GETT MADD

I just returned from the Celebration of Life Breakfast at MADD's National Conference their 30th Anniversary. The feature presentation was a slide show of photos of children, husbands, wives, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, cousins, uncles, aunts, friends, co-workers, all smiling. All buried.

I couldn't let this moment go by without telling you about the amazing people I've had the honor to meet. I marvel in the courage, tenacity and motivation they have to tackle each day as a victim, survivor or advocate of the impact of drunk driving. I'll throw distracted driving into the mix - because no one should have to lose their life or capacity to live fully because of "LOL" or WTF" or "TTYL" - and certainly not because of a mojito, chardonnay or bud light, or mascara.

I ask God for the grace I do not deserve. I have made poor choices in the past. The culture was different. I am ashamed. I am changed. I am determined. Thirty years ago wrote about Tim Smith, the 4 year old I babysat, who was killed by a drunk driver. He'd be a young man now. Maybe the father of a 4 year old. He counsels me from the right hand of the Father.

I asked God for help last night. He has answered with a painful reminder of the fragility of life and the strength of the human spirit and the bond of human touch. I reach out to you. To say I love you. And whatever you may be struggling with, my prayers are with you. God Bless.

The Kids are Alright - Youth Group Adventures

I attended the wedding of one of "my kids" last night. "My kids" are the teenagers that were in the youth group I was honored to have the opportunity to lead from the mid 90's to the mid 2000's. There must have been more 200 young people that, between 7th and 12th grades, shuffled through the youth area in its requisite basement gym location. So.... when did you guys grow up?

During his toast, the best man cited 2 of our work trips among his best memories of the "groom". I have to admit, I didn't know they threw pennies out of the back of the church van. I'm sure they could tell me a lot of things I didn't know about. Colorado, Maine, South Carolina, West Virginia, New Mexico, Louisiana ... these are the some of the states where we made our mark - built houses, fortified tin roofs, poured foundations, cleared land, leared about tolerance and diversity, sleeping on wrestling mats and in tents and having flat tires on turnpikes.

Do you want to hear the stories you didn't hear about in the all church slide show. My first work trip was Pagaosa Springs Colorado. We chartered a bus instead of the mini van caravan. Being new at this whole thing, I thought I would introduce everyone to my "hip" version of youth ministry through my love of movies. I thought we'd start off with a comedy from my day... a little film about teen hijinx and growing up...

Lesson learned #1, if you haven't seen a movie for awhile, watch it again before showing it to your church youth group on a bus. Animal House may not have been the best choice. I'm sure I worked it into a discussion about morality, pre-marital sex and censorship.

Lesson learned #2 - when you cross the border into Canada, make darned sure they are going to let you back in. On our way to Maine, we stopped at Niagra Falls, and wanted to be able to say we'd been in Canada. We piled into the 15 passenger van and land ho, took a picture under the 'Welcome to Ontario' sign. The US border crossing guard assured us we did not need papers to return. The Canadian crossing guard had other ideas. "This is not just a bridge. It's an international border." became our catch phrase for the trip. Thankfully I did not have to call the pastor back home and ask for bail money.

Lesson learned #3 - There is an Almost Heaven West Virginia, and yes, it is. And it is not a good idea to use oil based paint in a paint fight.

Lesson learned #4 - The Oklahoma City bombing memorial is a somber reminder of hatred fed by fear, rhetoric and ignorance. But leaving something precious to you at the wall will leave a lasting impression of peace and hope for mankind to keep trying.

Lesson learned #5 - Dateline Taos, New Mexico: an unplanned, emotionally charged crisis is an ideal training tool for team building, perserverance and conflict resolution. In short, we were staying at an army barracks that was robbed and vandalized in a horrific manner. With shaken adults, devestated youth and a job half done, do we stay or do we go? Table talk goes from who likes who and the latest tunes to spiritual warfare and truly meaningful discussion of WWJD. They decided that the crime was a desparate act of evil forces, and we would not be moved from our task. I'm quite sure it was a life changing event for most of us. We prayed, we stayed, we built, we kicked satan's ass. And I believe at least one person got a belly button piercing without my knowing. Hey, I can only be so many places at once!

Lesson learned #6 - Dulac Louisiana is hot hot hot. And the tin roofs are hotter hotter hotter. Air conditioning is one of man's most amazing inventions. And people who have nothing will give you everything and not ask for anything in return.

Ohhhhh, I could go on. I could, as they say, write a book. And this doesn't even cover the stuff that happened right here in Illinois, in the church basement, or at East Bay Camp. Each young person that crossed the threshold, holds a place in my heart. I will never forget you and always pray for you. God bless you. And congratulations Jake and Sarah.

Can you go home again?

I grew up in "the west end" of Decatur. That's what we all called it. And still do. "The west end" had a reputation of being where the rich people lived. Which really cracks me up, since I was ANYTHING but. However, there are lots of beautiful old brick houses and as a child I made up all sorts of fantasies about the people who lived in them.

"The west end" comes together on its westest end at Kiwanis Park, the gathering place of all gathering places. Come one, come all, for ball, triangle slides, bondoogle, the stand (candy), ping pong tables (I don't recall ever seeing ping pong being played there), and simply hanging out. The "woods" swallowed the teenagers, and spit them back out, stumbling and blurry-eyed.

The Wonder Years gang had nothin' on "The West End" kids, now nostalgic adults, basking in the memories of our very own wonder years. Places like Kiwanis Park, Fairview Park, the ice rink, the gravel pit, Shoes, Woodrow, The Dog House, The Front Porch, the Bikini tree, were bastions of peace from the real world and I guess I wasn't the only one who found respite there.

West End Decatur is hosting a reunion on August 7 at Kiwanis Park. Do I go? I would love to be there, to observe. But to interact? That scares me for some reason. And I don't know why.

Miss Independent asks for help

I finally asked for help at the gym. After about 10 weeks, mind you, of trying to convince myself I knew what I was doing, I took the machine tour, only to find out I had been doing back and chest machines when I thought I had been doing arm machines. No wonder my neck and shoulders hurt so damn bad! And I thought the arm workout machines were pretty much the same thing as the others, so I skipped them entirely. So much for Michelle Obama arms this summer!

I hate asking for help. With anything. I have to be all 'Miss Independent'. Apparently I've always been that way. I can be stubborn, self-righteous and controlling. All with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. This often works against me. Pride goeth before my fall all the time. "I can eat this cake if I want to, because no one can tell me I can't, because I am my own person and I'll show you!", and so on.

I am not my own best advisor. Self-soothing or rewarding with sugar and starch is not just a monkey, it's a big ugly baboon with a gross red butt. My excuses of being too tired, too hot, blah blah blah to exercise are as melodiously hypnotic as a Brahms lullaby. Oh my gosh, could it be... I am human? I need help? I need support? I can't do it myself?

So many friends (and special props to Kate), have helped me get this far, and I even tho I may resist, I appreciate it more than you will ever know. Thank you. I love you all. Dammit.

SPF 30 my ass!

It's summer 1976. The USA proudly celebrates its 200th birthday, the sacrifices made to form our democracy. But I'm 14 and clueless - I have one thing on my mind. Getting a good tan. Oh sure, it may look like we're just laying around reading magazines. But let me tell you it is WORK, with skeels required. I even took jobs based on how I could improve my tan.... detassling, walking beans, lawn mowing.

My aunt Janie and my friend Sheryl's mom were my mentors. They had raised the bar in tanning with their time commitment and creative tools and processes. My aunt was known to stop time itself for her tanning regimen. Sheryl's mom perfected the foil lined refrigerator box.

Top 10 competencies for a good tanner circa 1976 include:
1. knowing to use only Johnson & Johnson Baby Oil
2. knowing when/how to turn the chair/towel towards the best sun angle
3. knowing when to turn over, a good tanner knows both sides need coverage
4. knowing the best magazines to read (if you are by yourself, you can indulge in Seventeen. which is really your favorite, but if you're in public you'd better be seen reading Glamour or Cosmo.
5. keeping the towel on the chair when you get up or sit down or keep the chair from collapsing.
6. how to unsnap and resnap your bikini top while laying (lying?) on your tummy
7. how to adjust the antena on your transitor radio for the best reception on the AM stations
8. how to free your mind for hours for endless hours of appearing to do nothing
9. if at the pool, how to maneuver slipping into the pool to cool off during adult swim, when all the pesky kids are at the snack bar
10. Never, ever, wear a hat.

Today, I felt 14 again. Launching the new lounger, laying in the sun, listening to, appropriately, songs from summer in the 70's. Lots of new job aids have been created since 1976; hair clips, bottled water, cd players with radios, US magazine, and something called SPF. Searching through the house for lotion, I found SPF30 and SPF 8. I'm older, more mature, with aging skin - so of course I should opt for the SPF 30. NOT! For this one, priceless, perfect Friday afternoon, I'm a renegade, and I shout "SPF 30 my ass!" It was glorious. Carry on my wayward SUN!

Slowwwwwly losing it.

Well, I just bought a new pair of jeans 2 sizes smaller than most of my other pants. Not to be confused with "I just bought a new pair of size 2 jeans" - it ain't no Michael Thurmond 6 week body makeover, but it's mine. It's more like the dedicated but not so much she doesn't cheat once in awhile body makeover. I can tell when I told my boyfriend, Rick, that my jeans were 2 sizes smaller, he was thinking "Reeeeeally? - Hmmm, I just don't see it." But he said "Good job hon!" with an enthusiastic smile - God bless him.

I lost my work out partner to busy motherhood duties, so getting myself to the gym as often has been a challenge. However, once I'm there, I get a better workout because I don't talk so much! When I have a bad day at work I still think I deserve a concrete mixer for the drive home. And I can't seem to shake the rule that food day food doesn't have calories. Or that I can't have pizza... because it's Friday afterall and that's what we always have on Friday and it wouldn't be fair to Rick not to have pizza.

So for the next six weeks, I'll continue my behavior modification therapy and trips to the gym. I'll keep dancing with the stars and breaking furniture. I'll keep trying to have either potatoes or bread but not both. Ect. Ect. Ect. I appreciate you all keeping me honest, knowing you are out there helps a lot! Love you!

A Gleek from WAY back

I love Glee. It never fails to stir up old memories. These trips down memory lane are really important to me and so are the people along the road. I don't know if I'm just weird, or if other people have random memories that sustain them - for example, years of playing records in my room by myself or with a friend or in their room. Doing homework. Crying. Daydreaming. Singing. Making up dances. Just laying on the bed. Our rooms. Ahhhhh. With the "Don't Trust Anyone Over 30" sign on the wall.

This started about age 4. Some well worn albums or 45s are Winnie the Pooh, Mary Poppins Soundtrack, Sound of Music Soundtrack, The Partridge Family, Bobby Gentry, Johnny Cash, Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass, Glen Campbell, Roberta Flack (can you tell these were my mom's :-) Cher, Gilbert O'Sullivan, Funny Girl, Funny Lady, Bette Midler, Simon and Garfunkel, Diana Ross, Barry Manilow, Chicago, Olivia Newton John, Elton John's Good Bye Yellow Brick Road, Godspell, Best of Bread side 1, and I rented classical albums from the library. I guess I didn't think they were worth buying! Of course, there are many more.

For someone who can't sing a note - music really helps me expunge emotion, or celebrate life, love and All That Jazz. What helps you?

Our Mothers Themselves

As Mother's Day approaches, let's think about our moms in a completely unique and unconventional light, in a way we may have never have considered them... as people. Women, who were girls, and teenagers, and had diaries and pimples and dreams and aspirations, and talent. Lots of talent. My mom is a wonderful artist, especially with water colors. She is just creative in general, a centerpiece Goddess.... I think she inherited that from her mother. Every season comes with a new centerpiece on the dining room table. And who else would think of a heart shaped meatloaf for Valentine's Day? I've carried on that tradition and have evolved to other shapes, including apples, pumpkins, footballs, sham rocks and stalks of corn.

And my mom is a beautiful woman. I always thought she looked like Elizabeth Taylor in her teenage and young adult years. And she has style, dressed like Jackie Kennedy - before she was Jackie O. Now she's a Chico kind of lady, always with matching cool jewelry that she got at an art fair, not Kohls.

My mom taught me to be an independent thinker, even when all I wanted was for her to "just please tell me what to do!!!!" I don't know if she always appreciates my independent thinking now, but she only has herself to thank! :-)

We make fun of my mom a lot. Let's face it, she's an easy target. But I'm starting to feel guilty about that, because now that she is becoming a real person, it just seems mean. I don't like to be mean. So why have I allowed myself to be mean to the woman who gave me life? Who taught me how to make chocolate chip cookie dough, never mentioning we could bake them, as we rolled it all up in wax paper and threw it into the fridge for anytime snacking? Who gave up many of her own dreams so that my brother and I could follow ours?

So, this Mother's Day, I'm remembering Barbara Sue Boatright Bartison, artist, feminist, non-conformist (still doesn't have a debit card), devoted friend, teacher, and American beauty. Thank you for putting Barbie Sue aside all too many times, so Dana and Mark could be Dana and Mark. We love you!

Ask not for whom the Bell Jar tolls....

I'm having a Sylvia Plath kind of week. Life, seemingly in order, was moving along swimmingly, as planned. And yet, yesterday I was overcome with a profound sadness, a cavernous hole in my heart. Spiraling downward faster than Sarah Palin shot to the top (of what, I'm not sure), my stinkin' thinkin' took my rational neurons hostage. "STOP" said I. I shall not pay thy toll. I gave myself a couple of hours to grieve the earthly state of affairs that tormented me.

Being a sensitive and empathetic gal, I care very deeply about - pretty much everything. And sometimes I'll hear or see something, or get an email that sinks my battleship. Having nurtured a new strength, faith, and resilience, I worked through it. No booze, no chocolate cake, no Best of Bread. Prayer, warm sunshine on my face, and taking action put the wheels back on the bus.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels the weight of the world's troubles. As human beings we are intrinsically connected - compelled by pain, injustice and ignorance to sing out "fools said I you do not know, silence like a cancer grows; hear my words that I may teach you, take my arms that I may reach you" (Paul Simon)

And in the immortal words of poet John Donne, "No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee..." .

Familiarity breeds content.

Not one to argue with Aesop and his fables, but I have a different spin on this one. I'm trying to adopt new eating habits. I'm trying to ch ch ch ch ch..... egads.... change. But I am so familiar with my old ones, they are so comfortable, they make me so.... content. Unfortunately they could be killing me softly (thank you for that one Roberta Flack). I like knowing what I like, where to find it quickly in the store, what utensils and bowls and pans to use, and how it is going to taste. It makes me happy. I can make chocolate chip cookies, instant mashed potatoes and cheese toasties (grilled cheese for those not from Decatur) with my eyes closed. I am quite comfortable with margarine, white flour, velveeta cheese, nestles chocolate chips, and Hungry Jack.

I like the idea of eating clean, healthy, organic, and the impact it will have on my entire being. Heck, I like fruit. I like vegetables. But as inane as it sounds, one of the most difficult parts of moving from idea to action is not being familiar with how to plan, shop, prepare, serve and eat this wonderful food. But I am wandering to the outer corners of the store and into the farmers markets, and I am going to do this unfamiliar thing. And soon this contempt I have for change will be familiar. And that makes me happy.

Less is more

Dana dances with stars on dvd in living room. Hilarity ensues, ceiling fan damaged. Paso Doble will never be the same.

Altered States

Do you remember the 1980 movie "Altered States" with William Hurt. All I remember is the sensory deprivation tank. Based on a novel by Paddy Chayevsky, it is the story of a professor who attempts to explore deep levels of consiousness with this "tank" and hallucinegenic drugs. My guess is the key factor in this experiement is the drug part.

My focus is on sensory deprivation. Sometimes I just want to shut myself off - my mind races; I worry, think, judge, plan, organize, wonder, surmise, dream, and obsess. Yesterday's anniversary of the OK City bombing sent me whirling. As much as I recall the day of the bombing, even greater is the experience of visiting the memorial there with a youth group of high school kids. It is a somber, sad and quiet place. It is far from peaceful. The chain link fence surrounding an empty playground, the chairs placed on the site of the Federal Building, with the names of each person killed, larger chairs for the adults and small ones for the children. The glimmering, shallow, reflection pond with 9:01 at one end and 9:03 at the other - 2 minutes of hell, a lifetime and beyond of agony. The fence with items left by visitors. Becky, a girl in my group, left her favorite necklace - a 15 year old girl... from central IL was so moved by this place that she left her most prized possession as a memorial. There were dolls, items of clothing, band aids, hair clips, we were literally leaving whatever we had on our person to somehow connect with this place and try to replace some of the emptiness with humanity.

I get so overwhelmed with the senseless hatred, fear and ignorance in our world that I can barely function. Who among us is so perfect that we can spend so much time tossing out judgement, rumor, slander and in come cases, execution? Why can't we focus on doing something good, saying something kind, purposefully leading our lives for the betterment of this earth that God has given us? Well, of course, many of us, can and do. But the force of evil is strong - Satan works through men and women in every continent, every faith, every color and every political party. Sometimes his name is Tim.

Cover Girl Nation

For someone who doesn't wear a lot of make up I sure have a lot of mascara. I mean, how many vials of mascara does a girl need? Certainly less than the 15 I own in various purses, desk drawers and glove compartments. I have great lash, BIG great lash, lash blast, and telescopic explosion. That one is supposed to make me look like Penelope Cruz. I'm waiting. And what exactly does one call the container of mascara?

I'm trying to look a little more put together these days. I used to say I didn't care what I looked like or if I wore make-up; that I didn't need paint to be validated as a woman. That is only partially true. I certainly don't see myself as high maintenance, but basically I had just thrown in the towel, raised the white flag, given up... on me. I distinctly remember the first time I felt depressed, so to speak. I was 7, sitting on my bed in my room and was distraught because I thought my thighs were huge. Now, I could have been depressed because it was 1968. That year was a doozy. But the underlying current of melancholy follows me to this day if I let it. It has usurped too much of my time and energy. And it is exhausting to appear to have your shit together. Luckily, I've had angels looking out for me in a variety of ways and in a multitude of forms. They guide me, re-direct me, and occasionally hit me over the head with a 2 x 4.

I don't need make up to validate my beauty, on the inside or the outside. And I could go on and on about the disorted perceptions of beauty thrust upon a girl. Another day for sure. For today, I encourage you to care about you. You and I may never look like Penelope Cruz, but loving ourselves is gorgeous baby!

It's been a long travel day and I'm almost back to the prairie. My wanderlust has been satisfied for awhile and I'm ready to go home. If you've seen "Up in the Air", Vera Fermenga I'm not. She is an astute, organized, chic and savvy traveler. I'm the Un-Vera... clumsy, messy, ruffled, and unabashedly in awe of my surroundings. I don't fly often so I admit I still get a little excited about the experience.

Even as a minimal flyer, I have still managed to adopt a routine that, yes, I had to fiddle with as a "new" woman. Instead of Starbucks caramel mocha latte, and a ciminun crunch coffee cake I got a bottled water and .... wait for it... fruit. Instead of Garrett's popcorn, I got a low fat cone from McDonalds. Instead of a philly cheese steak (back in Philly) I grudgingly ordered soup and salad. I used the work out room (ok only once, but I used it!). And I did not buy once single candy bar the whole time. Does it feel good to make good choices? Not at the time I'm making them, that is for damn sure. But soon, a feeling of "yeah me" self-praise bubbles to the surface, and I feel like throwing my hat up in the air and singing "she's gonna make it after all".

Town and Country

Reporting from Philly - I'm at a conference. Which is a whole other blog on its own! For today, I'd like to share something I'm a little ashamed about and how I taught myself a lesson. We all do this. And an airport is a great place to do this. Noooooooo - not that. Shame on you. I love to observe people... a quick glance at a passer by and I can create a whole backstory for someone. Clever, you may say. What a waste of energy you may think. Judgemental is the word I have chosen.

While purchasing my $10 bottle of tylenol at the airport gift shop on Saturday I overheard a woman asking for a Town and Country Magazine. I'm going to call myself out and admit that my first thought was "Why is this a little scraggly, middle aged (about 60) woman in a ratty t-shirt and jeans, long blonde/gray hair asking for a Town and Country Magazine?" The thought that she was even homeless zipped across my mind.

I couldn't stop thinking about this lady and how I passed judgement so quickly, not just on how she looked, but her choice of reading material. Who was I - Stalin? Sarah Palin? (those letters just flowed together well - talk about your mixed metaphors! :-) So anyway, I've been chiding myself ever since, and am going to refrain from leaping to judgement based on outward appearances.

And I've created a backstory for "Beatrice" - she grew up in Philly in the late 50's and 60's. Her dad was a dock worker and her mom worked at a grocery store. Bea idolized Grace Kelly and many had told her she even looked like Grace. She used to buy movie magazines and Town and Country and pretend she was a starlet just like Grace, with a house on the Mainline. Her parents worked hard and were able to send her to college. She fell in love with Joey, who was going to be a writer ...maybe for Town and Country! But Joey got drafted, and went to Vietnam. Bea found out she was pregnant, and Joey came home in a wheelchair. Bea quit school and worked at the docks to support her family. Their daughter took after her father and became a gifted artist, a photojournalist. Bea never stopped imagining herself in the pages of Town and Country - it was the dream that inspired her to keep going, hoping for a better life for the light of her life, her daughter, Grace.

And don't we all need that dream? What is yours? What did dream about while lying (laying?) on your bed listening to the AM radio on summer nights? Dust it off and love it. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. Reporting from Philly, this is Carly Simon .... I mean, Dana Paulson Spies.

Think!

That's the name of my Spring/Summer 2010 shoe. "Think". They are Austrian. They're along the same line as birkenstocks and I got them at Murry's Shoes, a real live shoe store. Which means they were more expensive than I'd like. But I will wear these shoes day in and day out, and I have finally acquiesed to the fact that if I splurge on anything it should be a good shoe. Ideally 2 shoes. Maybe Maria Von Trapp "thinks".

I'm not a Carrie Bradshaw shoe girl. I'm a "do I have to wear shoes?" girl. I buy a winter pair of shoes and a summer pair of shoes, in either brown or black, with the occasional impulse sandal purchase at TJ Maxx. I marvel at CB shoe girls. Their shoes are cute, stylish, pointy toed, colorful and usually high heeled. Several of my co-workers are enviable shoe girls (you know who you are). Every now and then, when I get in a dress for success mood, I'll wear high heels, but rarely make it thru the day. "Think" says this about their customers "because some people like to swim against the current of anonymous mainstream design." I'm not this big rabble rouser, but I like to think I go against the grain once in awhile, so I think I made a good choice. P.S. The shoe guy told me my tennis shoes were pretty much a piece of you-know-what. I said, "but see how the pink in the shoe matches my shirt - and I'm going to get matching anklets!"

Pedal Faster

That last minute on a cardio machine really sucks doesn't it? 34, 35, 36, 37 - God in HEAVEN CAN THIS THING MOVE ANY SLOWER? The eliptical was my torture machine of choice last night. And it talks to you - pedal faster, pedal slower, pedal forward, pedal backward. Hell I can't tell if I'm going forward or backward in the first place. And I have no idea how to control the speed - there seems to be just one - toofast. Cardio and I are not adapting well to each other.

The nautilus stuff is another story. I actually enjoy that, probably partly because I know how to work it. Yesterday I was surounded by young men between the ages of 18 and 18.5.... who I'm sure were frustrated at having to move the weight marker from 10 back to 1000 when they followed me. But they don't intimidate me. There was a young man on a machine across from me who was staring this blank stare. I tried my best to communicate non-verbally, "hey you smart ass little twit, you may be stronger and younger, but I WILL take you down." Thank you (smile).

Day 2 at the gym

Before I tell you about my 2nd day losing it on the prairie, I need to affirm that while my moniker says "Mom Interrupted", if my kids need me, I'm there! No matter how old they get... but as I have been reminded, I am trying to define myself beyond momdome - and shaking 50-100 pounds of 'ignoring myself, fighting stress with cookie dough, and using being too busy as an excuse to not exercise' momdome is the numero uno objective.

You know how you sometimes say "I'm so fat" and people will say - "you are not!". People don't say that anymore. It stings each and every time. The truth hurts people. I so didn't want to go to the gym without Kate on Tuesday. I am the best rationalizer on earth, so I turned my usual strategy for not doing something inside out, and blasted myself with my own weapon. Self, you need to see what the gym is like at 7 as compared to 5:30. And wasn't I pleasantly surprised to see that there were half as many people there and the ones that were there were twice as old and out of shape as the early birds. I asked for help programming the treadmill and walked to Dancing with the Stars, and ironically, The Biggest Loser. I forgot my water, towel and hairclip, and my alternate headphones don't fit over my glasses, and discovered the side benefit to everyone wearing headphones is that if you fart, no one will hear. Kate is back for Wednesday and she will be less embarrased by me - and that is a step in the right direction!

First day at the gym

Welcome to my first blog! This middle aged prairie girl has made it through some muddy waters and emerged, well, muddy. But happy muddy. With God's help, my youngin's are on their own and I am wondering what to do next. This being my year of 'fiscal and physical' fitness, I thought I'd bring my inner Laura Ingalls Wilder to the party and journal the excitement and self deprecation. Hopefully, my honesty will inspire others to put their vanity on the shelf, take a good look in the mirror and say, "Damn - I can do better than this".

So yesterday was my first day at the gym. Again. Oh how many first days there have been! But I am determined to make this the last first day. I felt like a big doofus as soon as I walked in. Surely everyone else new what they were doing, and looked better doing it. I know it was just my self-conscious paranoia that made me feel like every single person looked at me and thought - OH GOD - who let HER in? I made it past the mirrored walls, thinking.... that cannot be me. I might as well have been standing in a string bikini. After getting past the frustration that I failed to color coordinate my shirt with my new shoes, I looked for my 23 year old daughter, who would be joining me. I have her to thank for getting me in the door. Darn her, she looked so cute. And her shirt didn't match her shoes. But her anklets did! Note to self, get new anklets.

After proceeding to screw up the programming on the recumbant bike, stairclimber and eliptical machine, a spot opened up at the treadmills....with the tvs~ I hopped on and plugged my ear buds in. Dang.... CNN, Fox news and Sports? Please - no more Tiger! Lucky for me the sound didn't work. Not wanting to let on that I didn't know what I was doing, I settled on Two and Half Men with captions and discovered I'm not good at running and reading. I hobbled off to ask the guy at the desk 1) how to put the ear buds in and b) how I could get Bones or Law and Order on the tv. I now know that you do not put the ear buds in the back with the screw hole thing... but right there in front - by the symbol of the head phones! I was making it too complicated - the story of my life. And I can request TNT or USA before I get on board.

So I walked out, sweaty and proud, feeling like I needed Patti LaBelle playing in the background. "I'm feeling good from my head to my shoes. Know where I'm goin and I know what to do. I tied it up my point of view, I've got a new attitude!" Stay tuned for Day 2 of the rest of my life. And thanks for coming along for the ride!