Sunday, April 18, 2010

"But I'm Going to be 40." "When??" "Some day!"

Whenever it is appropriate, I like to use quotes from "When Harry Met Sally." Script-wise, it is some of the greatest dialogue ever penned. All hail Nora Ephron.

What does this particular quote have to do with this particular day? Well, I woke up this morning cranky as a recently sheered sheep and although I was somewhat sleep deprived, I couldn't quite put my finger on the pulse of my discontent.

Then it hit me. I am approximately 3 months away from my 36th birthday. And approximately 30 pounds away from my goal weight. Ok, really I'm only 20 away from where I was at my greatest shape, but I like to lop that extra 10 lbs on there just to really stress myself out and totally self-deprecate.

Now you ask, what does this have to do with Atypical Mother's main focus which is being a somewhat left of center parental unit to a somewhat atypical child? Well, I'll tell you. I kind of forgot that the equation of parenting actually includes me, ie. I need to remind myself continually that being a good parent does not just mean making sure that my child is happy -- it also includes keeping me happy. Huh. Amazing the clarity that comes with age. (Or is it dementia? I'm not entirely sure.)

But the moniker Atypical was never meant to just incorporate the behavioral and developmental challenges we experience with little man, it was also meant to incorporate the usually quirky way I go about doing things. For example, I am probably the only mother at school who looks forwards to any occasion to rock victory rolls; I just watered my flowers with a mason jar; my child sat under an art market table yesterday assisting in the sale of our wares like some gypsy waiting to get back into his caravan; I really want to sell everything we own and move to a far away land. I don't fit the mold, and I like it that way.

Let's face it, the days of the "American Ideal" where we all live in houses in the burbs with a 3.5 member family, a dog, 2 cars and a dual and steady income are basically over. Not that that was ever my goal. Don't get me wrong, I have killed myself over the years to ensure stability and a sense of security in our home, but I have always been of the mind set that home is not where you live but who you are with and where your heart resides. Call it a by-product of moving around. A lot.

So when I think about my pipe dreams, I am caught somewhere between longing and determination. See, I haven't given up on those pipe dreams. I don't believe in giving up on pipe dreams. Regardless of your age, your financial situation, or how many you have hanging on your apron strings, I firmly believe, in the infallible words of Eleanor Roosevelt, you are never to old to be what you were going to be.

Being relentlessly predisposed to dramatic overtures and lots of time under bright lights on a stage, I still have the want for the following: to sing with my husband, cut a record with my husband, be in a play and dance in a musical, with a group, with children...wherever. I want my son surrounded by music, creativity and plenty of interpretation.

Still what does this have to do with my age and, subsequently, my weight goals? Well, all this recent talk of body image (from my beloved cauldron gals: Kitschen Bitsch and Shades of Gray) and from the fashion world (which I covered ever so lightly back in February on Frock Paper Scissors), got me thinking about my own body image. There is nothing more motivating than positive reinforcement and negative proof, as much as we may hate to admit it.

Weight has always "stood in my way." No, I've never been a skinny girl. I was on my first diet in the first grade -- seriously. It was an 1800 calorie a day diet and it allowed me no sweets but one scoop of vanilla ice cream at the end of the day. To drink, I was only allowed water and a lovey water/sweet tea blend which consisted of 3/4 a cup of water with a 1/4 (or less) cup of sweet tea (honestly, I still do this because I love sweet tea but it doth make me fat).

The struggle would continue, well, permanently. Or at least in my mind. When I got to high school, I was dancing every day and very active. I rode my bike every afternoon; I ate tuna out of can with no bread and no mayonnaise. I thought I was enormous. Recent photos of me from high school proved me wrong. No, I wasn't Sally Stick or Bonnie Bulimia Ballerina (like most people expect when you say you are a dancer) but I wasn't as large as I was in my head.

When I hit about 27, I was in the greatest shape of my life. Somehow shedding the preconceptions of high school and discovering my femininity and drive did wonders for me in my 20's. And for all those people who may say that I'm not dedicated to being fit, I dare you to dance for 2-3 hours 3 times a week in a dance club and tell me it's not a work out.

Between doing that and walking the streets of England, I somehow wound up being thinner than ever...keep in mind that thin for me still meant a size 8. And let me clarify, I have never been ridiculous enough to think that:
A) my self-worth is based on my dress size or that
B) all of these curves will ever fit nicely into anything smaller than an 8.

And that, I can honestly say, I am A-ok with.

So new goals. Because in my mind, in this world where every day is either a huge hurdle jumped with our atypical child -- who is making excellent progress -- or a major step backwards, and where I want to be an example to him of what you can be, how to pursue your dreams, and not shoving yourself into everyone's vision of what life should be, I can't be strong mentally if I'm not strong physically. And if that level of confidence isn't there, those dreams will remain mountains in the distance that never come into focus.

In an effort to keep myself in line, I'm going to journal this here. We'll call it "30 -- or 20 -- for 36." No, I'm not going to write a long winded list of 36 things I want to do before 36 because, honestly, I don't need that kind of pressure and by this age, your list is much shorter -- which it should be. But I've only got 3 bloody months!!! For the purposes of this experiment, I am only going to have 1 thing on said list:

1) Lose 30 or 20 for 36. I'm putting it out there like that because I don't think I need to lose 30 pounds, and the doctor said 15, so I'm going with 20. 20 is my cup cake. 30 is my icing. Or rather 20 is my rice cake and 30 is my soy peanut butter? Yeah. That works.

And spare me the lecture of "that's too much in a short amount of time." It's called muscle memory and willpower. I've worked this body enough in the past 35 years that it will remember what it's supposed to do or I will whip it into submission!! (Starting with the 2 most treacherous hills in our neighborhood which I conquered this morning...almost threw up...but conquered nonetheless.)

I think if I can get my son past the hurdle of barely speaking to "OH MY G-D STOP TALKING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I should be able to accomplish this. And then hopefully, my top will just pop off and all that, excuse my language, shit I've been holding in for 8 years will just burst out in all of its creative splendor. Or I will just be hungry and cranky.

I'll keep you posted, either way.

xoxo,
kvlm

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