Category: Finding Peace

You Can Call Me Al…Bundy

Luke sleeping like Al Bundy

I am not your stereotypical female. I hate idle chit chat. I despise shopping for shopping’s sake. I am completely inept at accessorizing. Girly, romantic movies make me retch. And, the truth is that I suck at two roles traditionally associated with women: 1) taking care of others and 2) being aware of and concerned about other people’s feelings. Before you imagine that I am being overly unkind to myself, let me just openly admit than in the past few years two of my immediate family members (both female) blatantly called me out for these things. Sadly, I had to accept that they could not both be incorrect and that I must be somewhat uncaring and insensitive, albeit unintentionally so.

Steve and I have joked for years that in every friendship we share with another couple, instead of relating more to the wife, I normally think more like the husband. (Yes. That means Steve and I share the pants in the family.) Sad, but true. Despite being born physically and obviously female, I missed out on the sensitivity gene normally provided to women. I’d like to be sad about it and apologize, but I just don’t give a flying fig. And, this is how I know I’m not your stereotypical woman. I normally don’t obsess over feelings. In fact, I often don’t notice them. I often am puzzled when people are offended by things I do or say or don’t do or don’t say. Beyond that, I don’t care what others think of me. It matters not if anyone likes my outfit or thinks my chocolate cake is the best cake they’ve ever tasted (it is, by the way). If a family member or friend doesn’t speak to me for weeks, I don’t worry about what I might have done to offend them. I simply figure they’ve been too busy to contact me. Sometimes, my assumptions are wrong. Because I am (at least technically) female, other women occasionally take offense that I don’t recognize their cues and work to acknowledge their feelings. It’s been a problem for some of them.

Today I was talking on and off with both my sisters, one of whom is getting married and the other of whom is going through a divorce. They both have a lot on their plates right now, so I am consciously working toward being a more caring, sensitive person. It is not easy for me. Currently, in all my relationships, when someone is telling me something and my mind starts its trek to the usual LaLa Land it inhabits while filtering out information that doesn’t directly affect me, I direct it to pay attention, listen, and provide support. It’s an arduous endeavor for me.

While working on dinner tonight, I was shuffling around, barely functioning. I kept turning in circles trying to figure out what I was supposed to be working on. I would leave the room to collect something only to get where I was supposed to find it and not have a clue why I was even there. It went beyond the normal old-age, forget-my-head-if-it-wasn’t-attached mom confusion. Even Steve noticed it.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You seem off.”

“I’m so tired. I talked to my sisters today.”

Steve, knowing how I am working to be a more competent, attentive listener, simply nodded his head.

“When I have to think about people’s feelings, I get exhausted,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

I paused to consider that statement and then went back to cutting the stems off the broccoli because the males in my household only like the fluffy broccoli tree tops that hold all the sauce.

I’m working on being a better woman, on taking better care of others and considering people’s feelings. I don’t think I will ever be as caring and sensitive as some would like me to be, but at least I’m trying. I would also like to remind those who would like to see me change that everyone has something to offer. Sometimes insensitivity can be a good thing. If I weren’t as clueless and insensitive as I am, my family members’ comments to me about my perceived negative personality traits might have damaged our familial relationships. There’s something to be said for acting like a guy and not taking everything so personally. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go sit on the couch, drink a beer, and scratch myself.

 

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Homegrown Valentine’s Day Solution

Why having two sons is worth it.

I hate Valentine’s Day. My disdain for this pseudo holiday is well-documented and goes back many, many years. It’s a day rife with limitless expectations and impossible demands, which means most people come away from it highly disappointed. Since I lowered my Valentine’s Day expectations to less than nothing (an event which occurred sometime around February 15, 1992), I no longer have any investment in this day whatsoever. I’ve determined that February 14th is simply an excuse to eat conversation hearts, and I’m good with that.

Today, though, my youngest son came home from school and pulled something out of his backpack. He was bursting with excitement and handed it to me. It was a folded card, colored on the front with a handwritten note on the back. This is the first time that I’ve received something from Luke in his own words and his own handwriting. I was blown away, not just because it was neatly written but also because nearly everything was spelled correctly. He didn’t even have any run-on or fragmented sentences. So proud. As I sat there reading and re-reading the note, it occurred to me that I finally had received what I wanted on Valentine’s Day…a heartfelt, unsolicited note of appreciation.

When I recall all those years I sat around hoping a guy would say something nice to me on Valentine’s Day and truly mean it without ulterior motive, all those years I wanted someone to open up with a mushy sentiment without any prompting from me, I realize that my expectations were skewed. No one was going to appreciate me the way I hoped they would. They were coming from their own view point, a view point which no doubt had largely been sketched out by the women who existed in their lives before I did. I needed more time. I needed time to have sons. I needed someone who would love me unconditionally and see the good in me before recognizing the flaws. I needed a blank canvas, untainted by past experiences. It took me so long to find the right Valentine because, apparently, I simply needed enough time to raise the right man for the job. 😉

 

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Stick a Fork in Me

A glimpse of the back side of Colorado's most photographed location, Maroon Bells, as seen from Paradise Bowl in Crested Butte on a perfect ski day. Doesn't get much better than this.

After a short but fun-packed weekend, I am officially done. I’ve been sitting here, staring at this screen for what seems like hours trying to dream up something to write about. But, I’m done. D-O-N-E kind of done. I’m effete from a couple days’ worth of skiing, overindulging, and missing out on good sleep. (Note to self: slopeside rooms, with their amazing views, also gratuitously include the rumble and beeping of snowcats grooming the slopes at 3:30 a.m.). So, I am going to admit defeat tonight and go to bed early. I hope you will forgive me my exhaustion.

I will leave you with this beautiful photo of Colorado that I took with my iPhone yesterday and this quote that summarizes why I will always be a mountain girl.

“Mountains are not stadiums where I satisfy my ambition to achieve. They are the cathedrals where I practice my religion…I go to them as humans go to worship. From their lofty summits I view my past, dream of the future and, with an unusual acuity, am allowed to experience the present moment…my vision cleared, my strength renewed. In the mountains I celebrate creation. On each journey I am reborn.”  ~Anatoli Boukreev

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Do These Monkeys Make Me Look Fat?

This is what I do to the monkeys I pluck off my back. Paybacks are a bitch.

“Out of the strain of the doing, into the peace of the done.”  ~Julia Louis Woodruff

I’m wiped out. Normally I am wiped out because I get in a good workout or take a hot yoga class or become mentally exhausted dealing with my kids. Today, however, I am bushed because I cleaned my house. I mean, really cleaned it. In an attempt to get some monkeys off my back, I finally took care of things that had been bothering me for months. I vacuumed behind furniture. I dusted wood blinds. I hand-washed floors. I cleaned baseboards. I wiped off the spindles on the staircase. I was a woman possessed. As I crossed items off my mental checklist, I felt myself getting lighter and lighter as the monkeys became fewer and fewer.

As I was doing all these things, I reflected on why I go so long in between these tasks. Why do I let the monkeys pile up? I decided it all comes down to choices. It’s as if I have some unwritten mental hierarchy of things I detest. When I’m faced with two different options, my brain will consistently choose the task I’ve determined to be less despicable, even if the margin between the two choices is barely perceptible. Walk the dog or clean the bathroom? Walk the dog. Clean the bathroom or wash the floors? Clean the bathroom. Wash the floors or dust the blinds. Wash the floors. This same pattern holds true of personal chores. I’d rather pay the bills than schedule a dental appointment, but I’d rather wash my car than pay the bills. Things I hold the greatest disdain for wait the longest for my attention.

In the end, though, my intense hatred for the monkeys wins out. Eventually, whatever it is I’ve been avoiding will weigh me down until I feel it will flatten me. When I reach my limit, I flip a switch and go into a manic state, and I start tossing monkeys. That’s what happened to me today. My opportunity to snowshoe drizzled away while I scrubbed the shower floor. The chance to hit my yoga mat for an hour zipped by while my vacuum and I attacked stairs and sucked up cobwebs. Before I knew it, the entire day was over. And, for once, I did have something to show for it. My house is so clean right now I’m afraid that when my sister visits on Friday she’ll ask me if we’ve hired a cleaning service. I’m also afraid that my husband will now recognize that I am capable of cleaning and getting a tasty, well-balanced meal on the table; I fear he might begin to expect this on a regular basis. (Good luck to him if that’s the case.)

The most amazing thing happens when I truly apply myself and give something all my attention. I find I can accomplish a lot and accomplish it with great success. Okay. So I didn’t get in an official workout today, and I skipped my shower. It’s all good. It was all worth it. As I sit here writing this, I feel peaceful and about 10 monkeys lighter as I look around my dustless, dog-hair free, neat bedroom. Okay. Maybe it is just exhaustion and not peace, but I’ll take it. Look out, monkeys. Now that I remember how relatively pain-free it is to get rid of you, you might just have to find another host to carry you around.

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The Fine Art of Accepting the Unacceptable

My nightmares often include my son Luke sitting in a dental chair

“Some people confuse acceptance with apathy, but there’s all the difference in the world. Apathy fails to distinguish between what can and what cannot be helped. Acceptance makes that distinction. Apathy paralyzes the will-to-action; acceptance frees it by releasing it of impossible burdens.”          ~ Arthur Gordon

In each and every calendar year, there are two days that I dread with every fiber of my being. They happen at roughly six month intervals. And, while I appreciate having some distance between them, all that really means for me is that by the time I’ve mostly healed from the scar of the last time I get to do it again. What are these heinous days of which I speak? Why, they’re D-Days…the days my sons get to go for their bi-yearly dental visits.

Before I go any further, please understand that I love my sons’ pediatric dentist and the entire staff at Southwest Pediatric Dentistry and Orthodontics as much as any person (other than a sadist) could love a dentist. They are the most helpful, professional, gentle adults, and their patience with my boys certainly qualifies them for sainthood, or at least knighthood. It’s hard to get any young boy to sit still in a dental chair for work. It’s nearly impossible to get a boy with ADHD to stay still and pay attention long enough for a proper dental cleaning. When Dr. Jim had to get braces on Joe’s teeth two years ago, I thought I would never recover from the trauma. And, Joe is my good dental patient.

Luke is a veritable nightmare at the dentist. He has an unbelievable gag reflex. In fact, as both Dr. Scott and the Mother Theresa-esque hygienist Kristy told me today, Luke is by far THE worst gag reflex patient either of them has ever seen. Ever. How’s that for a claim to fame for your child? Luke’s gag reflex is attributable to several things, a perfect storm of issues: 1) an actual oral defensiveness to textures and touch , 2) an oversensitivity to smells that makes so many things nauseating for him, 3) an active imagination (he can see something that grosses him out and puke as if on command…like the time he saw the preview for the film How To Eat Fried Worms and promptly vomited in the theater), and 4) a now-ingrained mental condition that makes him gag the minute the dentist or hygienist ask him to open his mouth. Luke has puked on poor Kristy before. And on me. And on Dr. Scott. I never leave these visits without a headache. I often find myself in the car afterwards in tears, full of frustration, dentist bill in my hand, beating my head against my steering wheel while my son watches with still uncleaned teeth.

Luke has done occupational therapy to combat his oral defensiveness. I’ve researched herbal remedies and acupuncture to see if those might be able to help. I’ve actually considered hypnotherapy for him. Can you do that with an 8 year old? Today, Dr. Scott suggested that next time we sedate Luke with nitrous oxide to see if that will help. Of course, insurance won’t cover that but if it works it would be worth it. I considered asking Dr. Scott if he could hook me up next visit too. Even if it’s not covered, at least with the nitrous I could relax a little in that office for once. Then, Dr. Scott casually mentioned that it is his job to prepare Luke for the approximately three years of orthodontics he expects Luke will need. Looking on the bright side, Dr. Scott told me that he’s fairly certain that by the time Luke is finished with braces his gag reflex will mostly likely be under control. What he failed to quip about is that by the time Luke is finished with braces I won’t care about his gag reflex anymore because I’ll be heavily sedated wearing a white coat with sleeves that attach in the back.

A while back I mentioned that I had seven mantras I was working on this year. One of them is “Practice Acceptance.” Practicing acceptance means letting go of the desire to be in control. That is what I have to do on Dentist Days. I practice accepting Joe’s ADHD tics and Luke’s crazy gag reflex. I practice accepting that this is who they are. It’s nothing they’re doing intentionally. They can’t help it. They’re not bad kids. These are simply their crosses to bear. They’re mine too, at least until they turn 18. I’ve been going through this with them since they were infants. Back then, it was frustrating. I didn’t understand. I got annoyed by it easily. As they got older, I got better at recognizing it for what it was, but it still embarrassed and aggravated me. It’s taken me nearly 11 years, but I am now able to accept these issues for what they are. Issues. We all have them. I don’t like it, but I have to live with it.

In the grand scheme of things, I know it’s not the worst thing I could have to handle with my boys. They’re healthy, able-bodied, sharp-minded kids. We’re making progress, oh-so-slowly but definitely surely. We’ll get it figured out eventually. I’ve never liked the saying “It is what it is” because it seems so lazy. But, in these situations, that phrase is completely valid. So, I’m going to continue working to accept the situation not out of apathy but instead with the understanding that not accepting it places an unreasonable burden on my two great kids who are just doing the best they can with what they’ve been given.

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One of Those Days

Three of the myriad good things in my life

Today was One of Those days. And, I flipping hate Those days. It began the minute I accidentally wiped mascara on this darling pair of cream-colored, boot-cut corduroy pants I threw on to wear to Muffins with Mom at my boys’ school. It normally takes me forever to pick out something I feel confident in, and yet here was this outfit I really liked and subsequently ruined in seconds. Ugh. Found a substitute pair of slacks, grabbed a jacket, and headed downstairs.

Upon arriving downstairs I see the boys pointing at something in the family room. Now what? Sure enough. There on the new rug was a large pile dog puke. Of course. Why not? It was going to be One of Those days. The deal was sealed. I struggled my way through clean up and got us out of the house quickly for fear that I might accidentally set the house on fire.

The rest of the day continued in classic Those days style. Once we got to school, I realized I’d forgotten something I was supposed to bring and would now get to run home and bring back. I spent thirty minutes selecting and checking out library books for the boys’ next book reports only to find out when they got home that their teachers had already picked books for them. My cold got worse by the hour. I found out some work I had spent a fair amount of time on yesterday didn’t actually need to be completed at all. There was some crying and a small tantrum on my part. I wallowed in self-imposed misery for a bit. But all those moments are in the past now.

What saved my attitude today was a yoga class, my one respite in an otherwise dismal day. Our instructor, Carol, talked about how often we focus on the negative rather than the positive. She mentioned how easy it is to be feeling confident and successful in class and then accidentally fall out of a posture and let that one misstep sully the entire class. I am so guilty of that kind of thinking. It’s easy to have ten things, nine of them amazing and one of them bad, and only to focus our attention on what’s wrong rather than on the abundance of what’s right.

So, tonight before I fall asleep I am making it my personal goal to erase the image that today was One of Those days. Today was what it was. No less, no more. I don’t have to feel sad about it or carry it with me into tomorrow. I can be at peace with it and let it go. I can focus on right here, right now. And, right here, right now I’m happily tucked into bed next to the best person I have ever known. My sweet and funny boys are resting peacefully down the hall. I live in a cozy house with a view that I cherish. I have incredible friends who make me laugh and bolster me when my day sucks by telling me at 3 p.m. that Wine O’Clock is always available. I have good health, a body that can do amazing things, and a brain that appreciates and rises to challenges. I’m fortunate in a million and a half ways. Today was just not one of them.

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Trust Falls

Looking for the silver lining in my cloud

On January 1st, in the spirit of everything zen, I made myself a list of mantras to repeat this year. They are meant to guide me toward achieving greater personal peace in 2012. I printed the list out and stuck it on my closet door as a daily reminder. My seven mantras are:

1) Soften

2) Be Grateful

3) Adventure

4) Trust

5) Be Still

6) Practice Acceptance

7) Listen Beyond the Words

I plan to blog about each of these seven mantras at some point during the year. Today I am struggling mightily with the idea of trust, so it gets to be my first victim.

I am a trusting person. I want to believe the best about people. Most times I’m not disappointed. Sometimes, though, I get kicked around for trusting some who should not have been supplied the benefit of the doubt. To combat my very trusting nature, the universe provided me with a defense mechanism, the ability to not care what most others think of me. When most people break my trust, it doesn’t bother me. In my life, there are a mere handful who are capable of hurting me by pointing out or taking advantage of my weaknesses. Unfortunately, some of the handful have pushed me to a point where I doubt them.

And, this is why trust is on my mantra list. Sometimes I feel like Charlie Brown with that stupid football. He knows in his heart that Lucy will pull that football away each time. He tries to be strong, to deny her the opportunity. He knows he will end up feeling like a fool. He knows she thinks he’s an idiot for falling for it repeatedly. But, Charlie Brown is ultimately a kind soul with a trusting heart. He gives in to his optimism, and let’s Lucy hold the ball for him. Of course, she does pull it away at the last second and laughs as he lands on his back with a resounding thud. With the people I love, I am Charlie Brown. I want so badly to trust them that I give second and third and fourth chances. It’s careless. Sometimes I get hurt and wind up cursing myself for not trusting my instincts and protecting myself against what I was absolutely certain would happen. But, I’m Charlie Brown, so I give in to the idea that people can change and that what has happened before may not necessarily happen again.

What I am pondering today, though, is this: am I optimistic for giving second and third chances to people who’ve repeatedly proven me wrong or am I insane for putting myself time and time again into the same situation and expecting different results? I suppose there are plenty of people in my life who would opt for the insanity defense in my case. But, I can’t help but think that what keeps me giving people the benefit of the doubt is that I deeply want them to rise to the occasion and not kick the crap out of me again even though they know they can. I’m still waiting for that moment of triumph when I know that my risk in trusting was worth it.

I guess I am too much like Charlie Brown, doomed to endure those ridiculous, epic-fail place kicks at the hands of that conniving Lucy. Even though I get hurt, I’m simply not ready to close myself off and give up on the people I love. It might be a trifle hippie, love-child, Woodstock-ish, but I’m just going to sit around singing Kumbaya and participating in trust falls until the day I don’t fall flat.

 

 

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She’s Alive

Hubby in the midst of fixing our Sirena Espresso Machine

I went to early yoga this morning. At 8 a.m. I was on my mat, ready to face my day, lighten my heart, loosen up my hamstrings, and stretch the sleep out of my body. The boys had woken me up particularly early and rather than be grumpy about it, I decided to embrace the day. When I saw my favorite yoga instructor was subbing at an 8 a.m. class, I thought it might be the universe speaking to me. It was. The message that Venus (how’s that for a perfect yoga instructor name?) shared with us this morning was exactly what I needed to hear. The whole hour flew by, and I left the studio with an open mind, feeling ready for whatever the universe might have for me.

Good thing too because when I got home hubby had our Sirena espresso machine on the counter. I immediately cringed. There is a long story about this machine. It was a replacement hubby talked me into that ended up breaking a few months after we got it, forcing us to buy a replacement machine for our replacement machine. This broken machine sat in Steve’s office for nearly two years. Every time I walked by it, it taunted me. Steve could not find a place that could repair it.

This past week Steve was having a conversation with his boss about espresso machines, and the Sirena came up. Steve told Sonny that he hadn’t been able to find a way to get it serviced. Sonny, logical guy he is, asked Steve why he didn’t just fix it himself. Apparently, this thought had not yet occurred to Steve. So this morning while I was being enlightened at yoga, Steve was preparing for battle with this machine, this little burr that had been slowly digging its way under his flesh for over 70o days.

I tried not to be negative when Steve removed the lid of the beast with a screwdriver. I tried not to think that he might be putting the final nail in the Sirena’s coffin as he tinkered around with it. I chose to stand back and see how things developed. Steve, while quite smart and capable, is not your typical Mr. Fix It. The way I had it figured, though, the machine was already broken and apparently no one else was interested in fixing it, so what did I have to lose?

On and off in between other things, Steve spent the entire day with that troublesome espresso maker. He reviewed online manuals. He watched videos about it. He stared intently into its inner workings as if the answer would magically appear. He found a pin that he come loose from somewhere inside the machine. We knew that must be the key to the problem. I’d leave for a while, come back, and find him standing over that machine waiting for the solution to come to him. He fixed a couple other minor issues within the black beast while he waited for the universe to reveal the answer to him. Finally late this afternoon we discovered where that stupid pin belonged and put it back in place. Steve reassembled it. And tonight, two years after her breakdown, we each enjoyed a decaf latte in celebration of Steve’s grand accomplishment and Sirena’s resuscitation.

This morning’s epiphanic yoga class was about expectation and how we need to let go of it. I am especially guilty of putting expectations on things, things which the universe is under no obligation to provide for me. I spent the class thinking about how often I set my expectations too high and am disappointed. The whole Sirena incident, however, reminded me that sometimes expectations work against us in another way; sometimes, we set our expectations too low and keep ourselves from achieving things we could if we simply tried.

 

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Hobo Sapiens

If hubby had his way, this would be in our dining room.

We bought the dining room set we have now back in 1996 when we were first married. We purchased it at Bergner’s department store in Peoria, Illinois, for $500. It has survived several moves, two boys, and a border collie puppy with a penchant for chewing wood. But, as tables go, it’s seen better days. For years now we’ve discussed getting a new dining table. I suppose we put it off because after your kids have stabbed your table with forks, colored on it with Sharpies, and stuck things to it with Krazy Glue, you start to wonder if spending money on a nicer table is such a brilliant idea.

Still, it’s time. To that end, we’ve been furniture shopping. The problem is that hubby and I don’t necessarily agree on what constitutes a “nice” dining room table. Originally, he was pushing for a dining room table with a brushed, stainless steel top. I told him he’d been hanging out in too many Chipotle restaurants. I wanted a wood dining table, something simple with clean lines. He couldn’t get over his idea of having metal somewhere in the mix, even though I told him repeatedly that we are not hipsters living in an upscale, downtown loft. He argued that our dining room isn’t formal (true) and that most of our furniture is clean and simple (also true). He thinks a metal and wood set would blend the stainless in our house with the wood we already have (true again). We’d finally found a set at Room and Board that I was fairly certain I could live with, even though it was a bit more modern than I originally preferred. Marriage is all about compromise, right?

Then tonight he showed me something new.

“What do you think of this dining table?” hubby asked, showing me a photo of a reclaimed wood table with pointy, metal legs and wooden benches. I rolled my eyes.

“I’m looking for a dining table. NOT a picnic table. What are you? A hobo?” was my response.

“No. A hobo doesn’t spend time negotiating with his wife about dining room tables. He just quietly eats his food right out of his bandana on a stick.”

My eyes rolled again. (They do that involuntarily sometimes.)

“It’s made of reclaimed wood,” he said, sounding as if that was something to write home about.

“Ummmmm….you know the table we’re trying to replace? If I sand it and restain it, I’m pretty sure I could call that reclaimed wood too. I want a new table. I haven’t waited all these years to get a real dining room picnic table.”

“It’s NOT a picnic table,” he replied.

“It has benches,” I pointed out.

“So?”

“So, while I’m sure the pilgrims and indians sat at benches at the first Thanksgiving dinner, I don’t want people sitting on benches at my dining room table on Thanksgiving in 2012. If we’re upgrading to a better table, I think we should list chairs as a necessity.”

“It says here we can order chairs instead of benches. And…it’s made in Denver,” he offered as if that would change my mind.

“Listen…I’ve already conceded as much as I’m going to about this table. I’m willing to go with metal and wood, but not THAT way. It’s either the Room and Board table or we go back to an all wooden table.”

Stymied, he went back to the Room and Board web site to look at the agreed upon table. A few minutes later he piped up again.

“Well, at least this table is made in Wisconsin. That’s something.”

Yes it is. It’s a sign that we might actually get a new table sometime in the next decade. I have no intention of eating out of a bandana if I don’t have to.

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Not Just For Hippies Anymore

Perfect morning for some skiing

This morning, I escaped. I put gas in the car, dropped the boys at school, and headed up I-70 to Loveland. It was my first time on skis this season, not because I haven’t wanted to ski but because I’m reluctant to spend good money to scuff up my skis on exposed rocks. Seeing that Loveland finally had a 43″ base, I decided it was worth the trip.

I got a perfect parking spot in the third row in the lot so I didn’t have far to walk. I had my ticket on my jacket already, so I skied right to the lift without any hassle. There were no lift lines so I hopped right on Lift 2 and rode straight up to Bennett’s Bowl. It’s normally a bit icy up there so close to the Continental Divide at 12,000 feet, but it wasn’t bad at all. The sun was out. There was a light breeze and some powder left to be had. The day was shaping up quite nicely.

About halfway through my fourth run, something amazing occurred to me. My legs weren’t tired. As an occasional skier, I’m used to my legs getting tired (okay, okay, my quads actually burn) when I ski. But, I was busting out runs without having to stop to rest. On the ride up in my car, I was planning for a short day because I’d put in about 20 miles in exercise between Monday and Tuesday and experience has shown that I’m good for next to nothing on my third consecutive day of cardio. But, it wasn’t until my 10th run that I finally started to fatigue. I put in three solid hours on the slopes riding up and skiing down. Then, satisfied with my ski morning, I hopped in my car so I would be home in time to shower and pick up my kids from school.

On the drive home I was feeling a bit puffed up by my awesomeness. I’m going to be 44 in a few months. It was my first day on the slopes all season, and it was pleasantly pain free. When I got home, I was unloading my car and wiping down my skis when I spied my yoga mat. Suddenly it all became very clear for me. This past Saturday was my yogaversary. Two years ago on January 21st, 2010, I stepped on a yoga mat for the first time and my life changed. That mat in the back of my car is the reason why I can bust out a day as an occasional skier without pain. Yoga is my cross-training secret. No matter what sport I am doing, as long as I’m practicing yoga two to three times a week I’m set.

Yoga is a gift. It clears my head, balances my spirit, tones and stretches my muscles, and brings me peace. I’m stronger now at 43 than I was at 33. Yoga is the only explanation for this phenomena that makes sense. I can do the things I do in my 40s, like lift my 60 pound son and ski and cycle without pain, because I practice yoga. So much of who I am today is tied to this profound ancient practice. If you haven’t already, you really should try it. If you stick with it for a couple classes, you’ll thank me. You know, it’s not just for hippies anymore.

 

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