Forget About It

Last weekend, I was in the car with my husband, sister and teenage daughter. We were on our way to a fancy horse show "awards banquet" (read: sweaty riders, jug wine, burgers and hot dogs) at a hunt club. 

Carole King's "Tapestry" came on the radio and I reached over and turned it up.

"I love this song," I said. "I think this album might have been the second grownup album I ever bought. End of sixth grade; after "Good-bye Yellow Brick Road."

My husband laughed. "You have an amazing memory," he said.

"Not really," I assured him. "Right now I'm struggling in the 'What did I come into this room for?' department." 

You see, my daughter may be the high school senior, but I'm the one having "senior moments."

My husband admires my memory; my daughter, on the other hand, not so much. "Yeah, I know. You told me that," is a fairly frequent response from her, usually coupled with an appropriate eye roll. Sometimes I refrain from sharing some piece of news or other because chances are pretty good I already have.

And I'd like my daughter to remember me with some modicum of respect (and a lot less eye rolling).

A yoga teacher once told me that I would be less forgetful, less frazzled and less likely to break my foot (that's actually how the discussion started) if I resolved to do one thing at a time. 

Just. One. 

Not easy. If I'm leaving my third floor office to get a second cup of coffee in our first floor kitchen, I invariably bring down my mobile phone, dirty breakfast dishes, outgoing mail and stacks of paper to be recycled. This makes me feel efficient. It also leads to tripping. And, while it seems counter-intuitive, trying to remember everything results in forgetting something — sometimes the original thing I started out to do. The rest of my family can attest to this ...

"What did I do with my coffee cup?"

"Where is my phone?"

"Have you seen my glasses?"

I certainly understand my yogini's advice, but it isn't really in my character to follow it. Still, there are lots of tricks that feel more natural to me. For example, I send myself reminder emails. I record mini memos to myself on my phone. I use sticky notes. I put objects up on my dashboard that don't belong there. I keep a datebook. I make lists. Lots and lots of lists.

And, perhaps most important, I've learned to cut myself slack.

This morning, I had to pick someone up at Bradley Airport in Hartford. Ever the multi-tasker, I planned my drive so that I could sit in the airport parking lot and participate in a conference call for 45 minutes before her flight arrived. The only problem is that I was on automatic pilot (a close cousin to short-term memory loss) and ended up at Brainard Airport. Fortunately, I figured out my mistake (there were no terminals, no passenger carriers). Fortunately, my iPhone has a wonderful little feature called a GPS.

Unfortunately, I spent my 45 minute conference call racing up 91 North to the place I should have gone in the first place.

But, all's well that ends well. I was a mere ten minutes late and everything worked out.

And, let's face it, in a week or so, I probably won't remember my misadventure anyway.

Or where I put my car keys.
 
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.      

Real Women, Real Workouts

When I first moved to Boston back in 1985, I was religious about going to the gym. As soon as I landed my first "real job," as a copywriter for a major cable company, I joined a women's workout club. It was conveniently located halfway between my apartment and my office. Every single weekday morning (and many Saturdays too), I took aerobics. Those were the days when we wore suspender leotards, unitards with crop tops and even leg warmers. And, yes, there was some day-glow going down as well. At 7:15 every morning, we were there, determined to "make it burn."

The locker room presented a daily scene just as dated as the gym. After class, we showered and blow dried our hair (picture Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, pre-haircut). Most of us worked in offices nearby and we all wore those little skirt and jacket suits, some with silky bow ties, and walked out in white athletic shoes, changing into pumps once we got to work.

Yikes!

Fast forward some 30 years. These days, I belong to a local — and co-ed — YMCA. It's a wonderful facility, thanks mainly to donations from two extremely high net worth neighbors. There are about 60 group exercise classes to choose from every week. In a perfect world, I'd go to yoga Monday, Wednesday and Friday; and to Zumba Tuesday, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays.

Of course, it's not a perfect world.

Today, for example, we're having our second snowstorm in as many weeks. They're anticipating another 12 inches on top of the 28 we already have. Even if the Y were open (and I don't know that it is), I'm not driving in this. No how, no way.

Weather isn't the only impediment either. Between kids and clients and cars and conference calls, I often have conflicts that keep me from shaking my booty (or downward dogging, depending on the day). I figure that if I get there 4 times a week I'm doing pretty well.

I've also gotten over how I look while I'm there.

Some of the younger women must spend half their paychecks on workout wear. Lululemon yoga pants start at $88 and can run more than $100. (My teenage daughter once asked for a pair and I reminded her that she doesn't workout.) Myself, I'm perfectly happy in my Target specials, with an old tee shirt on top. And if I'm wearing a sports bra, no one's going to know about it but me. That tee shirt ain't coming off.

I do marvel at the, shall we say "firmer" bodies next to mine (especially in the jam-packed class on Saturday mornings). I wonder if they even know how remarkable they are. Or do they only see their nearly invisible flaws when they look in the mirror, like we all did? Regardless, I refuse to be intimidated. I'm not 23 anymore and let's just say there's more of me to love than there used to be. But, it isn't a competition. I'm there (when I'm actually there) for me.

That's why I love the TV commercial my BFF recently sent me. (She, btw, also remains a dedicated gym goer now that we're in our fifth fabulous decade.) The spot was created by Sports England to help women overcome "worries about being judged for being the wrong size, not fit enough and not skilled enough."

It's called "This Girl Can" and you can watch it here. 

My favorite line? "I jiggle therefore I am." Yep, pretty much the state of things. On this end. These days.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

One Thing At A Time

In his youth, my husband waited tables for many years at diverse fine dining establishments. (He was also once the "Wharf Rat," wearing a fuzzy life-sized rodent costume in honor of a seaside restaurant's concept cocktail — but that's another story.) When we go out for dinner, it drives him nuts if a member of the waitstaff doesn't work efficiently. For example, if he or she is carrying a pitcher of water to someone else's table, passing by your half-empty glasses along the way. Or if they come over when you've finished eating, ask if you'd like coffee or dessert, then leave with your new order in hand but without any of your finished plates.

I never worked at a restaurant, but I did sell shoes all through college and after hours to supplement my first job in publishing (because the salary they were paying made it very clear that they only wanted to work with young people who had trust funds). The same concept of efficient traffic applied there as well. If I was going back into the stock room for a pair of red suede boots, I should pick up the pile of discarded high-heeled pumps and strappy sandals on my way.

Despite years of yoga, I still try to do more than one thing at a time — often with alarming consequences. My office is on the top floor of a nearly 200-year-old house. The stairs are steep, winding and uneven. When I need a coffee refill, I'm never content to simply carry my mug downstairs. Oh no, that would be too easy and shockingly inefficient. Instead, I grab the cup, my empty yogurt container and spoon, the outgoing mail, rough drafts to be recycled, and my cell phone. This leaves no free hand to hold the stair rail. 

Suffice it to say, I don't need yet another broken foot.

Nevertheless, fractured metatarsals aside, I'm not satisfied unless I'm accomplishing as much as possible. People like me typically point with pride to such obsessive and foolish behavior as "multitasking."

Of course, my teenage daughter and her generation have brought the concept of multitasking to a whole new level. When she heads up to her room after dinner to do homework, there's a lot more going on than one might think. Yes, she has her colossal AP U.S. History textbook open, notebook next to it, pen at the ready (only 24 pages of notes tonight, no worries). But, she also has her laptop running. She's uploading a video to Vimeo, streaming iTunes and emailing a teacher. Meanwhile, her iPhone is also in use. She's participating in multiple group texts, reviewing another teacher's PowerPoint slides, taking and posting study selfies, and playing Trivia Crack.

My best friend has three children several years older than mine. (Two are in med school and one is pursuing a PhD in nursing — underachievers all.) She told me that it took her youngest much longer to finish homework than the other two. The reason being that by the time the youngest was in high school, the kids had smart phones and access to all of the life-enhancing apps I've outlined above.

The idea of simply sitting in one place and studying for an hour or two (or four) is absolutely alien now. So I wonder are we raising a whole generation of people with attention-deficit disorder? Or are we witnessing the rise of a race of super efficient multitaskers extraordinaire?

And, if so, how will we pay for all those broken feet?

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

Bad Mood Mom

My daughter has been going through the "terrible tweens" for some time now. (In fact, it feels as though we came here directly from the "terrible twos." Do not pass go; do not collect $200.) She is often testy, sour, looking at the world as a glass half-empty. And, most of the time, I just let her be that way. 


Oh sure, I try to help her put things in perspective ...


"You don't really hate school," I tell her.
"Your hair doesn't really look that bad," I tell her.
"Our rules about your iPhone aren't really so unfair," I tell her.


Now, however, I have something else to tell her. "Watch out, kiddo, because mommy's in a bad mood!"


As a mother and a wife and a business owner and an association board member and a writer and a sister, friend and daughter, it's part of my job to be optimistic and capable and responsible. Right? Not today.


I'm in a bad mood!


Despite my best Monty Pythonish efforts to "always look on the bright side of life," there comes a day when nothing is going to make me feel better. Today's the day. I'm in a bad mood.

It started when the frrrrrrrrkin' alarm clock went off at 6:00 am. I was in the middle of a surreal dream that somehow melded the sets from Gone With the Wind, the singing and dancing of Glee and the shoes from Sex and the City. I was definitely supposed to be Scarlet O'Hara, but I think I was about to become the President of France too. I'm not sure. And, there was this contest going on that was kinda like The Hunger Games but sorta like The Voice. It may sound over-the-top, but I was enjoying it. Until I wasn't anymore. Now, I'm in a bad mood.


It was the same old, same old getting my daughter ready for school. She was her usual friendly, affectionate self ... NOT. Most mornings, I let her surliness roll right off me, but this morning, I took it to heart. The last straw was catching her try to sneak her cell phone up to the bathroom when she went to brush her teeth. So, I was still in a bad mood.


As soon as she was out the door, I went for a walk. It was wet and grey, but — "supposedly" — the rain was south of us. "Supposedly," we wouldn't get any until late-morning. "Supposedly?" Yeah, right. Exactly two miles from my house (that would be exactly half of my one-hour walk and exactly the farthest distance from home), the heavens opened. I returned home, wet and (you guessed it) in a bad mood.


'Figured I might as well get my mind off of it by diving into work. And, how wonderful! It was only 8:30 and there were already 47 emails waiting for me. Fires to put out, last-minute changes, layouts to proofread, misunderstandings, requests for proposals. Plenty to keep me busy, but my bad mood will remain the same. 


At lunchtime, I'll go to yoga. However, after years of mood-mellowing asanas, I now have to worry about someone I think of as ... Amazonian Yogini. Yes, there's a new woman in my yoga class and no matter how zen I try to be about it, she bugs the crap out of me. She is at least 6 foot two inches, and weighs about 125 pounds. No exaggeration. If she was on America's Next Top Model, Tyra would kick her off because she's too tall and too thin. She's very young and she's very pretty. None of this is her fault, of course; it's beyond her control. What is in her control, though, is her decision to do her own thing no matter what the teacher and the rest of the class are doing. So, for example, if I'm feeling a little too proud of my crow pose, all I have to do is glance over at Amazonian Yogini for a big bite of humble. She's already moved through that posture, into peacock. (If you're not familiar with these, you can Google them. The hunched over posture? That's me. The elegant gravity-defying one? That's her.) Buddha teaches us, "Do not overrate what you have received, nor envy others. He who envies others does not obtain peace of mind." N'amaste, but being shown up in yoga does not make a bad mood any better.


As per usual, my 90 minutes of yoga will result in at least 90 minutes of frantically catching up on everything that went down while I was away from my desk. (Have I mentioned, my bad mood?)


But wait, there's more. I can also look forward to leaving work early so I can drive my daughter to a dressage clinic. A dressage clinic is when you pay extra fees on top of the already astronomical costs of keeping a horse so you can watch a renowned dressage expert instruct your daughter on how to move incredibly precisely and incredibly slowly around the ring. Meanwhile, you sip lousy coffee and stress about all the things you should be doing. I can already predict that I will be in a bad mood.


Once home, there will be lots of requests for homework help and likely leftovers for dinner. I've already watched everything I dvr'd earlier in the week and I'm reading a book that came highly recommended but is, I'm sorry to report, highly disappointing. It is doubtful that any of these evening options will alleviate my bad mood.


Okay, I give up. I am in a bad mood and that makes me a rotten moody mother.


Wait-a-minute though, I think once in a while I'm entitled. I'm going to allow myself this one 24-hour period of growling, scowling, pissed-off 'tude. Then I'll try to be in a good mood tomorrow.


After all, tomorrow is another day.

Yoga Mamma

Like many women of a certain age and situation, I heart yoga.

Twelve years ago, when I started my practice, I wanted to change my body. I imagined a better me. Long, lean, not muscular per se but strong in the way that a white birch stands erect yet can move whether with a light breeze or hurricane gale.

I wanted yoga arms and a yoga torso.

I ended up with yoga feet.

My feet are wider than they were and my toes are flat bulbs like the toes you would find on one of those little translucent day-glo gecko lizards in Hawaii. The lizard's toes help it climb up walls where it can chirp all night while tired tourists try to sleep. My toes, in theory, should make it easier to stand in tree or dancer or other one-legged balance postures. Yeah, in theory.

I began my life as a yogini with a series of Power Yoga videotapes by yoga's preeminent and pony-tailed stud Rodney Yee. I would do a tape each morning before showering and waking my toddler daughter, getting her off to preschool and driving into Boston for work. It wasn't until I owned my own agency that I was able to devote time to actual classes with living, breathing, talking yoga instructors. (Not that owning a company meant I had more free time. Quelle joke, mon ami! It was just that with a home office, I suddenly had the flexibility to work at 5:00 in the morning or until 10:00 or 11:00 or 12:00 at night. Taking a couple of hours midday for a class became a great de-stresser and something to look forward to.)

Initially, I had two instructors with very different styles. One taught a high-energy, fast-paced, power yoga class in which I was encouraged to "Engage your thigh muscles!" "Push down through your hands!" "Be strong!" Sheer will power (and our benevolent drill sergeant) enabled us to reach higher, twist farther and balance longer than we thought possible.

The other was an expert in Ananda Yoga, a gentle approach that uses affirmations tied to each posture. So, not only was I moving and flowing through peaceful poses, I was reassuring myself that "Right, left and all around me, life's harmonies are mine." And that, "Calmness radiates through every fiber of my being." And, my personal favorite, "I rise joyfully to meet each new opportunity."

Sometimes we would chant. Sometimes, the instructor would read to us from the teachings of Swami Kriyananda. I know this all sounds new-agey and sort of silly, but the entire practice was actually very spiritual. Unfortunately, the very spiritual instructor moved to very spiritual Missouri.

But no need to panic! There are as many yoga classes in an upscale American suburb as there are lotus blossoms emerging from the mud. And this particular mother, in her quest for centeredness, has tried many of them. But not all. Not, I confess, the infamous "hot yoga." Having fallen into an early and particularly symptomatic menopause, I carry my own little Bikram studio around with me wherever I go. A 90-minute hot flash is not my idea of a good time.

Let's see ... there was the class in which ropes bolted into the walls and ceiling were used to support our weight as we assumed flying postures. Yoga in any form is very much about self-discovery. What I discovered in this class is that I am emotionally incapable of letting go enough to hang from a rope.

Then, there was the time that the yoga instructor, a very very old but very very flexible gentleman, introduced sound effects to our practice. Have you ever noticed that an inordinate number of postures are named for animals? Well, I never thought of pigeon pose in quite the same way after folding over my bent knee and cooing.

I had one yoga teacher who apparently confused the yogic principle of non-violence with knee-surgery-needed. I limped for nearly a week after one of her classes.

Another yoga teacher spent the 75-minute class wowing us with her pretzel-like contortions and stories about her natural childbirth, which — to add insult to injury — had only taken place three weeks earlier.

But despite the inevitable sideshow attractions, I've kept at it. I do it for myself mostly, but I truly believe that I am better able to stay calm in the stormy seas that circle around me as a wife, a businesswoman, and especially as the mother of a tempestuous tween. And, every once in a while, I have a moment that is truly transcendent.

One yogi began his class with the assertion that "If it hurts, it isn't yoga." I felt a shining light dawn. It was as if the heavens had opened and a choir of Buddhist angels had descended singing the "Hallelujah Chorus" in Sanskrit. More recently, my newest yoga mentor finished a particularly wonderful class with several minutes in the traditional corpse or resting pose: Savasana. Before sitting back up, she had us turn onto our sides, with our knees bent in a relaxed fetal position. She explained in one of those wonderful yoga teacher voices, "This is who you are. This is how you came into this world, in total bliss. You are here for a while and when your work is done, you will return to this." I found this really comforting and have replayed her words many times since.

We are all here to work (although sometimes, as mothers, it feels like we're working longer and harder and with less appreciation than anyone else). So, with that my friend, the divine in me honors the divine in you.

N'amaste.