The lengths we will go to

I am about to turn 39. I'm also about to attend my 20th high school reunion.

I can't get too worked up about the birthday but the reunion fills me with a certain level of dread. I was invisible in high school, or felt that way anyway, until my senior year when I finally had a serious boyfriend and a coterie of friends. I was ignored and sometimes ridiculed because I was a straight-arrow, feminist geek, a liberal instead of the mandatory Republican, a quiet, pale, acne-prone dancer with a bad perm instead of the preferred tanned field hockey player with a sheet of straight blond hair.

I am not excited to relieve all those feelings again. But I'm going to be in town anyway, for Thanksgiving at my parents' house, and several friends are attending the reunion, people I really and truly liked then and now. So I will get dressed up and drag my husband for moral, and possibly literal physical, support while I nervously blab about my kids over cocktails. I imagine myself slyly assessing whether everyone looks about as wrinkled as me.

I'm almost 39 and I feel pretty good about how I look. Until I look at a recent photograph or in a mirror.

As a twenty something, I was totally mystified when an older client of mine told me, "When I look in the mirror, I have no idea who the old lady is who's looking back at me."

Now I totally understand what she means.

I can't decide if it's a good or bad sign that I feel so much better about myself before I look in the mirror. When I glance at my reflection, I always, immediately, grimace and pick and criticize.

Is this what we're taught to do as women? To pick our appearances apart into acceptable and unacceptable pieces? How can I teach my daughters NOT to do this?

I want to look in the mirror and feel simple acceptance. I want to feel the same way about myself after I look at a photograph as before. I want to see my lines and bumps as part of the whole, rather than pieces to be assessed and remedied.

Is this even possible?

-------------

I went to the dermatologist a month ago, to finally do something about the acne that's plagued me since E weaned herself over a year ago. It was the first time I'd seen one since before I got pregnant with Z and I was unprepared for the onslaught of suggestions. Botox for the wrinkles in my forehead, if I want to. Topicals for the acne AND the wrinkles, of course. Microdermabrasion, to kick it all off.

I guffawed self-consciously at the suggestion of Botox. But I accepted the prescription for a retinol to address the acne (and, ahem, the wrinkles). And I set up an appointment for microdermabrasion to "kick it all off".

My mom has long held a respectable limit on the lengths she will go to to look youthful. No injections, no surgeries. Topicals are fine. She looks fabulous, much younger than her years, and I've always thought I would emulate her in this way.

"Once you get started with all these procedures, where do you stop?" she rhetorically asks. "At some point, you just have to accept how old you are."

Indeed.

------------

I have a hernia, and an abdominal split, that could be surgically repaired. When I asked a doctor about it, he said it would be considered cosmetic surgery at this point, since it's not painful to me and doesn't yet involve my intestines. But it's possible that it could get bigger, become painful, and he suggested doing it before then, just in case.

"As part of a tummy tuck," he said lightly.

Um.

Did he just suggest this former Pilates instructor should get a tummy tuck? Oh my battered, aching pride.

Whatever you want to call the surgery, I'm not sure I would pay all that money, or undergo general anesthesia, for what is really, truly, essentially cosmetic at this point.

Some days, though, the thought of losing the loose skin around my mid section fills me with a undeniable longing. What would it mean to no longer feel that discomfort of skin folding over itself whenever I buckle my pants? Could I actually wear a two piece bathing suit again in this lifetime?

Would I ever consider undergoing cosmetic surgery, of any kind?

Would you? Where do you draw the line?

I am...

(Inspired by Alli Worthington's "I am... " Project)

I am a mess.

I have said or written or thought that phrase more times than I can count, usually with a tinge of self-hatred and often with the word "such" inserted in there for emphasis.

It is an admission. It is a request for sympathy, empathy, or even - I'LL TAKE IT - pity. It is a preemptive excuse.

It is a blanket with which to cover myself and hide.

But maybe it could be an acceptance. Maybe it could be a non-judgmental fact. Maybe it could be embraced. Maybe it could be a rallying cry.

In mess there is reality.

Honesty.

Children.

Dogs.

Love.

Life.

The truth: there is so much I value more than perfectly clean tidiness.

I AM A MESS!

Flexibility

My friend and I are in the part of the gym reserved for stretching, lying on our backs, right legs in the air. Mine is pointed up at the ceiling, knee straight, hers is in a similar spot but her knee is bent, her leg is shaking, and she is howling.

"You're so flexible! I used to be flexible!" she laments, glancing at me.

I hear this often from friends and I never know how to respond.

I'm not actually that flexible, for a former dancer?

I know, right. I used to be more flexible too?

Thanks?

Mulling my options, I say nothing and chuckle in what I hope is a supportive way but is probably just ambiguous and weird. We breathe together, imagining what our sixteen year old bodies could do, or what we think they used to be able to do, or what we wish they could have done. I close my eyes and fight the urge to push further, instead letting my shoulders drop just a little of their near constant effort.

Next to us is another woman, a girl really, with her ipod dialed up to DEAFEN and one leg up by her ear. I try to keep my eyes on my own mat but inside my head I can't help but enviously imagine, for the millionth time in my life, hip sockets that are carved open, nearly flat like dinner plates, rather than the curved, deep cups that are mine.

I also guiltily imagine her in fifty years, with hearing aids.

----------------

I was sixteen when my hips and knees started to bother me. I was dancing most days of the week, spending hours on pointe. Standing at the barre, forcing my toes out to form a straight line with my feet, I was acutely aware that my body was never meant to do this, even more so than most bodies. My natural turn-out is closer to ninety degrees than the desired one eighty; my knees and ankles twisted and torqued to make it happen, more or less, but I wasn't fooling anyone, least of all my hip sockets.

In college, I took the train down to New York City to see a highly esteemed doctor whose office walls were crowded with a thrilling photo gallery of famous ballerinas and sports figures.

"You're a dancer?" he asked incredulously, looking at my x-rays. "Your hips are built for marathon running, my dear, not dancing."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a ballet dancer anymore, mostly modern now, so...."

"Still. Wow."

"..."

"I'll give you a prescription for physical therapy but at a certain point, your limits are your limits," he shrugged, resignedly handing me a piece of paper.

As I walked down his hallway to leave, this time ignoring the brilliant faces of ballerinas I've admired since I was a little girl, I balled up the paper in my hand. Though I would later carefully smooth it out and send it through the proper channels to get as much help as I could for my poor battered hips, right then I just wanted to squash his words.

Squash them and throw them away.

-------

We are fully into the swing of the school year and it's still study in adjustment. Z is clearly tired by the end of her school day and laments how little time she now has by herself. Every day it seems something brand new and yet completely, exhaustingly old blows up in our faces.

Recently it was suggested to us that we start experimenting with less structure in her home life, giving her a safe space to practice dealing with a world that is unpredictable and chaotic. Messing with her schedule is something we have been loathe to do since she was a small baby and loudly expressed her dislike of change and variety. Most of the time, we eat and sleep and play in timed chunks specifically calibrated to maximize the potential for smooth transitions.

"So she's not fond of change and she's struggling with flexibility and transitions? Hmm.... who's she like?" I was asked.

"I have no idea," I said, smiling cheekily at my obvious lie.

-------------------------

Last week Z woke up sick. From her first wincing swallow, my mind raced ahead to every cancellation that would be necessary in the next few days. My list started with the kids' cancellations and progressed quickly to the total reorganization that my life and personal plans that would need to happen with a sick kid at home for at least a day or two.

It took me a few minutes to realize I was writing a to-do list instead of bringing Z a spoonful of honey and giving her a hug.

I resolved - again - to hug first next time.

------------

My limits are there. They are real. My emotional structure, like my hip structure, feels restricted and compressed most days, frustrating me even as I stretch myself up to its' edges.

I don't fear the wrinkly sagging of old age nearly as much as the deep, entrenching rigidity.

I know it is my job as a parent to help Z accept who she is and reach past what she thinks she's capable of. To teach her that her personal limits are strengths, are weaknesses, are real, are worth accepting, are worth stretching past.

How do we simultaneously teach, and work on ourselves, acceptance and ambition?

I know I will never, ever get my leg up to my ear. I know I will always struggle when my day changes course suddenly.

But that doesn't mean I should ever stop stretching.

My mom took Pr0zac and all I got was this lousy blog post

Today, an essay I wrote over six months ago went up on babble.com. When I wrote it, the admission of my depression was still a new one to me, a recent discovery after a difficult year filled with several of the top stressors one can face. I was not a catatonic, softly weepy sylph like I imagined depressed people would be. I was, in short, a bitch.

Today I don't think about being depressed much, because I'm not. I mean, I DO still have depression, I guess, but having been on this medication for almost a year now, I don't experience the worst of those feelings any more. In fact, after blogging about depression a bunch last winter, I haven't written about it at all since then. Whether it's the magic of Pr0zac or time healing these wounds, depression just hasn't been on my mind. Can I get an AMEN?

Perhaps the biggest surprise to me is that I'm still myself while taking this little pill. I was so worried medication would change my personality in ways I could never recover and it just hasn't, I'm still me. Pr0zac took the edge off of some pretty awful feelings and set free the parts of myself so tramped down by negativity that I couldn't see the forest for all the m-f-ing trees. People told me it was possible to feel lighter, happier, but in the depths of my depression, I wouldn't let myself believe them.

Every time friends and loved ones tried to throw me a life preserver, I was sure they were trying to hit me on the head with a hard, white doughnut.

I have been unbelievably lucky with my medication so far. I'm on a low dose of the very first medication I've ever tried, with side effects that are minor and debatable. I know this is the not the case for many, many people. Reading about the trials of anti-depressant medication over at dooce or finslippy is not for the faint of heart.

In the interest of full disclosure, I do think there have been some effects besides the desired disappearance of my darkest moods. Though I was far from organized perfection, before I started taking Pr0zac, I was perpetually on time, remembered to mail things a week before they were due, kept on top of my kids' whereabouts at all times. Now, it's not unusual for me to be 10 minutes late, to forget to mail birthday cards till the day of the birthday, to let my kids wander just a little further from me. Sometimes this relaxation of vigilance feels foreign, unsafe. Mostly it feels like a long, slow exhale.

I'm also not sleeping as much as I used to, or maybe I'm just waking up more easily, more refreshed and ready to tackle my day. Since I'm no longer plagued by late night insomnia or early morning fantasies of running away, good sleep is easier to come by. At first I was so concerned about my new-found positive energy that I convinced myself that I must be bipolar. Yep, I almost didn't let myself enjoy feeling better.

There's been a lot in the news lately about anti-depressants being no more effective than a placebo. To that I say this: I don't really care. I know how I felt before I started taking this medication and I know how I feel now. I don't care if the pills are full of brain enhancing medication or simple sugar or bee spit. I'm forever grateful for the change they've given me.

One of my biggest fears in starting this medication was how I would eventually get off of it. (Way to put the cart before the horse, depressed lady!) I'm not worried about that at the moment. Maybe I will need to continue taking medication for the rest of my life. That thought, which used to terrify me, seems reasonable to me today, given how I currently feel. I want to feel this way, like a normal person with a balance of good days and bad days, for the rest of my life. And if medication is what I need for that to be true, then so be it.

Making the decision to take that first Pr0zac pill was a deeply scary leap for me. After years of talking and crying and talking some more, I swallowed and waited and hoped. I gave up control, admitted I needed help and let go of my deepest preconceived notions about myself.

Making the decision to become even more public with this decision, to publish the babble piece, is another scary leap. While my maiden name is the same as several actresses and at least one TV character, it is still the name that most people who've known me would Google.

Well, here I am, friend from sixth grade. Yes, I do now need to wear a bra every day, but not for the reasons I'd always hoped.

Now, would you go over to the babble piece and say hi?

Where I'm From

I am from Duct Tape, from Johnny Walker and Johann Sebastian Bach.
I am from a once-condemned Victorian, the bedroom where mushrooms grew out of the floor now covered with rose colored carpet, singed black in spots by a dropped curling iron.
I am from dogwoods, poison ivy, and blueberries outside the back door.
I am from the traveling salesmen and the conscientious objectors, from Lorna and Janet, from Marshalls and Riggs.
I am from hot-tempered dancers and quirky book collectors.
From Ugga Muggo and I'll give you something to cry about.
I am from a funky round building that looked nothing like an actual church, but everything like the only church I've ever loved.
I'm from the garden state, with the big hair pictures and defensiveness to prove it, from raw milk and Silver Queen corn and David Eyre's Pancake.
From the girl with the silver pin piercing her plaid skirt in history class, the boy who knocked himself out on the hood of a car on the day of their first date, the woman who beat little children at cards because they should learn now how to win - and lose.
I am from the damp woods of Lake Dunmore and the crystal cabinets of Princeton, from the most loving of laps, the only kind of luxury I ever needed.

Inspired by Playgroups are No Place For Children who got the template here. If you feel inspired to do your own, put the link in my comments!

Intimate talk

A friend asked me the other day why I read so many mommy memoirs. "I mean, when you're finally free to read, don't you want to escape your life rather than relive it?" she asked.

I laughed and said, "Sometimes. But mostly, I crave what Faulkner Fox calls 'intimate talk' in her memoir "Dispatches from a Not-so-Perfect-Life". Mommy memoirs, and mommy blogs for that matter, are a great way to feed my appetite for the kind of intimate talk that gives me insight into my own life."

After moving across the country almost 2 years ago, I joked with my new therapist that I was paying her to have deep, real conversations with me, since I didn't have any friends here with whom to have them for free. I couldn't handle having only "How old is your son? Oh, look at him swing!" type conversations with the moms on the playground or at the grocery store. I needed someone other than my husband to have intimate talk with, in person. In addition to helping me navigate the depression that was swelling inside me, my therapist answered my need to talk about real things, with a real live human being.

In her book, as Faulkner Fox looks for female friends in her new hometown in Texas, she looks for women who are as interested in having intimate talk, as fascinated by "the freakish, the human, the complicated", as she is. Me, too.

Now, thank goodness, I have one great friend here and a few good ones that are have reached the intimate talk level or are at least showing the potential to get there eventually. My sanity depends on this as much as Prozac and chocolate and books and kid cuddles and my husband.

Of course, I had great friends in all the places I've lived before here and they're still out there, ready for a phone call. But in addition to the challenges of time zones and family schedules, I hate the phone. Phone calls are not as hard as they used to be BP (Before Prozac), but they're still uncomfortable enough to be infrequent.

Plus, I want to see my friends nodding in agreement or shaking their heads in sympathetic disgust. I want to feel our laughter in the same room, ricocheting off the same walls. I want to receive a pat on my shoulder or a hug when it's really needed.

This need for intimate talk is why I read a endless stream of memoirs and blogs. Intimate talk is where it's at for me. And if I can't get enough in person - and it seems I can never get enough in person - I honestly prefer to find it in the written word rather than make a phone call.

What I love about blogs are also their weaknesses: their raw imperfection, their unilateral (or non-existent) editing, their limited point of view. At their best, blogs can expose tender flesh, they let you in to where the real gristle is. If what Anne Lamott says is true and we should never "compare our insides to other people's outsides", then reading my favorite blogs and memoirs helps me remember that no one has it all together, that everyone else's insides are as imperfect and blemished as mine.

A problem arises when I read some other blogs. You know the ones. The perpetually sunny, beautiful ones. The ones where the bloggers only share the shiniest, happiest anecdotes and the most flattering pictures. The ones which never mention children pitching a royal fit over nothing, where spouses always help instantly and intuitively, where the writer is preternaturally sunny and perpetually smiling.

The ones which serve only to polish the image of a perfect outside rather than expose something, anything, inside.

(A friend recently joked that she wanted to start a parody of such blogs. Where the children all happily jump out of bed, milk the cows out back for their own breakfast, followed by happily reading to each other out of books that they wrote themselves. That are printed on paper they made themselves. From trees they grew themselves. With ink they made themselves out of native plants they grew themselves.) (You get the idea.) (BUT I COULD GO ON.)

I suspect that many of those bloggers are simply choosing to focus on all that is positive in their admittedly impressive lives. Highlighting the good in one's life is an admirable practice and I strive for gratitude and positivity in my own life. But as a reader, and as a person, I want so much to feel something, to be moved. Being moved by love and joy is a wonderful thing. But it's all the more meaningful to me when the dark edges and frustrating challenges are acknowledged alongside the joy.

Plus, I refuse to believe that any one's life is exempt from darkness. And I resent the implication, however unintended, that this is so.

Perhaps it is not healthy that I want so much to delve into darkness. Perhaps it is simply a sign of my depression, or my generally depressive nature. But I think, more than anything, it's about how I connect. It's about intimate talk. It's about being real.

Faulkner Fox wrote: "The particularities of a woman's life, especially as articulated by someone bright and funny, were endlessly interesting to me."

A. MEN.

This is why I read mommy memoirs. This is why I read mommy blogs. This is why I read YOUR blog.

Is intimate talk why you read blogs? Or is it some other reason entirely?

Lifting the veil

For most of the past year, I was stumbling. I was lightning-quick to anger, slow to warm after misunderstandings, generally unpleasant even when I tried really, really hard to focus on all that is good in my life.

I was tired of trying so hard. But I was also too low to work my way out of it.

For months, CG's gentle efforts to get me to consider medication went nowhere good. One night in the fall, he finally sat me down and strongly suggested I see a doctor. At first I lashed out at him, defensive. Then I shrank in fear of him not loving my worthless, angry self, defenseless. Was he saying something was deeply wrong with me? Did he not love me? Was he thinking me weak, incapable of working through my issues on my own?

No. What he said was out of love and respect for me. I see that now. I had to take that on faith then, a faith in him and his goodness.


In some perversely irrational way, I was worried that taking an antidepressant would magically make it all better. This would prove just how wrong our pill-popping culture is! You shouldn't be able to magically fix your sour moods or medicate away parts of yourself. It should take hard work and time and strenuous effort! I didn't want to turn into a medicated zombie incapable of feeling anything.

But I know now that that's not how it works. I'm still the same person. The medicated me still has the same flash points, the same triggers, the same issues. I can still get angry; I still cry; I still have bad days. I still have lots of work to do making my life the way I want it to be, one day, one thought, at a time. But medication has helped in subtle, pervasive ways. My fuse is noticeably longer. When I cry it's for a good reason. My bad days pass quickly and aren't filled with feelings of worthlessness.

For me, medication doesn't take away parts of me. It softens edges, and makes everything just a little easier.

Medication lifted the veil.




The other day, I realized with a start that I am enjoying, really enjoying my girls lately. Many times a day I smile and laugh and think "I am so happy to be right here".

Which makes me realize that, for too long, I wasn't.

I am not "depressed".

I am not "depressed".

I am "struggling a bit".

I am "having a hard time".

I am "in a down phase".

I am "dealing with a lot right now".

I had a baby, moved across the country, lost two loved ones, and I am in year three of my dad's battle with cancer. Feeling sad is normal in any one of those stressful circumstances. Try adding up all four at once. So I'm a little cranky? I can still get out of bed and live my life.

But I'm pissy and over-reactive, all the time.

It seems the world is always against me.

When I don't feel an undercurrent of sadness, there's an undercurrent of pissiness. When I don't feel an undercurrent of pissiness, there's an undercurrent of sadness.

Okay, but I don't need an antidepressant. I'll take more fish oil. I'll exercise more. Sleep more. Drink more water. I'll go to therapy more.

Yes, do those things.

Those things are helpful.

Those things are not enough.

Antidepressants are serious drugs that should be reserved for people who are mentally ill or suicidal. Even at my worst, I've never felt suicidal.

At my worst, I felt worthless.

At my worst, I felt unlovable.

At my worst, I lay in bed at night and fantasized about running away. I never thought about where I'd go or what I'd do; I imagined how much better off my husband and girls would be without me. CG would get over me and marry someone nicer, happier, prettier, better than me. The girls' new mom wouldn't ever yell or cry or need her own time-outs. This fantasy brought me relief.

But I'm afraid antidepressants will turn me into someone else. I don't believe we should medicate away our bad moods, temporary life-crises and uncomfortable personality traits.

If you don't like who you are right now, would it be such a bad thing to change a little?

If you're going through a particularly rough time in your life, don't you want to make it easier on yourself if you can?

If your bad moods and uncomfortable personality traits make living with you less than pleasant, don't you owe it to yourself and your loved ones to try something that might help?

But I'm scared I'll start taking the antidepressant and find I have to take it for the rest of my life.

Let me get this straight: Now you're worried they will work so well, you'll never be able to go off of them?

WHA.....?

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I have depression.

Major or minor, clinical or sub-clinical, episodic, circumstantial, fleeting or permanent, intrinsic, here to stay, it doesn't matter.

I have depression.

I take an SSRI.

(Hallelujah.)

The annual year-end recap

This is my third year doing Sundry's year end recap. If you care, here's 2008 and 2009.

1. What did you do in 2010 that you'd never done before?

Watched my child lick an airplane toilet seat.

Signed my oldest up for ballet lessons.

Finished sewing my first ever pair of curtains.

Met a blog friend in real life.

Left both girls with my mom for two glorious days.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

Last year I made a single word vow: SLOW and called it my Doomed Personal Initiative 2010. It was helpful and difficult and I will be attempting to move slower and be more present for the rest of my life.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Two college friends JUST had their babies. YAY!

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Yes, sadly, we lost both my father-in-law and my cousin suddenly this year. It was a rotten year, in terms of loss. We're hoping for a reprieve in 2011.

5. What countries did you visit?

Sadly, none, though we have plans for a big family trip to Jamaica in February!

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?

This is what I said last year: "A sense of connectedness to my new life here in VA. A really good friend here who I can call up and cry/giggle/kvetch with."

I now have have one great friend who I can call and cry/giggle/kvetch with. I'm still searching for that elusive "sense of connectedness". I would love to feel more like a "Virginian". I want this house, this town, this state to be my home and I know that just takes time and effort.

I want to feel part of a community.

I want to feel like I belong.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

July 6th, 2010, the day my father-in-law suffered an aortic dissection. The next day, instead of me flying to Massachusetts for my cousin's funeral, CG flew to Arizona to be with his father for the last time.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Accepting that all my hard work, all my daily efforts, were not enough to keep me on an even keel. Acknowledging that I was not the parent, or person, I wanted to be and starting to take an antidepressant. It was a big step for me. And the right one.

(It's been two months. I didn't mention it before now because... I wasn't ready I guess.)

9. What was your biggest failure?

It is always the same: losing my temper. Each and every time it happens I think: who is this monster?

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Nothing major for me this year, though my body feels older, sag-ier and creak-ier with each passing year.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

?

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

I'm thrilled by the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell (one of the worst legacies of the Clinton administration, IMO).

Jon Stewart, especially for the Rally to Restore Sanity and his championing of the First Responders Bill.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

I'm sorry to get all political on you but what has happened to John McCain? Is this really the legacy he wants to leave behind?

14. Where did most of your money go?

Mortgage, insurances, preschool, Wegmans, Target. (and, I will shamefully admit, Amazon. Amazon prime has been my downfall. It's just too easy and fast to get everything and ... I'm lazy.)

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

The girls. Oh, the girls. They are starting to really and truly play together and the love is so there and WOW. It blows me away.

16. What song will always remind you of 2010?

Cee Lo Green, "F%ck you". I sing it at top volume and think about my dad's cancer.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Oh, I'm definitely happier. E is sleeping better, for starters. Well, I can actually pretty much start AND stop there because I become someone I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley when I don't get enough sleep.
b) thinner or fatter? um. Same?
c) richer or poorer? Same.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Here's what I said the last two years: "Danced. Cooked. Gardened. Hugged. Written letters. Made phone calls. Reached out."

I am cooking real food more and we started our garden bed this year. I hug the girls as often as they'll let me and my husband as often as we remember that we're living, breathing human beings who love each other, not just snack-procurement/bottom-wiping machines. I still want to reach out more to the people I love, make phone calls, write letters. And make new friends in VA. As an anxious but needy introvert, it's not easy to get my relationship fill.

And doing more dancing has proven to be a big problem. Z and E aren't into dance parties at the moment (Well, not my free-form dance parties. Z wants to hang on me, E wants to be up in my arms and that kind of dancing isn't really dancing.) and not enough people are getting married to quench my hunger for the dance floor. I think the single worst part about moving to a small, rural town is that there is NO place to go out dancing at a club - let alone take an adult modern dance class -in a 50 mile radius.) (Unless you count seedy biker bars with jukeboxes.) (Which I don't.)

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Same as last year: "Lost my temper. Curled inward instead of reaching outward."

20. How did you spend Christmas?

Here, in Arizona, with my husband's family, desperately trying to reconcile the shrieks of joy from the girls and the sad cloud of grief that lingers over a holiday when someone you love is missing.

21. Did you fall in love in 2010?

Not with anyone new.

22. What was your favorite TV program?

We've watched so little TV this year. Like almost none. And I'm not sure if that's something I'm proud of or depressed by.

But we always watch Mad Men. And we're getting ready for Big Love.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

I don't really go for the word "hate".

24. What was the best book you read?

Oh this is so hard. I simply cannot chose just one.

Best literary fiction: a tie between "A Visit From the Goon Squad" by Jennifer Egan and "Olive Kitteredge" by Elizabeth Strout.

Best romantic romp: "One Day" by David Nicholls

Best feel good read: "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society" by Mary Ann Shaffer.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I'm always about three years behind every trend (I just bought my first pair of skinny jeans.) (I hate the term "skinny jeans".) so I am delighting in Cee Lo Green at the moment.

26. What did you want and get?

A weekend away with my husband.

27. What did you want and not get?

My dad to be completely clear of cancer. Fucking cancer.

28. What was your favorite film of this year?

Dude. I saw NOTHING this year. (For anyone who wonders how I read so many books this year: THIS IS HOW. I don't watch TV or movies. AT ALL.) Thinking carefully (and looking up the top 50 movies of the year) I think I can safely say I saw exactly one of them: Toy Story 3. Which was cute, I guess. (LAME.) (MUST SEE SOME MOVIES.)

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 38 this year and spent it at home with family. It was simple and wonderful.

30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Not losing any family members.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?

So Far From The Juniors Section, It Isn't Even Funny.

32. What kept you sane?

Quiet time spent not cooking, cleaning, emailing or folding laundry. Quiet time that was truly quiet (usually). It all made sense after reading "The Highly Sensitive Person" this summer. I need significant down time, alone time, quiet time, every day. If I don't get it, I lash out. Giving myself that time was amazing. I always lay on my bed. Sometimes I slept, but more often than not I read. And was inspired.

Then, of course, I have to give a shout out to SSRIs.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

My thing for Paul Rudd continues unabated.

And my thing for Jon Stewart has grown.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?

Marriage equality/DADT.

35. Who did you miss?

My father-in-law.

My cousin.

36. Who was the best new person you met?

My newly medicated self.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010.

Taking antidepressants doesn't mean you're weak or crazy or stupid. In fact, in can be the strongest, sanest, smartest thing you've done in a long time.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

"Don't believe the things you tell yourself so late at night. You are your own worst enemy. You'll never win the fight."- Ingrid Michaelson, Parachute.

Seeking meaning in, and beyond, motherhood

Remember Maslow's hierarchy of needs from Psych 101? Well, it appears they've revamped it, replacing "self actualization", the realization of our creative and intellectual potential, with "mate acquisition", "mate retention" and "parenthood" at the tip top of the pyramid. Does this unfairly exclude single and/or childless people from the most esteemed echelons of life? Does every creative and intellectual impulse ultimately serve the master of the evolutionary drive to procreate?

Does life's ultimate purpose really boil down to parenthood?

This has been sticking in my craw since I first read about the revamping of the pyramid in the New York Times Sunday Magazine. As I wrestle with my own questions about what I should do with my life, I keep coming back to motherhood, because it's where I am, it's what defines my days and, LORD HELP ME, too many of my nights. Like the good little suburban cliche that I am, I've "always wanted to be a mother". But looking back on my early desire for motherhood, it clearly had more to do with pure baby lust than an actual conscious choice to responsibly parent another human being for the rest of my life. It probably had a whole lot to do with an evolutionary drive that screamed out "OMG! Baby toes! Eat them!" and "Do they make baby head perfume? Because THEY SHOULD" among other, even less seemly, things.

Then, sometime in my late twenties, right around the time I broke up with a guy who was no good for me and took up with someone who actually liked me for me, as I was, warts (figurative!) and all, I also started thinking more intently about why I'm here, what my purpose in life was. And, since I didn't have an obvious calling, religious or career-wise, I just didn't have an answer. So I bided my time, dancing because I loved it, teaching Pilates and massaging backs because it paid the bills, not really sure what I was doing in a larger sense but content enough to wait for my purpose, the meaning of my life, to find me.

Until motherhood.

Because motherhood hit me like a ton of messy, confusing bricks and I still haven't made sense of its impact on my identity, four and half years in. How can I be a mother AND be all these other things I want to be at the same time? Is being a mother my only true purpose in life? How can I focus on being anything else (a physical therapist, the long-time pipe dream, or a writer of some kind, the newest what-have-you-been-smoking-in-that-pipe dream) when I often feel overwhelmed with this one job I already have?

I'm reading "What Should I Do With My Life?" by Po Bronson and though I can safely say it's not exactly answering its own title's question for me, I love reading about how different people search for meaning and purpose. We all want the same things, no matter how different our choices and journeys. I want what everyone else does: to make an impact on the world, to change my corner of it for the better. I want my life to mean something. I want to leave something good behind when I'm gone. Something bigger, better than me.

Are my girls those "good things"? Is it unfair, not to mention unhealthy, to think about your children this way?

Like it or not, on purpose or not, for ill or for good, motherhood instantly made my life about something other than me. It meant I would leave something behind. It means my life has already had a profound effect. Motherhood intrinsically means I matter. Now it's up to me to make sure that my impact on my children is a positive one. Because I will live on through them, and through all the people they touch.

(No pressure!)

But I also search for other ways to matter. I know that soon enough I will not be so utterly consumed by the strains of motherhood and, without belittling the importance of mothering well, I want to add more than just my procreative and mothering self to the world.

I'll just come right out and say it: new pyramid be damned, I want self-actualization.

Snip! Snip!

"Snip! Snip!" is what my mom always says under her breath when she sees an older woman with long hair. She is of the opinion that women of a certain age shouldn't have long hair. Period.

I used to think it was a funny tic of hers. I found it surprisingly close-minded, given my mother's usually open-minded take on things. Who's to say what length your hair should be? Is this the army? If it looks good on you, if you like it, who cares?

Lately, I've been growing my hair long. Mostly, I've been too greedy with my precious 'away' time to spend it at a hair salon (gym, here I come!) but, to be honest, there is something else at work besides neglect: I harbor fantasies of long, youthful, Pantene-commercial-worthy locks. Like many women, I go through phases with my hair. And apparently my current hair phase is "wishing I was 10 years younger with a different life".

I am married. I live in a small town. I have two kids and dog and a mortgage and house with a white fence out back. I am 37. I don't like to use the hair dryer or the flat iron and when my hair grows past my shoulders, I pretty much put my hair in a perma-ponytai 24/7. These all add up to a typical, sensible, bobbed haircut, no?

Mom, am I old enough to merit your "Snip! Snip!"?

When I pick up People magazine on my bedside table at the gym, I am stunned by the photos of famous women in their late thirties. Through plastic surgery or hair extensions or damn good genes or all of the above, they often look amazing, glamorous and youthful. Many of them, most of them, have thick, LONG, gorgeous hair. But some of them look rather sad, like they want the world to think they are still 18. Like they're clinging to something that is fading away.

Then, when I pick up Good Housekeeping or Redbook and read the personal articles written by mere-mortal women my age with their almost-always-bobbed haircuts, I am often struck by how they look rather old, like Capital M MOMS.

These are my options, it seems. I can either grasp and clutch at my fading youth with Botox and hair-extensions or I can succumb to gravity in elastic-waisted, newscaster-bobbed oblivion. There's got to be some middle ground here somewhere.

Speaking of elastic-waisted, I'm officially out of my maternity and first-and-fourth trimester jeans. (Yay!) E is 9 months old and I'm getting back into most of my pre-pregnancy clothes. But one old, favorite pair of jeans in particular just won't cut it anymore.

I bought these AG jeans a couple of years before I got pregnant with Z. They were an expensive splurge and I wore them ALL. THE. TIME. They fit me well and I felt comfortable in them.

About a year after I had Z, I was able to squeeze back into them, as long as I had a long, blouse-y shirt to cover the Top O' the Muffin. They weren't quite as effortless to wear as they had been but they were okay, passable, You look good FOR A MOM.

Now I can once again squeeze myself back into them. But on closer inspection you can see that the proportions are wrong and the rise is just too darn low for me now. Sure the top button closes but it makes my belly looks like a boneless Sharpei that's been stuffed into a tube sock. It's not pretty. (And it makes me understand why women get tummy tucks. I could just "Snip! Snip!" it right off.)

Then, those jeans looked, and felt, great. Now, I think I need to let them go. I can let this go.

So earlier this week, I went to our local outlet mall and bought myself a pair of decent, higher cut jeans. I'm not going to win any pageants in them but they actually fit and I don't have to constantly check that the Sharpei is covered.

I also got my hair cut. I've accepted that without hair extensions and serious time devoted to boring things like hair drying and straightening, my hair isn't ever going to look like a Pantene commercial. That I am more than my hair and my bought-in-my-twenties jeans. That youth is fleeting but youthfulness is a feeling with no expiration date.

I can let this go, without "letting myself go".

Before
Long hair and old, too-tight jeans. More youthful or more lazy/desperate?

After

More sensible bob, more sensible jeans, more acceptance.
(Plus, let's be honest, the darker wash is just more flattering and less... 1999.)

Doomed Personal Initiative 2010

It's a freeing thing, this skipping out of New Year's resolutions.

The word "resolution" always sounds so serious and onerous. Also: DOOMED.

I don't need MORE things I'm supposed to do, more things on a list to look at and think: Riiiiigggghhhhtttttt, there's THAT I could do or there's ......Jersey Shore on the DVR.

(Oh yes. There is.)

"Resolutions" are for other people.

For me, it's more like: "Yearly Attempts at The Same Impossible Things" or "Annual Doomed Personal Initiatives".

I really love hearing what other people resolve to do. Really. I beam and cluck when reading about people's new, complicated eating plans or training for triathlons or enrolling in scary academic courses.

And then I contemplate taking a nap.

Whoever came up with the insane idea of attempting to do new, difficult personal improvement projects in January? It's dark. It's cold. It's time to make like a bear and HIBERNATE. It's time to sip hot tea and read books and lose brain cells watching reality TV.

But then there's Erin's Quiet Project, where she chose "Quiet" as a word to focus on last year. As Doomed Personal Initiatives go, this one, with its simplicity and lack of measurable outcomes, seems like a good fit for me. I thought long and hard about just stealing her last year's word for my own focus this year, because I sure could use a good hit from the Quiet Stick.

But the more I thought about it, the more another word kept popping up.

SLOW.

For all the above blathering about wanting to sip tea and stay still, I am rarely still. I am rarely slow or measured or calm. I am often doing many things at once, most of them poorly. I've always walked fast, leaving annoyed friends behind or forcing them to run to keep up. I cook fast, leaving tornado-like flotsam around the kitchen that is terrifying to see, exhausting to clean up. I've always inhaled my food with barely a chew, a habit that has not been improved by the chaotic mealtimes of motherhood.

The act of slowing down is often painful to me, as if it runs counter to every part of my being. The slowest dance piece I ever performed nearly made me crazy with it's monotony and lack of momentum. Meditation is torturous. The Sisyphean act of helping my daughter put on the necessary layers for outdoor excursions drives me completely batty.

But, clearly, I crave slowness, stillness, calm. I find the rare moments I can slow myself down to be the most present and pleasant parts of my day.

Slow is about lower expectations for what I can accomplish in a day. Slow is about giving us all more time to do just about everything. Slow is about being present and receptive to what is. Slow is about less.

So: SLOW.

Here I go.

A few years, a few bullet points. (edited to add a big NO DUH)

My Buddy Mimi wrote a post a few days ago that I thought I'd bogart. You have to sum up the last 15 years of your life in 10 bullet points. Pretend you ran into someone you hadn't seen in 15 years and had to catch them up, quick-like.

*Okay foggy memory banks let's see what we remember... 15 years ago I was a junior in college. I graduated a year later with a BS in Psychology, more uncredited hours in the dance studio than anywhere else, and a way-late-in-the-game, forehead-slap realization that I no longer wanted to be a psychologist of any kind. (Oops.)

*So I moved to Maine and ran a bed and breakfast for a year. I thought it would be all Walden-like and I would figure out the meaning of life in general and MY life in particular. Instead, I worked like a dog, ate way too many pancakes, watched the ENTIRE OJ Simpson trial (SO GUILTY) and decided I needed to dance.

*So I moved to San Francisco with Bronwen, my fabulous sexologist friend from college (Actually, at the time she was a singing waitress, the sexologist part came later. [That's what she said]), enrolled in a crappy massage school, worked an illegal tea cart in Ghiradelli Square and watched "Party of Five" and "ER" RELIGIOUSLY on my 16 inch TV as I sat in my butterfly chair. Oh, and I danced as much as possible, mainly in the back of the class.

*After a few roommates came and went, I moved into a house in the famed Haight Ashbury. Soon I lived with three of the most wonderful women EVER. We baked, we danced, we threw the most raucous house parties and often spent the evening chatting for HOURS. (Yes, we totally cycled together too.)

*I got a call from an acquaintance from college who wanted to meet up. Turns out he was cuter than I remembered. Turns out I was dating someone else at the time. Turns out he became a good friend and even briefly dated a friend of mine. (Turns out we got married eventually but that's coming later...)

*I set up a private practice as a massage therapist and then studied to be a Pilates Instructor. I danced with some small time choreographers and got paid a little. I was dancing in the middle of the classroom.

*I started dating my good friend and within weeks we were talking, hypothetically at first, about marriage. We moved in together and got engaged on his birthday in the middle of a fancy restaurant when he said he "needed a little help with his birthday wish" and got down on one knee. We got married a year or so later in the Shakespeare Garden of the college we both attended.

*He got his PhD at Berkeley, I danced with some amazing choreographers in San Francisco (with the injuries to prove it.) and danced front and center in most dance classes.

* We got knocked up and moved down to Pasadena for his post-doc where we now live the quintessential suburban life of toddler playdates at kid museums, dog walks with plastic baggies and a yard that requires constant neglect.

(Oops, that's only nine.)

(edit: * Oh RIGHT. In April 2006, Zoe was born. That would have to be the biggest bullet point EVER.)

Seven weird things.

Semi-Desperate Housewife tagged me for the Seven Weird Things meme.

This should be easy, thought I, after all I'm pretty weird. But then I realized that the truly weird things about most of us are the things that WE think are NORMAL and other people think are weird. So I've searched my memory banks for what seems totally normal to me but has struck others as odd.

The rules are as follows:
# Link to the person who tagged you
# Post the rules on your blog.
# Share seven random and/or weird facts about yourself on your blog.
# Tag seven random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
# Leave a comment on their blogs so that they know they have been tagged.

As a relative blogging newbie, I've never done a meme before so I feel no shame in breaking the rule that says I have to tag 7 others. Not that I wasn't psyched to be tagged, but I get a Nervous Tummy (tm) whenever I think about trying to tag 7 other bloggers. So if you are reading this and have a blog, consider yourself tagged, okay?

Now, onto the weirdness!

1. Often when I get scared or nervous, I hum the ending theme song to "Little House on the Prairie". You know, where a pigtailed Laura Ingalls is running down the golden hillside? It's the happiest, sunniest image and it works every time.

2. I have very little memory of my early childhood, including important events and family trips. However, I remember pretty much every dance I've ever had to learn (since I started performing when I was 8ish and stopped at 33, trust me when I tell you that that's A LOT). And I know pretty much all the lyrics to 20 year old songs by Richard Marx, the Bangles, and the Go-Gos. (Yes, I know how OLD I am.)

3. The year after college, I ran a small B&B in rural Maine. During the long, LONG winter months, I spent several days trying to make myself ambidextrous by tying my right arm to my side and doing everything with my left arm, including opening doors, flipping pancakes, changing beds, sweeping floors etc.. When this proved too difficult, I untied my right arm and taped my right fingers and thumb together to make a fairly useless flipper. This was more reasonable but a few guests did wander into the kitchen to find me cursing, kneading some seriously lumpy bread dough with my fairly useless left hand and my equally useless right flipper.

4. When I was a modern dancer, I liked to wear a leotard and loose pants. To keep the loose pants from flapping around at the crotch and hindering my hip extension, I would hike up my pants as high as possible- creating bunched up creases of fabric at my crotch- and roll down the waistband to a reasonable level. One word: FLATTERING. I think it's fair to say this was commonly done by my fellow dancers. Except, I wore my pants like that EVERYWHERE. My roommates at the time took to stopping me before I left the house and pulling my pants down a good couple of inches.

5. My tongue is very large. I can touch it to my nose, I can fold it in half (and have it stay there), I can roll it into a tube (and have it stay there), I can flip it over (and, YOU GUESSED IT, have it stay there). I thought briefly about posting pictures but, really, it's grotesque. Have you ever seen the underside of your tongue? Ewwwww.

6. While we're on the topic of strange body parts, I have a very, VERY squishy nose. There seems to be no cartilage in my nose so when you push it to the side, it's, well, it's VERY pushed to the side. Again, I thought about posting pictures of The Nose (in addition to my tongue, it is my stupid party trick), but realized it would probably gross you all out too much.

7. I once performed in a piece called "Bat Tales" which included a little number where I danced, dressed as a bat, to the song "Tequila!" only I had to cry out "Mosquito!" over the chorus and then pretend to eat a large, stuffed mosquito that dropped from the ceiling.

Hey man, it was a paying gig, you know?

The post-dance post.

When unpacking (yes, FINALLY), I found that I needed to get rid of some old clothes to make room for the Christmas bounty. This is, essentially, a good problem. But what it means is that I am taking a hard look at a lot of pre-pregnancy clothes and finally accepting that I should get rid of them. Even though I love them, even though they are in good shape and barely worn, even though I can kinda squeeze myself into them. The fact is that many of them simply don't look good on me anymore. And that's because my post-pregnancy body is also my post-dancing body and I can't seem to wrap my head around that latter bit.

I started dancing when I was 5 and didn't stop (save for some involuntary, injury-related sidelining here and there) until I was 33 (and about to get pregnant, move, buy a house, change my whole effing life). So for most of my life, my body has been my instrument and I was obsessed very, very interested in it working well. This meant I not only took dance class and rehearsed but also spent hours at the gym and taught Pilates and took long hikes on the weekend and biked around the city and took yoga and and AND. And I had the small waist, strong legs and unwavering, unquestioning body confidence to show for it.

Focusing on the utility of my body was a great thing. It got me out of the downward spiral of disordered eating that is rampant in the dance world (and held sway in my head in college); it made me strong inside and out. If a piece I was working on was really fast paced and intense, I went to the gym and did cardio. If I had to lift people and do a lot of partnering (this being modern dance, I was required not only to be lifted but also to lift my fellow dancers, men included), I went to the gym and did a lot of weights. If I was injured, I went to the pool and did deep water aerobics with the grannies. It was all about getting to the next show as strong and healthy as possible.

Obviously, my big issue now is: what do I do now that there is no "next show"?

I'm feeling sad about my body (perhaps 'vain' would be the word?) for the first time in a long time (not since I was 100 pounds and felt disgustingly fat. Ah, GOOD TIMES.). I miss my old abs. I miss my old butt. I miss my old legs. I feel saggy and lumpy and I'm NOT used to it. 20 months after Z's birth, I still can't in good conscience wear a few of my old clothes that I love dearly (I'm looking at YOU, clingy brown Ella Moss dress and YOU worn-twice Joe's jeans.)

My body has changed and it's not realistic to imagine that I will ever be in the kind of shape I was Before again. Before, I used to spend hours a day engaged in intense physical activity. Today, I try to do something physical every day. When I can, I go to the gym or use the Pilates equipment at the studio where I work part-time. When I can't, I walk Z and the dog, I do a DVD in our living room during naptime, I blast Justin Timberlake and dance around the room with Z watching me, amazed (or possibly wondering what brand of crazy her mom is and if it's genetic or, worse, CONTAGIOUS.).

I am getting settled into my post-dance life. It's a relief to not have to constantly manage the cycle of physical pain and injuries. This post-dance life is SO full. But my post-dance body is proving to be a little harder to adjust to.

Next year's resolution: get a new brain.

Last year's New Years' resolutions included "remembering loved ones' birthdays". This was a tall order for me, the Lady with the Swiss Cheese Brain. Let's see how I've fared......

Back in September, I called an old friend (yes sir, Captain Backlash, you are OLD) and sang him my traditional, spectacularly off-key (if I do say so myself) rendition of Happy Birthday. It was all so lovely, except that I was off by a whole month. Did I remember to call him on his actual birthday in October? Negative. And I'm pretty sure I sent his birthday present to his old address. Score: Birthday Black Hole- 2, Lady with the Swiss Cheese Brain- 0.

Yesterday I was reminding myself all day to call my niece who turned two yesterday. Or so I thought. After we got all the way through Happy Birthday (We mercifully attempted to keep it on-key for her. Her ear drums are still so young and fragile.), my sister-in-law informed me that her actual birthday is today. Oops. Happy Birthday, my sweet little niece!

And I'm sure there are countless folks whose birthdays I totally flaked on.

The truly sad thing is that I actually set up one of those birthday alarm email dealies and I STILL got all these wrong. It was, like most things, user error; I apparently entered a bunch of birthdays wrong.

Instead of a birthday alarm (too gentle, too imprecise), maybe I need a birthday cattle prod?

Bust a move, and possibly a hip.

(This will be my last post about my birthday, I SWEAR. I fear I'm turning into one of those people who's like "Omigawd! It's my birthday month! Are you able to come to all 12 of my celebrations?!?!!")

On Saturday night, a wonderful, saintly visitation from the heavens (aka. a "babysitter") arrived, allowing us to drive to Hollywood for a fabulous evening of adult fun.

We ate dinner with friends, drank, chatted, spied a bona fide movie star (Helen Mirren looks HOT in person. GO old broads!), and bar hopped (Does one bar, after dinner and before the dance club, count as a "hop"? When you're 35, IT DOES.). No one needed their mouth wiped or the dolly's diaper changed or a book read to them afterward (Can I get an AMEN?).

We then went out dancing at a club where I can guarantee you, no one in the crowd knew what a "snack trap" was or had recently sung all the verses of "On Top of Spaghetti". After sizing up the empty dance floor and my ticking babysitter clock, I took a deep breath and headed, with T, to the dance floor. It felt so good to be dancing.... for the first 3 minutes. Then it felt ASTHMATIC. I was WINDED, people. I have NEVER been winded on a club dance floor before. It was truly sad, fun and exhilarating but sad.

It made me resolve to step up my workouts. No more wussy, 20 minute, sweat-less elliptical workouts for me, man. I've got to make sure that the next time I get on a dance floor -probably not for another 2 years but still!- I'm a little better conditioned.

It all just served to remind me of what I truly know for sure: (Watch out, I feel an Oprah moment coming on) we all need joy in our lives. And dancing is the surest, fastest, bestest path to Joy-with-a-capital-J for me.

My man has been chasing some joy lately; CG has started flying lessons. To see his face afterwards is a thing of beauty (uh- hard core, studly, MAN beauty, that is.). The boy is LIT UP like a Christmas tree. We all deserve to have things in our lives that make us feel that way. And dancing is it for me.

So I hereby resolve to get my butt on a dance floor sometime in the next.... 6 months.

Oprah would approve of attainable goals.

My dude was SO dead.

To find something new and scary and life-enriching to do for my birthday, I kept coming back to firing a gun. Lucky for me, my friend T was all: "I own a boat-load of guns and grew up shooting them". And I was all: "HAHAHAHAHA" because T is best known for his time in professional musical theater and his penchant for breaking into song. Neil Diamond songs to be exact.

But I guess he wasn't kidding because yesterday, CG and I picked up T and his case full of guns (!) and we drove to an indoor shooting range in Burbank.

The range is in a nondescript industrial building right off the freeway. Walking in, I was obviously sticking out like a sock-n-sandal tourist and I pushed my little camera deeper into my purse so as not to appear the total newbie. It was cold in there but I was sweating beneath my layers of clothes and jumped every time I heard a shot.

In the lobby, we signed our lives away, T's guns were inspected, he bought some ammo and targets, we got goggles (to "protect our eyes from the flying shells." OMG. WTF. *deep breath*.) and ear muffs (that did NOTHING to protect my delicate ear drums from the loud pops of the guns.)

We passed through a double door system (the "man lock") like the double doors at dog parks and entered the range itself. The pops were so loud I jumped and my heart raced every time one of the dudes in there (there was LOTS OF TESTOTERONE flying around) fired a round. I kept thinking, one of these guys could be a wacko; he could totally turn around and kill us all. How dumb would my birthday "celebration" feel then?

T gently, kindly showed us how the guns worked, shot a few rounds, and passed the first gun off to CG who steadily fired a few rounds himself. (Go Cub Scout, GO!)

Then, it was my turn.



After a shaky start with a few really bad shots (there is, in fact, a hole in the ceiling that's allllll me) and an explanation from T that "putting the target in my sights" didn't mean just looking at it and aiming in that general direction, I actually got pretty good. As in I hit the target in the chest, repeatedly.


(Quite possibly the worst photo of me ever but I had to show proof that my dude would have been SO dead.)

T told us before we started that the first few rounds would feel weird and shaky but that soon we would want to get all Rambo and pop off a bunch in a row POW POW POW POW but that that was against the rules, you have to have a 1 second pause in between each shot. I didn't believe him but it's true. By the end of the hour, I wasn't sweating anymore (though I was still warm from the adrenaline) and I wasn't jumping at every shot either. And I had to remind myself to slow down my shots so that I wouldn't get in trouble with the Head Gun Dude.

I feel like if I ever had to use a gun to protect myself or my family, I could. I still keenly felt the destructive power of the gun but I also felt like it was okay, I could do this, I DID it.

And that is a great way to feel on (or around) your birthday. Even (especially?) if you are a former card carrying member of the National Coalition to Ban Handguns.