We Were Only Freshman

In about twelve hours, one of my college roommates will be here. The last time we were together, ten years ago, she got married. I don’t think that’ll happen again this weekend, but I do expect us to pick back up where we left off. I, for one, still have some complaints regarding open dorm rules, the poor breakfast options in the cafeteria on the weekends, and the way Dr. Batts kept his classroom at 55 degrees. He said it was to keep us awake, but it always had the opposite effect on me, often putting me into a hypothermia induced coma.

And now that we each have three kids six and under, we can laugh at our collegiate selves and how we thought we were so busy back then. I’m sure we’ll have a lot of what-were-we-thinking conversations. Like how did we convince ourselves we were eating a balanced diet just because we got lettuce on our tacos at Taco Bell. Or why didn't we consider future hearing impairments when we were playing the music in our hoopties so loud the seats vibrated. (If you don’t know what a hoopty is, urbandictionary.com will enlighten you.) And, of course, what we were thinking with some of our crushes? Did I really like him so much that I hung out in the library? Or, is it possible you actually cried when Mr. So and So dedicated a song to you on the radio? Surely we were not that lame. . . .Oh, yeah we were. And, there are a few pictures, sealed by the courts, to prove it.

Remembering college days is always so bittersweet for me, because I feel like I didn’t appreciate the fabulousness of that life enough while I was leading it. Sure I was having a good time, but I didn’t pause to consider how unique that period of my life would be. It was a short and stained-glass window of time of being an adult without all of the cumbersome adult responsibilities. Turns out, when you’re a real grown-up, you never find yourself in impromptu pajama parties with seven of your closest girlfriends. You don’t go to IHOP at midnight anymore, even when you really, really want to. There’s no more showing up late to something just because it was Happy Hour at Sonic.

That temptress Sallie Mae isn’t bankrolling any more experiments for me. And the phrase road trip isn’t quite so enticing when you have to pack for a family of five heading for the apocalypse. And how is it that my friends and I could do a five hour trip without a restroom stop and sometimes my kids can’t even make it out of town before nature calls? Remember when sleeping in meant “I’ll see you after lunch.”? And now it’s “Don’t call before 7:30.”

If I could go back, I’d appreciate how easy it was to clean one half of a dorm room. I’d spend even more nights talking and laughing with my girl friends until the sun started to rise. And I’d rollerblade everywhere, because you just can’t do that when you’re a thirty-three-year-old stay at home mom without raising some eyebrows.

So Fresh and So Clean

It’s supposed to be 102 degrees in Raleigh today, summer’s way of beginning one last forward assault before he retreats in the face of fall. It’s easy to get disheartened in the dogs days of summer, grieving for lawns that died from heat exhaustion, mourning for swimming pools that have now become tepid, and pondering if it’s even worth it to keep fighting the ants, or if perhaps we should just work out some kind of time-share with them for the house. But, I know if we can just hang on, help is on the way.

It’s like I can see fall on the horizon, and he’s as beautiful as ever. It’s a rumbling in the distance. I hear it in pre-season football, back-to-school sales, and previews of fall shows. And I know he’ll rescue me from this sticky summer situation I’ve gotten myself into. Fall will swoop in and rid the air of moisture, the trees of leaves, and my house of children (three mornings a week, at least). And, one of my favorite things about fall is that he never shows up without zippered hoodies.

I think it was last weekend’s back to school shopping that infected me with this uncharacteristic optimism. Because even though I haven’t been “back to school” in about a dozen years, I still engage in the shopping ritual. It’s kind of like being an alumni and still going to all the football games. I mean, just because I no longer take mid-terms doesn’t mean I don’t need Levi’s and new Converse sneakers.

But, it’s not just the fall clothes, which I won’t even get to wear for months; I also still relish those school supply aisles that are overflowing with things like fresh notebooks, the ones where the paper is so new you can smell the tree it was yesterday, and rows of backpacks to suit any disposition, from the cheery and hopeful daisy printed ones in eye-popping colors, to the black and pre-torn varieties from the Outcast&Troubled line. And, for some reason, I’m always tempted to get a new lunchbox for myself, even though I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for six years now and really have no need to pack my lunch, just so that I can carry it from the kitchen to the dining room table.

I have really fond memories of how this time of year felt to me when I was younger. Mostly, it felt like possibilities. There was the possibility that I’d get to sit in the back of the class because my reputation as a talker hadn’t preceded me. There was the possibility that I could keep my new shoes clean. There was the possibility I would love all of my teachers and some of my classes. (Math always prohibited me from even considering the possibility of loving all of my classes.) There was the possibility that our football team would go undefeated and make state play-offs or that all of the cute boys in school would fall madly in love with me, and, I suppose, there was a possibility that pigs would finally get around to flying, but let’s just say that some dreams died early in the school year and leave it at that.

I’m looking forward to all of the years lying ahead for my three kids where this time of year will mean they still have a full box of crayons, are in good standing with their teachers, and have no overdue homework assignments. It will be fun as they get older to see them break out the corduroy pants and sweaters on the first morning that the temperature dips below 80, just because they’ve been waiting to wear their new threads. And, I predict their mother will be doing the same thing. Their grandmother, too, because Nana still does her fair share of back-to-school shopping.

So, you know what? Bring it on, Summer! You can’t beat me. Fall’s coming and he’s bringing fresh starts and clean slates and football. I hear a pep rally in the distance, and any day now House will be back on and I’ll feel whole again.

(As I reviewed this blog, I noticed that Microsoft Word underlined hoodies, like it just did again, and I thought I’d right click and see what the spelling suggestions were. The list of choices was foodies, goodies, hoodless, holies and hoodoos. I get that hoodies are a somewhat recent fashion trend, but hoodoos? What the heck is a hoodoo and why is that acceptable in a world where hoodies isn’t? Just goes to show that computers don’t know everything and there’s something to be said for human intelligence!)

Silly Trendz

I’m at the pool, giving the three inmates their guaranteed outdoor recreation time, per state penitentiary laws, and I decided that since the sun is M.I.A. and I can’t work on my fledgling tan, I should at least work on my blog.

I actually thought we weren’t even going to make it to the pool today because my daughter, right before our departure, issued a four-alarm scream from upstairs. I ran up there, ready to pack her severed legs in ice and rush her to the emergency room, or maybe even use my newly acquired and untested kickboxing skills on the team of assassins that broke in through the attic. In the midst of the chaos, there was no time to consider why any assassin would value my family as targets. Perhaps, there is a covert operation underway to rid the world of its pickiest eaters.

But, alas, it was no such emergency. I encountered the offspring in question in her bedroom, red in the face, sweat on her brow, tears pummeling her cheeks, and she said, “MOM! I CAN’T FIND MY SILLY BANDZ ANYWHERE!” Are. You. Kidding. Me?!!!? I’ll come back to the patient and mature way I handled this, later.

First, I want to know how an entire nation (and oh how I wish I was only talking about kids) got brainwashed into thinking it’s cool to accessorize with colored rubber bands. Personally, I didn’t even think it was cool when kids were sporting them on their braces. Is this what they call mass hysteria? Is this the kind of brainwashing that brought Hitler to power in Germany? And if there is anyone reading this blog that has not heard of Silly Bandz and has no idea what I’m talking about, then please tell me where you live, because I’d like to move there.

Let me also clarify that the unfolding catastrophe in my daughter’s bedroom was over the loss of one band and it wasn’t even hers, it was just an article of litter she picked up at the park that happened to be part of a global fad. Because, in accordance with my vow to never get sucked into another ridiculous trend after the tight-rolled jeans fiasco of 1989, I haven’t even considered purchasing them for my kids. I’ve approached this as a good opportunity to teach my children the value of individuality and self-responsibility, and how to avoid the dangerous kind of “group-think” that led to leg-warmers, Hammer pants, and acid-washed denim. (And, by the way, I’m awarding 10,000 meaningless points to anyone that can email me a photo of them wearing Hammer pants.)

What I want my kids to know is that just because the boy down the street is wearing a whole sleeve of bandz, it doesn’t mean it’s cool or even makes sense. And so what if the girl at the park was wearing so much rubber she’d be safe in a lightning storm? We could just go inside for safety, you know. And, no, it’s not a dolphin; it’s a blue rubber band! Dolphins are still, and will probably always be, in the ocean.

And I’m no environmentalist, or an expert of any kind on anything, but I’m pretty sure that this Silly Bandz phenomenon is not in line with America’s efforts to “go green”. I don’t know if they’re made from rubber, plastic, or some other non-biodegradable material, but I know that I’ve already seen enough of them discarded, lost or abandoned to max out an entire landfill. And, I think we were better off as a nation when kids were just trading things from their lunch boxes instead of trying to create so many jobs in the rubber industry.

So, when I found out it was one of these over-hyped ponytail holders that was the source of my daughter’s meltdown, I showed no sympathy. I’m pretty sure I showed the opposite of sympathy, which is, of course, sarcasm. I made sure that she understood that we don’t succumb to suicidal thoughts over the disappearance of a rubber band. Even if it glowed in the dark.

Once we were downstairs, I retrieved the old-school rubber band that was delivered to our house around the Sunday paper, and said, “Here. Stop crying.” She looked at it and said, “But, it’s not a shape!” Um, “Yeah, it is. It’s an oval. See.” She got really excited and was like, “Oh, wow!” And then went to show it off to her brother and sister and I was like, man, what a sucker! Which is exactly what that thirteen-year-old girl who invented Silly Bandz is thinking right now as she lounges on her yacht drinking chocolate milk out of Waterford crystal while enjoying her private Jonas Brothers concert. (Speaking of things that make no sense to me.)

This One Or This One?

I went for my annual eye exam today, and by "annual" I mean every three or four years. One of the reasons I had been putting it off for so long is that I needed to find a new eye doctor. Because things didn't work out with the one I originally chose when I moved to North Carolina. I only picked her because of the close proximity of her office to my house. (Any closer and she would have been operating out of my garage.) And, really, what other factors do you consider when picking an ophthalmologist? It's not like you go around scouting out who has the coolest eye charts.

Well, it turns out, that for me, there's one other consideration I now make. Does the doctor speak English? Because it was ultimately my inability to overcome the language barrier that led to the dissolution of my previous eye doctor/sight-challenged person relationship. But, before I start coming off like some kind of ethnocentric bigot, which I'm not, I would like to point out that I was completely open to the idea of a foreign eye doctor. I understand that American eyes probably work the same as Russian ones, but after struggling through that hour long initial eye exam and contact lens fitting with this woman, I was so stressed out I needed a cigarette. AND I DON'T EVEN SMOKE! (And, for the record, never have or will.)

Any eye exam is stressful enough with that whole "this one or this one" test that takes as long as the S.A.T.s and is almost as difficult. Because, most of the time, I can't see any difference whatsoever in option one or option two. But, I've learned, they won't just let you say, "Pass", or even "Can we skip this one and come back to it later?" I usually just pick one at random so we can move on. Though, sometimes, in an effort to give my best optical performance, I'll take it very seriously and debate at length on each choice, saying, "Let me see the first one again." Mmmm. "Okay, back to the second one." Hmmm? "One more time?" Eventually, the eye doctor caves and says, "So, not much difference in those for you?" EXACTLY!

But then try doing this exam and other eyesight evaluating activities with someone who's first, nor second, nor third language is English. I never even knew if we were still choosing between options one and two or had moved on to options three or four. Or possibly even pyat and shest. I never knew what she was asking me to do because I couldn't understand anything she said. During the contact lens fitting, she told me that one brand I was considering was good because I could even wear them if I got kidnapped! I do not exaggerate when I say it took me almost five minutes to figure out she was saying "You could even wear them if you took catnap." And that was the end of that relationship.

Today I saw a new ophthalmologist who was a lot easier to communicate with. For instance, he understood that the accuracy of my prescription would be a bit of a crap shoot because I not only saw no difference between "this one and this one", but I also did not possess the mental faculties or patience to make educated guesses on the subject.

But, at least today, after completing my eye exam, I got to go back out and pick something from the treasure box. New glasses! I forewarned my husband that this purchase would be taking place today, because I've had the same pair of glasses since our troops left for Iraq. I needed new lenses to match my current prescription and new frames to match our current fashion trends.

I perused the racks of frames, with total disregard to brand or price, and chose about ten pair that were cute and I wanted to try on. One of the optometrist's assistants sat down with me as I tried them on. I organized them in sets of two and then modeled the pairs as I berated her with the "this one or this one" question that they're so fond of around there. When we got to pair #8, it was game over. Those were the ones, no question. I pulled them off and unfurled the tiny price tag. $320.oo!!!

I made no attempt to disguise my sticker shock as I passed (basically threw) them to her and said, "Am I seeing that right? Three-hundred and twenty dollars?" There was at least some possibility that I wasn't, since I was sitting in that chair due to my inability to see right. She said, "Yes. They're Gucci and those," she pointed to a thin quarter inch strip of sparkles on the side, "are real Swarovski crystals." Okay? Well, "Do they offer this pair without the bling?" She walked over to the appropriate section then returned and said, "No. Sorry." So I requested she, "Show me something less expensive, like a seeing eye dog, maybe." She did and I really liked them. I won't say love because my heart still belonged to Gucci.

The ones I bought were half the price, so when I came home to share my receipt with my husband, I expected congratulations not a conniption fit. But, when he was questioning my powers of restraint, I climbed up on that high horse with him and said "I almost bought a pair with Swarovski crystals, but decided I would sacrifice so our family could buy groceries this month." He rolled his eyes and I thought to myself that he would really regret overreacting if I do in fact get kidnapped!

Inconvenient Injuries

So, the jury’s still out on whether or not my jaw is fractured. My family doctor thought it might be, so she sent me to get x-rays yesterday. My arm looked so rough that the nice lady at the radiology clinic took some pictures of it, too, on the house. Of course, she owed me a favor after she touched and manipulated my sore jaw so much that I was considering breaking hers.

My family doctor also instructed me to take some time off of all strenuous activity for a couple of days, so that my left bicep could heal. I wanted to clarify that running was still okay, but she said, no, because it was too jarring. I was thinking if I run more, there would be less of me to jar around, so it was somewhat counterintuitive. (Don’t get to use that word every day.) And three miles never killed anyone, so I went for a careful jog this morning. But, I did decide to take a break from other strenuous activities, like laundry, dishes, and making my bed.

I get to return to boot camp tomorrow, where our instructors continue to experiment with ways to make us scream and nearly pass out. The low point in Tuesday’s class was when we had to get in a plank position and jump our feet forward then re-extend. Sounds rough, right? Well, it gets worse! We had to perform this circus act all the way across the gym! I made it six inches from the finish line and face-planted. It took everything I had just to drag myself the rest of the way. But, for the record, I had a fractured jaw, bruised bicep, and two hours of sleep the night before. And, for a different record, I’d really appreciate it if the custodial staff would mop the gym floor with something in a peppermint flavor next time.

I would be remiss not to point out that the class is so intense that we’ve not only lost classmates, but one of the instructors seems to have dropped out, as well. Of course, I’m only assuming they dropped out, maybe they succumbed to their injuries. I’ve never seen the investigators on C.S.I. find a body and determine the cause of death to be hamstringulation or tricepitis, but I guess it’s possible. Maybe I should send out a search party? I’d go myself, but I’m fighting off a bad case of gym floor poisoning.

What Constitutes An Emergency?

What does a broken jaw feel like, exactly? I can deduct the “it hurts” part on my own, but wouldn’t a bruised one hurt, too? The thing is I’m not a big fan of emergency rooms and even though it’s two in the morning and I’m awake and abusing over-the-counter pain medications, I’m still hoping my jaw will rally and I can avoid professional medical intervention. In general, I’m the complete opposite of a hypochondriac, which, for the record, is not hyperchondriac because that’s not a word. Basically, I wait out injuries and illnesses far beyond the point any rational person would. For the most part, it’s worked out for me. But there are a couple of times that it hasn’t. (Don’t worry; I’ll come back to how I might have broken my jaw.)

The first time I really underestimated an injury was in college when I broke my finger playing flag football. I didn’t know I had broken my finger and I not only finished the game, but kept trying to pull my finger back out like the joint was jammed. And, yes, that hurt, and I think I probably even screamed, but I don’t seek emergency attention unless I’m one hundred percent certain there’s an emergency. For instance, I would only consider a headache an emergency if it was a partial decapitation.

The broken finger was on my left hand, so I was able to function normally while it healed. I use the terms “healed” and “function normally” loosely, as it’s a stretch to call what my finger did healing and calling any part of my college life functioning normally would be an even bigger stretch. This “healing” was a month long process that involved a kaleidoscope of bruise colors and ultimately left me with a slightly disfigured middle finger because it grew back together wrong. So, in that case, I should’ve walked off the field and gone to the emergency room, but we won the game that night, and that was almost a fair trade for one measly broken finger.

Once, I had a sinus infection for almost four weeks, and knew that I had one, but didn’t want to pony up a co-pay and find a babysitter just so my family doctor could touch my forehead and eye sockets while I said, “Ow!” Eventually, it got so bad I couldn’t lie down. That was probably a defensive mechanism in my body that was preventing the infection from traveling to my brain and killing me. Of course, if my body was that good at defense, why did it let my stupid sinuses get infected in the first place? I eventually caved and went in to collect my prize of two full weeks of antibiotics.

And then there was the time I let myself get so severely dehydrated that the admitting nurse at the ER couldn’t get a blood pressure on me, at all. She freaked out and I got to go straight back, which is a bonus in the emergency room game. My organs were starting to shut down just a smidge, which explained some of my excruciating pain, but they eventually got me all fixed up and sent me on my way. I really tried to avoid going that time, too, but staring down the grim reaper left me no choice.

So, here I am, in the middle of the night writing a blog when I can’t even close my mouth normally. And I’m dreading how tired I’ll feel tomorrow during my exercise boot camp. I might be able to hold myself in a side plank position, as the jaw muscle is the only one you don’t use for that, but there will be no counting out loud during push-ups, so my drill sergeant CAN HEAR ME! Because, in the most depressing admission of my life, I don’t think I’ll be able to talk tomorrow. Actually, this may be what constitutes an emergency.

But you’re probably still wondering how I potentially broke my jaw. Well, I was playing basketball again with my friend, E. Some of you were privileged enough to see the enormous bruise that she left on my bicep two weeks ago. Undeniably, the worst bruise of my entire life and possibly the worst bruise I’ve ever seen on anyone. It was positioned just right so that people who didn’t know me did a double take to see what my tattoo was of. (It was a large rendering of busted veins, not the state of Alaska.) Some strangers who took note of it had really concerned looks on their faces and I just knew that my husband was probably going to get picked up by the police. He didn’t. Though if I went into the emergency room tonight with that baseball-sized bruise still healing on my arm and a freshly broken jaw, I don’t like his chances. Because who would believe that a 32-year-old mother of three got two serious injuries in one month playing basketball with her friend?

Maybe I can wait it out a few days. I have to admit I’m kind of stoked that I can’t chew at all because I really need to drop these last ten pounds and there’s nothing like a liquid diet to give you a boost in the weight loss department. And since I think emergency rooms are where people go when their arms have been sawed off in construction accidents or they have bullets in their person, I’ll just try the ibuprofen, Tylenol dance for now. I’m normally not a medicine taker either, but with some recent sports and running injuries along with muscle soreness I’ve made quite a dent in my price club sized bottle of ibuprofen. It’s become a staple of my diet, really. But, I don’t think pervasive use of 200 milligram Motrin requires an intervention or treatment at a methadone clinic or anything. I’m pretty sure the best prescription for me would be to act my age. Maybe I should be inside baking cookies instead of taking shoulders to the jaw in a raucous game of driveway basketball? Well, not this week, though, because I can’t chew.

I think I'll save this and post it in the morning because sometimes things seem a lot funnier in the middle of the night than they really are, and I'm under the influence of a lot of Tylenol. Who knows, maybe I'll take my injuries more seriously in the morning when I'm pureeing my cereal in the blender, so that I can drink it through a straw.

Forgive Me My Chocolate Trespasses. . .

Today was the first day of Boot Camp. Not to be confused with Boat Camp, which is what my reading novice son inquired about when he saw it listed on the calendar. I had to explain that it was “BOOT” camp, and that it had nothing to do with boats (or boots either, for that matter). Which is unfortunate, because I love boots and I am completely open to going out on a nice boat two days a week. So, what is it then? Well, officially, boot camp is the intense period of training that soldiers endure when they join the armed services. Their bodies are strengthened and their minds are conformed. For us civilians, it’s basically a modern-day torture device, popularly used in the summer months, where we are punished for our crimes involving carbohydrates and cream sauces. Basically, I’m paying to be reprimanded twice a week for the next five weeks. Reminding me, yet again, that I was born in the wrong era. Why does thin have to be in? Why can’t we bring fat back?

Until someone answers that dilemma, I’m doing my best to blend in with the moderately-fit crowd. I exercise regularly and feel serious Judeo-Christian guilt over indulgences like ice cream. And, I do questionable things like enlist in exercise boot camp. When I walked into the gymnasium today, there was a huge camouflage sign with the words BOOT CAMP 2010 written on it, flanked by two Army-esque white stars. It was almost cute, except it was a little frightening. Especially when viewed alongside the three uber-fit instructors wearing camouflage tank tops and black shorts, their toned arms and cellulite-free legs taunting me from across the room. Once I saw them garnishing their necks with whistles, I started looking for the nearest exit. I didn’t leave; I just wanted to know where it was in case of emergency. Like if the paramedics who had to come and peel me off the floor needed directions.

The class started off okay, with a little jogging for a warm-up. This was very agreeable to me since I’m a runner. Next we moved onto jumping jacks, which are far less agreeable to me. I have the cardio wherewithal to handle those, but I think my knee joints are hand-me-downs. Because even though I’ve only had them 32 years, they feel like they’ve been around at least four score. (That’s eighty years for those of you that don’t speak Abraham Lincoln). I may have to do modified jumping jacks, which I hate to do because I think they make me look like I rode in on the short bus, but if I’m not careful with my antique knees I’ll be riding in on a wheelchair and that’s not going to help me achieve any of my goals, except the goal of getting great parking spots. Jumping jacks are also not my fave because I have the pelvic floor muscles of a woman who’s had three kids. If you know what I mean, you have my sympathies, if you don’t, you have my envy.

Next we moved onto some cardio interval training. This wasn’t too bad either. I especially liked the kickboxing moves we worked on. I’m almost hoping for a surprise attack, so I can pummel my assailant with my fierce upper cut and jab and then take him down with a nice sidekick. He’ll be distracted by me doing everything in an eight count, an eight count I will vocalize for fear of being sentenced to push-ups because the instructor CAN’T HEAR YOU!

After we prepared ourselves for all the hand-to-hand combat that we housewives face virtually every day, on our missions to places like the supermarket and the library, we moved on to some drills. This portion of the class went a little slow for me because we were on teams and had to wait for our turn. And, yes, I know there is no I in team, but there is an I in skinny, which is what we’re working on here, people.

The remainder of the class was devoted to a multitude of tasks that I’ll group together under the heading “You’ve Got To Be Kidding Me!”. I can’t remember the order we did the following activities in because pain tends to muddle my brain a bit. We alternated push-ups and sit-ups in a nine of one, nine of the other, eight of one, eight of the other fashion. The problem wasn’t what we were doing so much as the speed at which we were doing it. I was like, “Gee, do you think you could count any faster?” Drill Sergeant J was shouting “nineeightsevensixfivefourthreetwoone” faster than my hearing could digest it. Can I get a two-Mississippi up in here? And the quick turn from one position to the other was supposed to be achieved in under ten nanoseconds. By the time we got down to the twos and ones, there were ladies that were basically just rolling in circles on the floor with no actual time to do a push-up or sit-up. At one point, during the quick change over, I banged my knee so hard on the floor that I suspected little cartoon stars and exclamation points to be flying over my head in a circle pattern. How I banged it on the floor is still a mystery, since I was performing these exercises on my yoga mat.

We also got to spend some time in the purgatory that is the plank position. Front, back, and both sides. I have to say here that I didn’t even know there was a side plank position. The instructor kindly showed us four different levels at which we could do them. Level One was this-hurts, Level Two was this-really-hurts, Level Three was my-body-is-going-into-shock, Level Four was does-this-come-with-a-side-of-physical-rehabilitation? I attempted Level Three because shock dulls the pain sometimes. There was a woman of more advanced years than me to my right (she was about a score older), and she was practically yawning in the Level Four position! I felt like I just got served.

I’ll be going back on Thursday, but may or may not have recovered the use of both arms by then. Perhaps, by next summer, America will have gotten over this silly notion that less is more and we’ll finally learn to appreciate a large behind for what it is, a symbol of prosperity (I can afford cheesecake) and happiness (I eat cheesecake). And, following the suggestion of satirist, Jen Lancaster, author of Bitter is the New Black, we could introduce a flat abs tax. Then we could all sign up for something more fun in the summer, like Boat Camp.