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.

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.

 

I was at the gym today, riding the exercise bike, wearing my headphones, and reading a magazine when an older gentleman walked by me. I don’t normally notice what others are doing at the gym, but this gentleman got my attention because he stopped right in front of my bike. He paused for a moment, quite obviously checking out what I was reading. Then he looked directly at me, raised his eyebrows, and continued on with a smile. I wasn’t sure exactly what to make of his actions. I suppose it’s possible he was impressed. Maybe he’d never seen a woman reading articles in The Economist before? Perhaps he was surprised I could ride, read, and listen to my iPod at the same time? Maybe he wasn’t entirely sure a blonde could read at all and he was shocked? I’ll never know because I kept right on pedaling.

The whole wordless encounter had the wheels in my brain spinning as fast as I was spinning that bike, though. That man’s bemused countenance, although it shouldn’t have, flat out bugged me. I’d love to assume that his smile was full of compliment and not condescension, but I don’t believe that. I think he was judging me with both his surprise and his amusement. I didn’t like it.

We are too quick to put people into a box based on our own prejudices and preconceived notions. I know I have a grand time doing this. Truth is, though, no one fits neatly into any category. We’re all unique and interesting with our quirks and preferences. I went to college in liberal Boulder where I studied the arts. I recycle like a woman possessed. I bag my own groceries with cloth bags. I love to practice yoga. Although all those things have a friend convinced I’m something of a hippie, I would counter that my intense dislike of patchouli, tie dye, and Birkenstocks puts me firmly on the outside of traditional hippie culture. I’m a Democrat, but I am against the Estate Tax and want to see wasteful government programs and subsidies suspended. I’m an introvert who will stand up and speak in front of groups. I hate spiders but will capture a snake stuck in our window well. I’m an enigma wrapped in a riddle. Aren’t we all?

A while back I was recounting to a friend my annoyance when I tell someone I’m a stay-at-home mom and that announcement effectively ends our conversation. My friend’s response was, “Why do you tell them that, then?”  That was a light bulb moment for me. Why do I wrap myself up in the mantle of stay-at-home mom and then scorn others who then think of me solely in that fashion? What other choice did I give them? Sure. I’m a mom. But, I’m also much more. Who I am is not reflected in any one thing I do but evident in my complexity. Why do I fold myself into such a neat little package for others when I’m claustrophobic to begin with? I think we’d all be much happier if we unboxed ourselves and took more time to unwrap others as well.

My sister got an iPhone this weekend. It’s funny how fast technology can take hold of a person. It seems like just yesterday she was questioning me about how to set up  iCloud, and today she used Siri to call me. Wait. It was just yesterday she was asking me about iCloud. See what I mean?

I realized after talking to my sister today that Siri may just replace me as our family’s resident know-it-all.

Kathy: “Siri is amazing. I asked her to remind me to get the license plates, and she actually said What time would you like to me remind you? I told her 2 p.m. and she put it on my calendar. And then I said Call Justine and she did. She’s the best personal assistant ever. Wonder what else I can ask her?”

Me: “You can ask her anything. You can ask her about movies you might want to see or get information on the nearest sushi place. You can have her give you Aunt Helen’s address or put together your shopping list. Wait a minute. Wait just one minute. Something amazing just occurred to me.”

Kathy: “What?”

Me: “Now that you have Siri you’re going to be annoying me a lot less.”

Kathy: “Excuse me?”

Me: “With phone calls, I mean. You know, the ones where you treat me like I’m your personal Google? Now when you have a question about who sings that Don’t You Want Me song, Siri can tell you it’s The Human League and you won’t have to call and ask me about it.”

Kathy: “Huh. I hadn’t thought that.”

Me: “WOOHOO!!! Free at last! Free at last. I thank god I’m free at last!”

Kathy: “Wow. I had no idea you were so vexed by my phone calls.”

Me: “Think of all the free time I’ll have now. I’ll finally be able to take that trip I’ve always wanted to go on but couldn’t take for fear you’d be lost without me.”

Kathy: “Don’t make ask Siri to hang up on you.”

Siri’s entry as the fourth sister in our family is going greatly lessen my frustration at being everyone’s go-to answer person. I can use annoyance reduction wherever I can get it. I thought I might be jealous that Kathy got the iPhone 4S while I was stuck with my lowly iPhone 4, but now I see how shortsighted that thought was. I don’t need the 4S. I merely need every other person in my life to get one so they’ll stop pestering me. Siri may be everyone else’s personal assistant, but she’s my new best friend.