Sue was a bartender suffering from severe anorexia. She was paper thin, all skin and bones with big red hair teased out in every direction. When a friend told her she complained more than anyone he knew, she told him she knew someone worse.

She meant me.

I was dumbfounded. How could she say this [...]]]>

Sue was a bartender suffering from severe anorexia. She was paper thin, all skin and bones with big red hair teased out in every direction. When a friend told her she complained more than anyone he knew, she told him she knew someone worse.

She meant me.

I was dumbfounded. How could she say this about me? Up until the moment she relayed the story, I had never considered myself a complainer. Living outside New York City with my life in flux while my father lay dying, I was barely surviving each day. Teaching school early, after moonlighting as a hotel lounge manager, left very little time for sleep. I was always tired and often sick. Even so, I didn’t think I was unhappy or complaining.

Seeing myself through Sue’s eyes forced me to evaluate. Was I really that bad? Did I concentrate on the bad things in my life and complain too much? After my father’s death I moved to the Washington area, immersing myself in a new life.

Sue passed away two years later. During our last conversation, I tried to convince her I wasn’t a complainer anymore. Life could be so different. She had to find hope and fight to be well. I could tell she didn’t believe me, or didn’t want to believe me.

I’ve spent the last twenty years trying not to be negative, even when situations are at their worst. Mind you, I’m not trying to be positive. That might actually be too much for me.

Most of the time circumstances don’t go your way. You can’t change other people. In the back of my mind, I consciously consider whether Sue would think I was complaining. When you buy expensive tires then the car dies two days later, it’s the perfect opportunity to find the dream car you’ve always wanted. When scaffolding blocks the altar during your son’s communion celebration, you realize the physical space is not important. At the time, the situation might be upsetting, but you find a reason to put aside your bad thoughts and feelings.

Last year my arm ligament ripped, forcing a year of rehabilitation. People noticed and talked to me about their own recurring injuries. Due to their positive attitudes, I never suspected they were fighting pain on a daily basis. Finding others who live each day trying not to be negative was uplifting and made my injury bearable. My pain brought a profound gift of understanding about the strength we all have to endure.

Trying Not To Bneg means acknowledging the bad parts of life. It’s not a denial of your natural reactions of jealousy, anger, anxiety, fear and regret. It’s acceptance and control of these emotions followed by a concentrated effort to find a good outcome. As a jaded cynic, an optimistic outcome always surprises me.

I only wish Sue could have experienced the same bouts of hope. She grasped onto my negativity and wouldn’t let go. Thanks to her, I did.

The build up to the holidays can be stressful without any extraneous situations. With all my might I tried not to be negative during the week before Christmas, but many forces conspired against me.

I don’t know if I can.

Why am I kickboxing anyway? For a few years, my husband has been suggesting kickboxing whenever I lament my large “slavic thighs”. Joking about my [...]]]> My kickboxing instructor asked me to punch her. She wouldn’t punch back. She’s training for a big fight and needs to get used to being hit.

I don’t know if I can.

Why am I kickboxing anyway? For a few years, my husband has been suggesting kickboxing whenever I lament my large “slavic thighs”. Joking about my thigh genes being passed down for thousands of years to the women of my family, I have the legs of my mom and grandmother. They are the last hold out for my fat deposits, so I need to work them.

My instructor has started to talk to me about competition. An exhibition could eventually lead to sparing against other women. I hold back telling myself that I’m in it for the exercise.

During my third class I took her up on the offer to release my frustrations on the bag. Until that moment, I was just going through the physical motions. “What’s bothering you?” she yelled. With the thought of an annoying situation in my life, I really wailed on that leather bag. The sensation was scary. I’m afraid I’ll lose myself down the long dark tunnel of this aggressive world.

My instructor has a fourth degree black belt. She tells the story of the guy who came up to her with a knife one night. He said “Give me your bag.” She tried to warn him by saying “Don’t mess with me.” He decided to repeat “Give me your bag.” So she tossed it high in the air. When he went to grab it, she punched him hard, caught the bag, and took off. The thought of that kind of power hasn’t left my mind since I heard the story.

Imagine having such control and confidence.

So what’s it going to be? Can I really fight someone? Will I slip into this world and not recognize myself?

I’m still trying to figure out who I am. I must be alive.

Even though I just met her, I had to prove myself. This is me. I ride a motorcycle, hike, camp, and take the hard knocks in life standing up. Had I really never done anything “aggressive”? That couldn’t be true. [...]]]> The kickboxing instructor looked at me with distain. “You do yoga and running, but nothing aggressive?”

Even though I just met her, I had to prove myself. This is me. I ride a motorcycle, hike, camp, and take the hard knocks in life standing up. Had I really never done anything “aggressive”? That couldn’t be true. I stood there thinking and remembered judo in college. Yes, I had officially done something aggressive! I quickly explained that the girls refused to be my partner because they were afraid of me. I had to throw the guys and that was easier because the bigger they are the easier it is to get under their center of gravity and the harder they fall. Whew, passed the first test.

Why did it matter to me?

I didn’t know her and hadn’t even signed up yet. Obviously she’s the type of person I admire. Although small, she was straightforward and filled with a recognizable strength. Even more so, when I set my sights on something, I hate when someone thinks I can’t do it.

A long time ago, I took a simple personality quiz. The whole premise was that we all have characteristic traits from four areas. One is our strongest and one is our weakest with the other two in between. People spend their time trying to determine their personality, but that’s not what’s important. You need to concentrate on the person you are not. If by the end of your life you do not become your opposite, you will be unfulfilled.

My whole life I’ve been an overweight slug and I have the thighs to prove it. As I was turning 40, I decided to change. Other women told me that I shouldn’t bother to lose the weight, but I lost 50 pounds. For nine years I’ve practiced yoga, and I found the Thrive Yoga studio to help me reach a more advanced level. Two years ago, I started running on New Year’s Day and I’ve never missed going out a few times a week.

Fellow blogger, Amy Kimes, posted a link to her friend’s website about creating a personal vision board. With limited time, I answered the questions and created a personal vision statement which included kickboxing.

Throughout my life, I’ve ignored my physical well-being. In order to be complete, I need to be more adventurous. My instructor turned out to be a national champion in kickboxing. She trains, completes, and teaches in a few martial arts. I gave her hope that she could still have children in her 30’s and she inspired me to be totally fit.

Think about the person you want to be. Create a vision about where you would like to volunteer, what you dream of doing, what you would like to accomplish in work, and where you want to take your vacation.

Spend some time thinking about everything you don’t like to do. All those activities and situations you would never be caught dead trying. When you hear yourself saying “That’s not me”, take some time to determine why. Decide whether there are any barriers that might be stopping you from doing something fun, different, and challenging.

Most importantly, take it one year at a time — starting this year.

During a sleepover with the friend, my younger son nestled his three Bakugan on their magnetic cards on his desk [...]]]> The past several days I’ve been wrestling with a situation. One of my older son’s friends has taken my younger son’s toy. It’s not the first time. What do you do about a situation like this?

During a sleepover with the friend, my younger son nestled his three Bakugan on their magnetic cards on his desk when he went to sleep. My husband saw them there at bedtime. This was his toy of the moment. He carried the little balls everywhere. Since they’re magnetic they were even attached to his silverware at dinner. He had to earn 10 extra homework points to get them and this took 21 days. The number of days is etched on my mind because earning the toys was as stressful for me as it was for my son. This toy meant a lot to all of us.

The friend was sleeping over on a school night. Just as the older boys were about to go to middle school, the little one woke up and said his Bakugan were missing. He was trying to get the boy to show him where they were, but it was time for them to go to school. As the vehicle pulled away, my son started to wail and I understood what had occurred.

Just before they had left, I told the boy that he didn’t need to take his overnight duffle bag to school. He had this slight panicked look and involuntarily started to move toward it, then stopped. I noted that his reaction was odd at the time. He had been upstairs going back and forth between the bathroom and my son’s dark bedroom several times. Just as I went to ask him what he needed, he dodged downstairs for breakfast. The whole morning had this slightly unsettled feeling for me.

Since my son was crying, I immediately went to the duffle bag. The Bakugan weren’t there but under the clothes I found my son’s coin collection and his cub scout flashlight. Since he wasn’t crying about these items, I ignored them.

What do you do? All I wanted was for the Bakugan to come back. Bakugan were the main thing on his Christmas list and now he was without the few he had earned.

I called the parent and happily reported that they were off to school on time. Then I explained that my little guy was crying because he woke up and his toys were missing from his desk. I didn’t think my older son had moved them. Could he ask his son about it? There was worry on both sides about how to handle this, but still hope for a happy ending. However, a couple of phone calls later, I was told that they were in my house. The boy claimed they had been playing a keep-away-game where he held the Bakugan hostage. The boy didn’t remember anything. When I explained that he had been keeping them “hostage” in his hoodie pocket until my son removed them, there was some anger from the parent. The boy is willing to share a few of his Bakugan with us.

Even my little one said, “He is just trying to make himself feel better.” Yes, I explained, it’s called “alleviating guilt”.

No one wants for anyone to be upset. I’ve lost two nights sleep.

I haven’t mentioned the other items in the bag or the fact that one day last summer all my older son’s best Yu-gi-o cards disappeared. They had been playing with them and when the boy left my son went over to his decks on the table and all the best cards were gone. We didn’t say anything. We don’t want to start trouble or accuse a friend. You don’t know how to make that phone call. I made the call this time but the parent believes his boy would not lie. I’m struggling.

One part of me thinks I should just forget about it. We already accepted that we lost our best cards a long time ago. We are hoping that the Bakugan my mother-in-law bought for Christmas are an exact replacement. In the meantime, we gave him one of his Santa presents and frantically paid a fortune online to get another one delivered so that Santa doesn’t look bad. You can’t buy these toys in stores because they sell out immediately.

But what do I do next time the boy comes over to our house knowing that he has probably been taking things each time?

Do I frisk him down and go through his bag? Of course, I couldn’t do that in front of the dad. Okay, I can’t do it at all.

Do I talk with the boy myself? Tell him all I know? Warn him? It’s not my place. What good would it do? He lies to me about things all the time. You can’t have conversations like this with someone else’s child.

What if he starts to steal MY things? It’s an awful feeling. This is the feeling my sons have now. We all know what is happening.

The boy needs help. He needs to learn that he can’t take things. What if I don’t say anything and he gets arrested for taking something? Don’t I have a responsibility to try to teach him right from wrong? I care about this family.

I don’t want to l lose the friendship because they can never visit us again. I don’t want to lose the friendship because I tell the whole story and there is anger at me. Bad feelings will hang between us. I’ve spent days trying to find the right words. If I tell the whole story, I still won’t be able to trust the kid, and I probably will have lost a friend.

I want my sons to learn from this situation and I’m afraid that no matter what I do it will be wrong. Do I teach that you keep friends you don’t trust and let them take from you? Do you discard friends when they do wrong? Do you try to help someone with a problem? Can the boy really be helped?

I think I’m going to lose some more sleep.

For a long [...]]]> When I descend the stairs to the basement, my heart sinks. A sea of boxes clutters the unfinished footprint of our house. Many of my childhood possessions, including all my dolls, grow dusty and old. Up until now, I haven’t been able to part with them. Will I ever be rid of them?

For a long time I felt isolated from my past. My childhood and college years didn’t seem real. The whirlwind of kid and volunteer activities enveloped me and nothing existed before my present life as a mom in the suburbs. When I tried to describe the sensation to my husband, he didn’t understand my desire to embrace those distant, and often unhappy, days.

Last year, I peeked inside the basement boxes and remembered playing with the dolls and cleaning my room. The physical presence of the items reminded me of my parents’ divorce and my desire to leave that place. Then after many years without contact, I spent a couple of weekends with a good friend from college. Having someone else remember all the same exploits reaffirmed my memories, but also forced me to acknowledge the waywardness of my behavior. These connections to my past made me feel whole, but also brought pain.

The more I accept my past and talk about it, the more I’m convinced I can actually get rid of the boxes.

Perhaps we reach a point in our lives when it’s time for a spring cleaning. A good toss of all the shortcomings we’ve been carrying around since our childhood. In order to free ourselves, we need to confront our memories. By letting go, we can be the person we want to be.

Unencumbered by our mistakes and the missteps of others, we can make sure we are headed in the right direction to accomplish what we want with the rest of our lives. Although we may think we are on the right path, if we chose it many years ago, it may not lead to the life we want.

The old possessions can be donated or brought to the dump. I’m ready to trust that my past will always be with me without these material objects. Up until now I thought discarding these things would be a betrayal, as if I was turning my back on my family and our history. By accepting the good and the bad, the betrayal disappears.

Lately, I spend a great deal of time thinking about the person I want to be. Hopefully with a lighter load, moving on will be easier.

Since my dad always looked out for his [...]]]> “Don’t you think that’s dangerous?” my friend asked with a slight frown. Last week I excitedly signed up to take the Basic Riders Course required for a motorcycle license. Friends’ comments vary from cool to crazy, but this decision has been years in the making and it’s mine.

Since my dad always looked out for his little girl, he adamantly forbade me to get on the back of a bike. He had good reason to discourage motorcycles when the drivers were young and irresponsible. One afternoon when I was standing in my uncle’s barnyard in Upstate New York, one of the guys took the turn onto the bridge too fast. The motorcycle made it, but he didn’t. As I watched, his right leg was broken back in an unnatural position. The ambulance took forever while he screamed in pain then grew silent. We thought we were losing him until they started to cut off his jeans. He yelled, “I don’t have on any underwear!” His worry over this detail assured us that he was going to be fine. Dad’s warnings were justified.

Years later as an adult, my dad’s rule was very much on my mind when my husband asked me to ride. We were only dating back then, but I trusted him and jumped on the back of a bike. He would take me out over the mountains in rural Pennsylvania. Soaring over the hills with my arms around him was the most exhilarating feeling. I never wanted to let go.

After we had our first child, my husband took possession of one of his family’s bikes. With an authoritative attitude, I deemed the Washington, DC area too dangerous. As parents, it would be irresponsible for the both of us to get on a motorcycle. No need for my father’s warnings, my own apprehensions were taking precedent. My husband suggested I get a license. He rightly surmised that if I was on my own bike, I would agree to ride. Although an enticing idea, I was soon pregnant with our second son and it didn’t happen.

Last year I signed up for the motorcycle course but had to cancel because my husband took a different year-long work detail and we had to go away that week. Fighting a strong feeling that this was the end of it, I promised myself that in a year I would take the course. Now I’m signed up four months in advance, waiting for my reward.

The little voice in my head is very much warning me to be careful. Even so, there’s no doubt that my time to hit the road on two wheels is finally arriving, my very own motorcycle moment.

The public really frowns on affairs and [...]]]> This week I have decided that there is one and only one criteria when picking a spouse, the quality of the sex. Society deems it acceptable to go outside the marriage for every other facet of matrimony but not sex, so you had better make sure it is good.

The public really frowns on affairs and prostitution which is very evident in the media frenzy concerning former Gov. Spitzer this week. He apparently admits to both. You just can’t, can’t, can’t go outside the marriage for sex. Think about it, for everything else it is perfectly fine.

If your spouse doesn’t like to talk, you can talk to a friend. Why stop at one friend? Find a bunch. We all have cell phones. I always wonder who everyone is talking to when they almost run me off the road. It can’t always be a spouse. You can also depend on family members like siblings, mothers, fathers, or aunts. Talking with a trustworthy individual about all sorts of personal subjects is completely acceptable. You can have a best friend in your corner to support you in everything that you do. Society will not blink an eye at the relationship.

If your spouse won’t support your career path, then find a mentor, depend on a coworker, or get a counselor. Recently I even read an article on “work spouses”. People actually admit that they are very close to someone of the opposite sex at work, confide in them, go out with them, watch each other’s backs, discuss everyone else at the office, and basically share everything. I’d never been in one of these, but I think about Jim and Pam on “The Office”. All said and done, this type of relationship seems to be accepted by people.

How about if your spouse is a terrible cook? What about if you both hate to cook? If you are really rich, you can hire one. There’s always the possibility of takeout every night or going out to eat. Fast food restaurants or prepared meals from the supermarket are also extremely easy options. You needn’t marry someone who can cook.

Same goes for cleaning. You can always hire a cleaning service. Both spouses can be pigs.

You may not agree on financial matters but there really is only so much money, so you are forced to work these problems out.

If you belong to different political parties or religions, it’s alright to go your separate ways and follow your heart. Want to play a sport that your spouse hates? Go right ahead and join a team. You can watch sports with your friends too and yell your head off. If you love books, join a book club. Thank goodness for ipods if you like completely different types of music and you can always go to a concert with a fellow fan.

Society really doesn’t care.

You do have to agree on whether to have children or not but there are countless instances of infertility or accidents that change people’s plans. This one is not entirely up to the couple but there should be agreement, or at least nieces and nephews you can borrow if need be.

Thinking about having kids, brings me back to sex. You can’t go elsewhere for this one, so it sure better be knock your socks off as in “I never imagined it could be this excellent in my wildest dreams.” It’s the one and only thing you must exclusively get from your spouse so no other criteria matters when getting married.

Believe me, I never thought I would say this because it sounds so shallow and purely physical. Since sex really is the most absolutely awesome thing you can do, why wouldn’t you make it your number one priority for your entire married life when you know you can’t get it anywhere else?