Proud

It’s 7:50 on a Tuesday night and I’m getting nervous. We’ve finished the dinner dishes and my husband is back in the kitchen after taking out the trash and the recycling. He’s warning me that it’s getting chilly and the meteorologists are probably right about a frost tonight. I nod my head and murmur appropriate responses, but my eye is drawn to the clock. 7:53.

I try not to let him know the extent of my addiction, but the truth is I am a “Biggest Loser” junkie. There -- it’s out. Every week I hear those lyrics, “What have you done today to make you feel proud?” and I well up like a fool.

I know. I know. The whole production has been manipulated to suck me in. It begins with those humiliating before pictures that I guess are meant to shock us (how can they be that big), reassure us (well at least I’m not that big) and warn us (but you will be that big unless you put down this box of ho-hos). Next we see glimpses of dangerously grueling workouts complete with sweat, temper, and tears. I envision a team of medics standing around the perimeter of the gym holding defibrillation paddles just in case. We watch as they make phone calls to loving families they’ve left behind and break down in front of millions of people. There is no sugarcoating. This work is hard, hard, hard. Who would subject themselves to it?

But we’re so glad they do. We get to test drive the victory without the pain. (The treadmill is here in the room with me; it is dusty.) Mixed up in the doubt and insecurity, there’s a little hint of steel. They’ve hit rock bottom and it’s now or never. And the dream is so ridiculously ambitious it seems outrageous that an Everyman should even attempt it, let alone believe in it.

That’s why we watch of course. If the most unlikely heroes can beat the odds, we know there’s hope for us too. As the show winds down to its conclusion the trainer says “make impossible your favorite word.” The crowd roars. A new winner is crowned, and as the confetti falls down on her mega-watt smile, the theme song kicks in and I wipe the tears from my face. Wouldn’t it feel good today to be that proud?

Too Many Answers, Not Enough Questions

One of the things that women do better than men is to carefully analyze an issue before taking rash action. We huddle together around coffee shop tables, discussing the nuances of a problem from every possible angle, including facts as well as feelings; careful to give every person in the group the opportunity to provide the wisdom of any personal experience she may have on the subject. Or as men like to say, we talk too much.

It seems to me that the world is overflowing with information. Some of it can be useful in practical ways, like searches on Google and Wikipedia. And I don’t argue that we need to tune in enough to keep up with current events taking place around us. But thanks to hundreds of cable channels and round the clock programming, we have become accustomed to a stream of mindless prattle. I wonder if we really need dozens of reality shows that allow a glimpse of what someone else is thinking all the time. I think my life would be just as meaningful if I didn’t know how Snoop Dogg raises his children. I don’t think I need any more useless answers in my life. What we really need are a few good questions, like “Why don’t you just turn it off?”


So after two and a half hours of soul-searching with my girlfriends in comfy, overstuffed club chairs fueled by cups of decaf mocha latte, my friend finally asks, “Well – what are you going to DO about it?” There is a pause in the conversation while everyone stares at me intently. This is unchartered territory. Choices, decisions, action, and responsibility all swirl around my head like thoughts in a cartoon strip balloon. “Do? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” I lift my head, adjust my shoulders, and stand up tall. “I’m going to get another latte.”

Do You Mind Turning 50?

“Do you mind turning 50?” she asked.

The irony of this question was simply delicious. I was sitting in the chair while my talented young hair stylist applied color to the roots of my hair. I had mentioned a milestone birthday that was fast approaching. We’re doing this little touchup every four weeks now in an attempt to keep the inevitable from taking hold. It’s not that I mind gray hair. I just mind MY gray hair. I have a shock of silver that sticks up from the crown of my head, making me look like Pepe Le Pew’s love child.

“Do you mind turning 50?”

I’d never lingered on my age before. My teens and twenties were mostly spent wishing I were older so I could get on with things. The thirties and forties went by in a happy blur of marriage, babies, diapers, bottles, then dance lessons, softball, band competitions and graduations. I even squeezed in a college degree, and a brief entrance into and departure from the job market.

“Do you mind turning 50?”

Not long ago my mom sent me a birthday present -- a subscription to More magazine. Have you seen it? There’s always some extraordinary 50-something woman on the cover looking very sleek, powerful, sexy, wealthy, and filled with passion about this new phase in her life. The accompanying article is always very reassuring about how this could be you too. Personally, I have my doubts that their lives are always so glamorous. Where is the issue with the cover girl sitting on the sofa on a Monday night in a chocolate cake induced haze watching trash television she would never in a million years have permitted her children to watch? I’d like to see someone fess up to that “passion” for once.

“Do you mind turning 50?”

I feel like a slalom skier who put everything into getting down the hill. Barreling along with joy, fear, excitement, panic, delight, and an absolute certainty that this is where she was meant to go. Now I’ve screeched to a halt at the bottom of the mountain and it’s cold, clear, and quiet. I look back up at the mountain and wonder. Do I have the energy and desire to head up and try another trail? Or do I just want to coast over to the lodge for some cocoa and a snooze?

“Do you mind turning 50?”

Sweet Tea

I like living in the South. Although I wasn’t born here, I have spent most of my life in the South, and it suits me just fine. In spite of the affects of globalization and the presence of look-alike shopping malls, things are different here in a lot of ways. Take iced tea for example. Sweet tea is a staple of southern living; we take it seriously. During a college commencement address I attended, the displaced valedictorian made the mistake of saying that after four years at this fine southern institution, she still didn’t “get” sweet tea. The room fell quiet with the same shocked hush as if she had publicly insulted her momma. We don’t do that here either.

So I have grown comfortable with some of the quirks unique to Southerners. Our trademark drawls and generous hospitality set us apart. We use language differently here. In other parts of the country the word “nice” is a simple adjective. In the South we understand that it is a call to arms and we have been taught to be nice at all times. Nice people offer to baby-sit and carpool. They prepare casseroles for church gatherings on a moment’s notice. We gather with them at committee meetings that occur with amazing frequency at inconvenient times in order to accomplish ambitious goals set by fervent idealists. Nice people are defined by action and sacrifice, perhaps reflecting Confederate roots. We raise being nice to an art form.

So when someone asked me recently if I would be nice enough to help out with a particularly unpleasant task, I neither doubted the amount of free time I would forfeit nor how much my reputation as a nice girl would suffer if I said no.

Fortunately I had a large pitcher of sweet tea standing by to soften the blow.

I Do Not Like My Dogs

We have three dogs. I do not like them. On another day I will tell you they are clever and entertaining and they make me laugh all the time. This is not that day. At this moment I do not like them at all.

I am on my knees scrubbing the carpet. Before I could start scrubbing I had to scrape up big globs of disgusting green matter that all three of them expelled more or less simultaneously. Would you like to know what that looked like? Me neither.

“It’s the chlorophyll,” my husband explained. His role is this drama is to corral the dogs so that they do not eat the regurgitated grassy mess. They sense my mood and stay away from me. Why do dogs do this? Why did we do this to ourselves?

Our friends smiled sagely several years ago when we began to accumulate these pests at the same pace our children grew up and left home. I know they thought we were crazy. They were right. At a time when we could choose to downsize, simplify, and lighten up, we instead acquired hairy, barky, up-chucky nuisances.

I have just about finished cleaning up. I make a mental note to purchase more carpet cleaner tomorrow and ironically, more dog food. I feel a gentle nudge at my arm. He is testing the waters. He knows I won’t stay angry long, and with the instinct dogs have, he can tell I may be ready to forgive. I absentmindedly rub his head and he erupts in joyous tail wagging. I do not like my dogs today, but they love me.

And So We Begin

Welcome to my blog! Ever notice how the big stuff in life happens when you least expect it? If you don't pause to think about it, it slips away. So pull up a chair with me on the curb and let's watch the parade go by.