Life is funny

When I was in eighth grade I did a short stint in Track and Field with the high school team. Eighth graders were encouraged to participate in high school track, presumably so that their appetites would be whetted for future Track and Field glory. The first day of practice, I was as nervous as you might expect a short skinny white girl with no previous athletic experience taking to the track with giant long-legged high school senior runners to be. Something about lining up with a bunch of other people to run (still) sets my digestive system in motion, if you know what I mean. The very first thing we were asked to do was run two warm up laps, which as it turns out, is half a mile. Which as it also turns out was the farthest distance I had ever run up to that point in my life. After puffing through lap one, I mentally patted myself on the back for my athletic badassery, hocking up a big wad of runner’s mouth goop and spitting it on the ground. (Or at least in the direction of the ground. I was not yet familiar with the tricky aerodynamics of projectile loogies.) “THANK YOU FOR NOT SPITTING ON THE TRACK,” the bullhorn blared in my direction. After which I again mentally patted myself on the back- this time for not shitting my pants in front of the giant square-jawed drill-sergeant track coach and every single guy I might possibly be interested in dating for the next four or five years of my adolescence.

Lap two didn’t go so well, I’m not gonna lie. Around turn one I thought, “This is the farthest that anyone has ever run in the history of mankind. Surely bodies are not meant for this kind of punishment. Why must I be punished so?” And in the straightaway: “My legs! They burn! My lungs! GRAAACKKKK!” And around turn two: “CAN’T. GO. ON. OH. SWEET. DEATH.” And in the final straightaway, there was nothing but blackness and the faint whisper of “Rosebuuuuddd….” I threw myself on the ground with great theatrics after I finished and immediately became fodder for the “DON’T LET ME EVER CATCH ANYONE STOPPING AND LYING DOWN LIKE THAT AFTER A RACE” speech barked out sternly and at high volume by Coach Megaphone. I tried to comfort myself after this public disgrace with the thought that at least I had survived the first ten minutes of practice. I might have to be carried off a stretcher once the actual exercises began, but at least I hadn’t wimped out during warm ups. I mean, geez. And then Coach Megaphone lifted his fearsome bullhorn and bellowed “ALRIGHT, NOW HURRY UP AND FINISH UP THE REST OF THAT EASY MILE SO WE CAN GET STARTED.  AND BY ‘EASY’, I DON’T MEAN GRANDMA-STYLE LIKE YOU RAN THAT FIRST HALF! LET’S MOVE!”

That’s when I realized track and I were going to have a decidedly short-lived relationship.

I think that right now I might be in the worst shape of my thirty-one (and 3/4) years of life. And now that you see what some of those thirty-one years included, you can see how high THAT bar is set. I’m not sure why I’ve let it get to this point – because I have two kids? That’s not going to change any time soon. It’s hot? I can feel Jillian Michaels’ horsey-faced stare from the front of her ass-kicking DVD all the way upstairs in my sister’s room, discrediting THAT as an excuse. (Also, my sister, who has the DVD because she’s actually been using it: in the best shape of her life. Call me crazy, but I have a hunch that there might be a connection there.) I’m looking for a job and therefore feeling low in the self-confidence and motivation departments? True, but also I hear wild tales about these tiny mythical creatures called “Endorphins” that flood your body after exercise and, you know, HELP WITH THAT. I have no time? Well, I just wrote this drivel, which took as much time as doing the 30-Day Shred three times in a row. So. Then. Well. Um. Yeah, that’s all I got.

I don’t have a magical solution for how to propel myself into better habits. But it does seem like putting it out there in black and white is some sort of a start. I’m tired of wasting so many minutes of my day feeling uncomfortable in my clothes and trying to figure out why I’m in such a bad mood as a result. I just have so many other things I could be doing instead. Like getting a job. Or practicing my loogie hocking. I hear with enough lift you can make it to the grass, clearing the track altogether.

While I have thoroughly enjoyed the Rosie and Rachel show we’ve had going on in this joint all week….

R girls in tha hizzouse!!

…I am more than ready to wrap my arms around THIS lanky five and a half year old frame and give it seven days worth of a full-on, grade-A, mamafied hugarounnaneck:

If you need us girls, we’ll be over here at the front door, noses smushed against the glass, eyes strained for a blue car with Florida tags.

I mentioned this on Twitter, but forgot to tell you here that my second column in Ruckus magazine came out a couple of weeks ago. I thought this issue’s cover was pretty rad, what with the roller derbying mamas and the picture of my own kid looking fairly badass in between two gnarly dudes who appear to be quite close to causing him bodily harm. Noah* seems pretty secure with himself though, with his “DON’T MESS WITH THE HEART SHADES, BRO” face in full force. That’s my boy.

Also, if you’re in the Atlanta area, (or even if you’re not) you should mark your calendars for August 26th and 27th and put some serious thought into coming to see some not-so-serious storylines at Sketchworks Industrial Strength Comedy where I’ll be performing with twelve other yokels in the Advanced Group Class Performance.  We’ve been working in collaboration with the Advanced Comedy Writing class to put together a totally original performance that promises to be a belly-lauging, gut-busting, eye-wiping good time. I do not exaggerate – last week my face hurt after class from all the laughing I had done, and that was mostly from one sketch. On second thought, maybe you should check with your doctor before purchasing tickets.

And as if that weren’t enough to make you want to come to the show, I will also tell you that I may or may not be performing in a sketch where I will be required to have an Irish accent. Watching my attempt at that alone is worth the $10. And no, I won’t do it for you real quick when I see you. At least not without a few drinks under my belt.

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*Who comes home TOMORROW!

Original WSS post with explanation here.

WSS collection (or most of it – still catching up on Flickr) here.

Noah hasn’t been gone long (62 hours and ten minutes. Eleven minutes.) and already life has taken on a totally different rhythm. Child maintenance still occupies a lot of my time and energy (and arm strength, and patience, and goodwill, and early morning hours, and, and, and…) but the flow of the day is new and uncharted. Rosie and I are getting more one on one time than we’ve had since she was a newborn, and we’re figuring out how we roll together, just the girls. We share inside jokes and bowls of cereal. We try on shoes, and take them off again. We dance and sing and make up rhymes. We’re working on a secret handshake.

She’s happy with the undivided attention, I think, though the first thing she says when she wakes up from her nap each day is always “Whess NO-wah?” And for someone who has always had a roommate, it’s little harder to get to sleep at night now that she has those four walls all to herself.

Unsurprisingly, the noise level is not much different at all in the house. Rosie is a constant cacophony of sound. If she isn’t talking, she’s singing, and if she isn’t singing, she’s crying, and if she isn’t crying, she’s banging, and if she isn’t banging, she’s jumping. It reminds me that one of Noah’s gifts to us is the ability to hold Rosie’s interest long enough that she will sit with him to read a book or roll a car, busy legs still and crossed. Of course, Noah enjoys a good around-the-dining-table sprint himself, and his being away gives Rosie many excellent opportunities to train for future rounds of the Big Bro Chase and Startle.

This time together, it’s changing us, Rosie and me. We’re easier on each other, we laugh more often, we take trips for ice cream. There is a space for us to settle in together and lay a foundation for all our years ahead.  And while I think Rosie will be beyond excited to see her big brother next week when he returns, in the meantime she’s digging her time in the spotlight, and hoping that tomorrow there will be ice cream, again.