line on the subject comes from Scandal when Mellie tells Fitz that she “gave up waxing and it’s like 1976 down there”. Just like our legs and underarms in the winter (when we can hide behind tights/pants/sweaters), when there’s no Action Jackson happening the vagina gets a little vacay too…right? So you decide it’s time to Action Jackson with the door-holder-opener guy at the dry cleaner. What do you do with your vacationing vagina? Do you strip it clean? Do you bedazzle it? Do you make furry designs? And (a little off subject) do the wax people see your whole jay? I don’t even like my o.b. down there poking around let alone some perky spa lady.

Once you finally decide to Action Jackson with the dry cleaner guy and show your sparkly jay off, what do you wear? Do you go all Fredericks of Hollywood or nerdy night gown? Does he go to your place or his?

As you can clearly see, I have no answers…just questions (being a virgin n all)…and when Brooklyn and I were trying to sort through the fray, we both ended up with a headache. It’s too confusing to figure out and it’s too clumsy of a thing to iron out in the moment. I threw my hands up in the air and informed her that it was all just too much trouble. Eat pie instead–it won’t call you later or bug you to death.

~SM