And of course, because I’m all about celebrating and honoring and making metaphors out of molehills, I had to tie Dad’s birthday to this week’s Weekend World-Changer Homework.

Here’s how:

Your task is to move. Move any part of yourself, in whatever way makes you happy. Dance, roller skate, ride a bike, lift heavy things and put them back down, sit up, push up, raise and lower bits of yourself. Make exuberant calorie-burning love with your partner. Go swimming. Climb something tall. Go play with your kids, whether they’ve got two legs or four. Walk around someplace beautiful. Do whatever it is that you like, that will get you up and moving.

There are a couple of reasons for this. First, as Dad’s body started giving out, his mobility became progressively more limited. By the end, a trip to the grocery store would wipe him out for at least the rest of the day. So use your body while it still does more or less what you want it to do; even if it doesn’t do everything you’re dreaming of, at least it still functions in some small ways, and you should take full advantage of those. Second, while I acknowledge that genetics play a role in a person’s health, I also acknowledge that Dad could’ve made a lot of decisions that would at least have improved his chances of living a longer, healthier life. If he’d moved more, eaten better, and smoked less, he might’ve still been here to celebrate his birthday in person, and yes, sometimes I get pretty angry with him about that. Then I realize I’m not exactly a specimen of brilliant health myself, and decide once again that it’s time to take action.

So in keeping with my newfound re-commitment to movement and healthy choices, my plan is to exercise in 70s this Sunday. There are a bunch of exercises where I know I can reasonably perform 70 reps; I am allowed to take breaks (so maybe 25 in the morning, 25 at lunch, and 25 in the evening) and I am allowed to decrease weights (15-pound weights get heavy after a few sets!), but I want to push myself to hit 70 of each exercise. 70 crunches; 70 incline push-ups (I’m not quite ready for full-on “real” push-ups yet, and that’s ok); 70 squats; 70 bicep curls. Et cetera; I’m going with a “whatever I think I can accomplish” approach. Maybe I’ll dance for 70 minutes (which, for the record, is a large part of why we have curtains on the windows. Nobody needs to see that; let’s just say that in my head, I’m a very good dancer. In my head, I’ve also got my Nobel Prize acceptance speech drafted. My head is not always a particularly accurate place). Whatever I do, I intend to do 70 of it.

The theory is simply this: you change the world just by being in it (this is not a new concept to those of you who read my Love Song to Bean a few days ago). You can use your powers for good or evil as you see fit; heck, you can opt not to use your powers at all, and just hang out, waiting for your number to be up. But whatever you do with your life, and whatever you make of your life, you are, by default, changing the world. Someone would notice if you were gone, even if it’s just the cable company losing a regular customer. You exist, and that changes the world in and of itself.

So why not take this opportunity to do something that lets you feel alive, and reminds you of why you have this body to run around in, and maybe starts you toward living a healthy life that will let you keep on changing the world for a long time?

Go move around. Do something you love, and if at all possible, do it with somebody you love.

You can always think of it in terms of cake: If you move and get healthier now, you can keep earning birthday cakes for as long as possible. And who doesn’t love cake?

My two favorite men--Moon Man on the left, and Daddy on the right. Photo by the incomparable folks at West Birch Photography (http://www.westbirch.com/).

Here’s how the “Says Who?” Though Exercise looks:

1. Identify the speaker. In other words, ask, “Says who?” Who is it that is telling you that you have to live a certain way, or act a certain way, or do certain things? Is it the nebulous “They” that speaks for social conventions, as in “they say you shouldn’t eat cake for breakfast”? Is it someone specific, as in “The Queen of England told me to use the outermost spoon first”? A good starting rule might be to ignore advice that doesn’t come from someone who knows your last name–if the advice is aimed scattershot at the world at large, it really might not apply to your life. (Exceptions can be made for advice coming from experts, though it’s always a good idea to verify whether those experts are working from a secret secondary agenda–who paid for the study they’re quoting? Was it a corporation? If so, the results might be slightly skewed.) If it came from someone who really does know you and really is motivated by helping you live your best life, then it’s worth consideration.

2. Truth-check everything. Run it through your Morality Filter: “Does this adhere to my spiritual/religious/other moral code?”. Then run it through your Ethics Filter: “Will this action cause any real harm to anyone else? If so, is that within tolerance?” (example: the argument could be made that sending that get-well-soon card to your ailing grandmother would contribute to her mail carrier’s shoulder strain. I’d send the card anyway.). Finally, run it through your Truth Filter: “If it’s morally and ethically ok for me to do this, does it just plain make sense? Does the argument for it seem valid?” If it fails any of those filters, it’s probably not a great idea.

3. Consider your lifestyle. Does the advice mesh well with the way you want to live your life? If this was going to be your only chance to make this decision ever in life, could you happily live with your decision until the day you die? Most decisions aren’t that black-and-white–you almost always get the chance for a do-over later. But it helps to think about it; for example, the Diet People say cake is a no-no most of the time, and you’re never allowed to “pig out” on it. To the Diet People, I say, “Well, then, since you won’t be using your helping of cake, I’ll just take that for you”. A lifestyle that prohibits cake is right out of the question for me, and if I can never lose my mind and have a cakefest again, then I might actually throw myself off a bridge. Mmm, cake.

Let’s work through a couple of examples.

A. The Makeup Debate. It seems to be the case that women are expected to wear makeup these days, particularly in professional settings.

Says Who? I dunno, everybody? Most of my friends seem to wear makeup regularly, but I don’t remember anyone specifically saying, “Mama BW, if you want people to take you seriously, you need some eyeliner”. Mostly I hear it from the makeup ads, now that I think about it, and they’ve definitely got an agenda.

Morality: I don’t think my spiritual side cares one way or another about whether I wear lipstick.

Ethics: Animal testing is bad. Smearing chemicals on my head “just because” is bad (though I do moisturize, so I acknowledge my hypocrisy).

Truth: I’m frankly unconvinced of the Makeup = Good argument. It has never yet prevented me from getting a promotion to a supervisory/managerial role.

Lifestyle: I see no reason to feel obligated to wear makeup every blessed day. That’s a lot of effort for exactly zero return, as far as I can tell. However, I reserve the right to wear it on days when I want to feel extra fancy, in the same way that I have certain clothes that I wear on fancy days.

Decision: The makeup stays on the shelf unless I want to play with it. Screw the social expectation.

B. No Fat Chicks at the Fancy Resort.

Says Who? The brochures, which show only the Beautiful People(TM). Of course, they also show only beds that have been made, so either there’s also a “no rumpled linens” rule or they’re not showing the whole picture. This is definitely not something I heard from anyone who actually knows my last name.

Morality: I can’t imagine going to a fancy resort would offend my spiritual side. If necessary, I can do extra prayers at sunrise or something to appease it.

Ethics: I balk a bit at the idea of spending that much money on a vacation when I could be using to help someone else, though I also acknowledge the “you must also nurture yourself” argument. Ethics check fails, but within tolerance.

Truth: I cannot imagine I’d be the first fatchick to ever set foot on their pristine shores. And if I am, then they are apparently very, very new to this industry. Fat people are everywhere. I’m just one of ‘em.

Lifestyle: It wouldn’t break my heart at all if I never went to a fancy resort–I’m more of a bed-and-breakfast fan–but it’s definitely dangerous to start restricting myself from certain activities based just on presumably doctored and definitely staged photographs.

Decision: The resort is fair game at a conceptual level, even for fatchicks like me. Whether we actually go to one remains to be seen.

…See how that works? I’m certainly not recommending that every single decision in life goes through this big long internal-debate process. But it does seem to me that if I think about expectations in that way, it might help me silence some of the inner demons, who are all too happy to freak out if I try to leave the house in workout clothes (“Fatchicks cannot be seen in workout clothes! It shows off how fat you are!!”) or go to a fancy restaurant (“Everyone will know that you’re not cool enough to be here! Run away!!”).

Because really, while the inner demons know my last name, they almost certainly have a secret agenda, and I can pretty much guarantee that it does not support my desire to live my best, most fulfilling life.

It becomes extra hilarious when you admit to yourself that you really don’t even have to put that much effort into it, since you saw this day coming a long time ago and have therefore put some dumbbells in your office. (I work from home, so I have that luxury, though I’ve seen plenty of people in my former Real Live Office Jobs Where You Have To Wear Clothes Every Day who also have assorted small exercise gadgets in their offices/cubicles/etc.)

I have eyed the bedroom door from here approximately 254 times today. I have eyed the dumbbells right beside me on the floor approximately 354 times today. And yet, here I sit, typing away, wearing a housedress, not exercising anything unless you count the exceedingly small finger push-ups I do every time I strike a key (and at a typing speed of roughly 90 words per minute–yep, I’m that typist–I’m doing a lot of finger push-ups. Surely that counts for something, right?).

In fact, it’s even gotten so out-of-control that before logging in here, I spent a good ten minutes perusing http://projectmotivate.me/ , a nifty little site full of quotes and images and videos and things. They’re all lovely and very motivational. You should check them out sometime. I did, just now. It’s all full of good stuff, I promise.

So today, I think, is not going to be a Rockstar Day. It’s not going to be an “I award myself three extra stickers, because I am just that hardcore” day. It might not even be an “…and that’s why I get out of bed every day!” day. There is a better than average chance that today will be an “Ok, fine, shut up, I’m going to exercise. Look, I’m exercising right now. There had better be some fireworks or possibly an awards reception at the end of this” sort of day, assuming I ever make it alllll the way across the hall to get into my exercise clothes.

But they say that “Excellence is not an act, but a habit”–my old choirmaster had that on a poster in the rehearsal room, and he pointed at it not less than 976 times per day, usually when we were right in the middle of singing through a particular phrase on endless political-prisoner-torturing loop so we could really lock it down–so I shall endeavor to continue building a habit of excellence by getting up from this chair, going allll the way across the hall, and putting on my exercise clothes. And then I’ll go allll the way to the living room, and do something exercise-y. And I will love it. Every single sweaty irritating second of it. Because I am excellent like that. A total rockstar.

*sigh*

Anyone wishing to leave words of motivation or inspiration is cordially invited (nay, begged) to do so in the comments. Lord knows I could use ‘em today.

(UPDATE: I did it. I went allll the way to the bedroom and got dressed, then went allll the way to the living room, and I exercised. I actually even worked a little harder than usual today–did more reps on some things, heavier weights on others, etc. So maybe it really is a three-sticker day…just not a very gracious one. *grin*.)

Maybe it will help if I imagine myself punching a t-rex in the mouth with each rep.

Happy birthday, my incredible niece! Six years ago today you made your grand appearance, and the world immediately became a brighter place just because you’re in it; and today on your birthday, there are some things I want to say to you, which you are probably too young to understand right now but which I hope you’ll remember as you get older.

1. We loved you before we ever met you. You didn’t have to do anything to “earn” our love; you didn’t have to be “good enough” or “smart enough” or “pretty enough”. As soon as we heard that you were going to be joining us, we realized that we’d been waiting for someone like you forever–and as soon as we met you, we realized that you were exactly the person we’d been waiting for. And that’s how it will always be: you will never have to prove yourself to any of us, because we already automatically love you. Yes, sometimes we will kinda want to strangle you, or at least send you away to boarding school in Switzerland. And that’s ok; sometimes you’ll want to strangle us, or send us to Mars, or find out that your “real” family is out there somewhere and you were stuck with us all this time because of a mixup at the hospital. That’s ok too. We all promise to keep on loving you, even when we don’t like each other very much, because you are exactly the person we were waiting for whether we remember that in a given moment or not. And I want you to hang on to that knowledge and everything it implies: as you get older, you will find yourself facing people who want you to act or talk or dress a certain way so that you fit in, and you will probably find yourself wanting to conform to that. It’s ok–everybody deals with that sooner or later. Just remember, please, that when we say things like “your true friends are the ones who like you for who you are, not how you dress/what you brought for lunch/etc”, what we really mean is “We love you so much we can’t stand it, so we can’t understand how anybody else could possibly find fault with you–or how you could possibly think you have to change anything about yourself to make them happy. Keep being your perfectly lovable self, because you don’t owe any of them anything, and sooner or later the big dummyheads will wise up”. We’re just not supposed to say things like that, because grownups aren’t supposed to call people names.

2. You have already changed the world. Before you were born, your Mommy and Daddy were just two people roaming around the universe. They weren’t a Mommy and a Daddy yet; I wasn’t an Auntie yet; your Maccahs and Papas weren’t grandparents yet. We were all just people, hanging out, being a family. And then you showed up, and suddenly we all became these new people–we became Mommies and Daddies and Aunties and Maccahs and Papas–and that was all because of you. So if you can do that just by being born, imagine what you can do if you set your mind to it! You have already changed the world once just by showing up; so now your job is to learn everything you can, so that as you grow up, you can keep changing the world in whatever ways are most appropriate to your gifts and talents. (And I think I speak for all of us when I say that I can’t wait to find out what you’ll do!)

3. You are already amazing. Every time I see you, I am blown away by how much you’ve changed just in the little gaps between our visits. You can run and jump and dance; you can write your name and help take care of your little brother; you can help with the dogs and tell stories and build things and put away toys. You know what you like and what you don’t like, and you know how to say “please” and “thank you”. You can make friends, and you can make art. I remember holding you when you were a wee bitty thing and you couldn’t do much of anything except lie there and look cute (although you were very, very good at that) and occasionally stink up the room (and you were exceedingly good at that); so thinking back to how you were when you first arrived, and looking at what you can do already in just these six short years, is absolutely incredible. And it only goes up from here. You are amazing, BeanieBaby, and I hope you remember that forever.

4. You are not perfect, and you’re not supposed to be. Neither are we. This is a hard one, because we secretly kinda do think you’re perfect, at least in all the big ways. But we know better, deep down inside; we know that nobody is perfect, including you, and including us. We know that you’re going to make mistakes–and you’re probably going to make some really big mistakes before all is said and done–and that learning from those mistakes is going to be an important part of your growing up. We know that we’re going to make mistakes too. So if you’ll be patient with us, we’ll be patient with you, or at least we can all agree to try to be patient…because we know, if we really think about it, that nobody is supposed to be perfect, and nobody can be perfect. All you can really ever be is perfectly you, and for us, that is absolutely enough.

So tuck those thoughts away for later, Bean; maybe think about them as you’re getting older and navigating the world of lunch tables and designer jeans and popularity and friendships and (god save us) dating, which won’t happen until you’re 35 and all possible date candidates have submitted their complete background checks including three letters of reference from pillars of the community.

In the meantime, today we celebrate you–perfectly lovable, amazing, world-changing you. Thank you for making the world a better place just by showing up; thank you for making us better people just by showing up; and thank you for teaching us all sorts of things about ourselves just by showing up. We’re proud of you, and honored to be your family, and we are so. very. excited. to see what happens in the next six years, and the six years after that, and so on for the rest of your whole, perfectly incredible life.

We love you more every day, Beanie.

–Auntie BW

Bean's first fish, from several years ago. I'd post a more recent picture, but I'm not actually ready to admit that she's growing up as fast as her recent pictures indicate.

So since I’ve noticed that I’m developing a pattern of posting Share the Toys-type homework assignments on Fridays–y’know, ’cause we probably won’t talk again until Monday, and that gives us all a couple of days to go spread some joy in the world–I thought I might just go ahead and formalize that into an Official Weekly Practice (henceforth known as “Weekend World-Changer Homework”, at least until I decide I want to call it something else). And what better way to start the WWH than with a Love Bomb?

So here’s your homework: Sometime between now and Monday morning, go ye forth into the world and Love Bomb somebody!

In the interest of providing inspiration (which should by no means be taken as a restrictive sort of direction–rather, just an option to get your creative juices flowing), I’m additionally suggesting that you try to come up with a compliment that the Love Bomb recipient has probably never received before, or which you’re at least pretty confident that you’ve never personally said to them.

Some examples, aimed at people whom I know to be frequent BuffaloTracts readers (this is not an exhaustive list–if you’re not here, it ain’t personal, and I promise your Love Bomb will come one of these days!):

River Fox Woman: I love it that you use “ahaha” instead of “lol” in instant messages. Also, I am officially stating for the record that you’re the hawt one in this relationship, and since you don’t have a blog, you can’t rebut that. Ahaha!

Sopranoo: Kind of arbitrary, I know, but I’ve always secretly admired the shape of your nose. It’s unique and kinda upturn-y there at the end, and it gives your face a great deal of beautiful character. Also, when they build that trans-dimensional doorway between our houses, I am going to hang out at yours all the time, because I imagine that it must be a great deal of chaotic hilarious fun at your place.

Notty: You’ve got this sort of swagger-y saunter-y hip-swingin’ mosey thing that I absolutely adore. I’ll admit: sometimes when I exercise, I try to strengthen the muscles in my back and abs so I can get my hips to swing like yours do. (Maybe I should be embarrassed about that.) Also, your new haircut is fantastic, which I know isn’t really a unique compliment, but I strongly felt that it needed to be included. Seriously. So hawt.

…See how easy that is?

So go! Pick someone (or several someones–thanks to the internet, you can do Carpet Love Bombing in, like, 10 minutes!) and send ‘em a little love. The world’s karma rating will thank you for it.

And have a magnificent weekend, dearios! Mama BW loves you–each of you, jointly and severally–with the passion of a thousand burning suns! *mwah*

But then I ran across a picture of Jennifer Aniston, and I had a full-blown hissy fit about it, and I decided that writing this while I’m still enraged was frankly more important than dusting.

Here’s the deal: There was this picture, see, of Jennifer Aniston. Jennifer Aniston is a good-looking lady, and I can agree with that, though the standard caveats about having a team of stylists/trainers/etc apply. Jennifer Aniston clearly has time that she spends taking care of herself and making sure that her body looks how she prefers for it to look and functions in the way that she wants it to, and I can agree with that, too.

What I cannot get behind is the caption some perfectly nice, well-intentioned person had put below Jennifer Aniston’s picture, which read, and I quote, “Body to die for”.

Are you kidding me?

Are you kidding me?!?

Now, I get colloquialisms and slang. I understand that when I tell Moon Man that “I will break your kneecaps if you leave time on the microwave one more time”, his kneecaps are in no actual danger. When I say, “I would just about kill for one more brownie”, everyone in the neighborhood is safe. When I say, “ZOMG, that baby is so cute! You need to hand me that baby and some ranch for dipping, because I am going to eat him all up!”, the baby will, with 99.9% certainty, survive being cuddled by an exuberant Buffalo.

But.

BUT.

Could we please, pretty please, as a favor to me, drop “…to die for” as a slang term, especially when we are talking about results whose aggressive acquisition could, in fact, prove lethal to some people? It’s one thing to idolize the thin folks, which is a tantrum for another time. And it’s frustrating to me to hear people say things like, “God, I wish I looked like her”, because as I used to tell the preschoolers, that would make it awfully hard to tell people apart.

But it is another thing altogether to imply, even through a simple quirk of language, that you are in any way prepared to lay down your life for the chance to have Jennifer Aniston’s abs, or Jennifer Lopez’s butt, or Jennifer-that-girl-from-your-spin-class’s legs, or Jennifer-that-girl-in-your-homeroom’s [insert target of your envy here].

No, you will not lay down your life for that, and I never want to hear you say that again. You may be willing to lay down your life for as many broad ideals as you want–freedom, equality, peace–but I absolutely, positively, 100% draw the line at offering one’s entire mortal existence for the chance to buy designer pants.

And yes, I get that it’s just a figure of speech. But as we all know, words have power, and what might not hurt you can be profoundly hurtful to someone else. I’ve got a whole separate tirade in mind based around the use of the words “retarded” and “gay” as derogatory slang, but let’s stay on-topic here: “body to die for” might not seem like much to you, but try saying that in front of a mother whose daughter has recently died from complications related to anorexia or bulemia. Words hurt, even when they’re “just figures of speech”.

So to the probably-totally-decent-and-completely-well-meaning lady who wrote the caption that set me off today, I send you love and prayers for a healthy body, and a healthy body image to go with it.

And to everyone else, I send you a request to please, please, please watch what you say. I don’t want to teach my nieces that any body is worth dying for, and I would thank you not to teach them that either.

As you might have noticed, BuffaloTracts has gotten a minor face lift; nothing drastic, just the addition of some new tabs across the top, to help you (and me) find particular posts faster. Y’know, so they’re handy when you want to quote them in your Nobel Prize acceptance speech (*snerfle*).

So! Let’s take the five-cent tour, shall we?

The categories are broken down across the three tenets of my main life philosophy: “Play nicely, share the toys, and don’t make me come down there”. There are also a couple more categories, but those are a little more…I dunno, generic? Here’s how it all shakes out:

Play Nicely: This category is for discussions of relationships, both with yourself and with others. (I’m using “you” here as a sort of generic pronoun; since I write in the first person, they’re all technically discussions of my relationship with myself, but you know what I’m getting at.) This is where you’ll find things like my notes-to-self, and my minor epiphanies.

Share the Toys: The overall theme here is “Make your life your gift to the world”. Posts that live here will usually have some sort of implicit action item (or at least include something motivational, which can turn into an action item if you want it to), and those action items will frequently be directed outward, though I reserve the right to include posts that are about improving the world by improving yourself. Sample post: “Parking Lot Revolution”.

Don’t Make Me Come Down There: Here’s where the Buffalo Tirades and Tantrums live. Moon Man once told me that my tantrums aren’t like other people’s tantrums–I’ll perceive myself as throwing a giant brutal fit, and he’ll report later that what I actually said was something like, “Dear, I am feeling frustrated that you haven’t taken out the trash yet. Is that something you can accomplish in the next couple of hours?”–so these might not all be as … I dunno, tantrum-y … as one might expect, but will include things like “Bullying Is Never Ok” and “I Can’t Fix You”.

Buffalo Who? and General Musings and Meanderings are more generic categories; the former is my brief bio thingie, and the latter is the big dumping ground for pretty much all my posts, just so they have a place to hang out together and mingle a bit. Think of it as the community center or greenspace of BuffaloTracts.

…So there you have it! Hopefully these categories will make it easier to find reading material that suits your mood; and of course, you can always just mosey through the homepage, where everything lives.

And while we’re here, please let me thank you for sharing and participating in my little corner of the internet. You all inspire and motivate me daily, and if I can return some of that love to you, then I am blessed beyond description. Keep rockin’ on!

Mad love,

Mama BW

That's Moon Man on the left, and me on the right. This is one of our engagement photos, done by the frankly incredible folks at West Birch Photography (http://www.westbirch.com/index.php), based in Lawrence, KS. Pay no attention to the weird break at the bottom; my computer is having a fit today.

One of the realizations I’ve made, as I’ve looked at my experience with weight and food and exercise, is that instead of building myself a body that could outrun zombies / outperform other athletes / fit into any clothing I wanted / turn heads, I’ve built a body that shielded me from having to do any of that. I’ve built a body that doesn’t encourage expectations, so I can’t let anyone down. I’ve built a body that prescreens potential suitors, because if they can accept the fact that I’m fat, then they’re already more tolerant than a lot of people, so maybe some of my other weirdnesses won’t be as shocking to them. I’ve built a body that prevents me from participating in certain activities because of weight limits, size restrictions, etc.

Basically, I’ve built myself a heavy suit of armor, that shields me from the world.

And, y’know, that’s not really an uncommon thing. A lot of us build bodies for ourselves that are padded, squishy, and designed to protect us from cold temperatures, general trips-and-falls, and potential fear or heartbreak. “Of course s/he didn’t love me,” we can say to ourselves, “because look at me!”, and then we don’t have to think very hard about ourselves as people.

I recall a conversation I had once with River Fox Woman, where I actually literally said, “I’m not sure I ever want to get thinner, because I don’t think I want to know who among us would be attracted to me at a different weight. I would judge them, I think, for being shallow”. And while that’s true to the 50% mark, the other 50% is that I didn’t want to know who wouldn’t be attracted to me at a smaller size, because maybe that would mean there was something fundamentally unattractive about me. Far easier to just pin it on my size and be done with it.

And what makes me think I’d fit into society better if I were at a smaller size? Remember that fancy-ish restaurant I mentioned earlier? Yeah, part of me enjoyed feeling like a pretty princess that day (we had reservations and everything, and to the person I was at that time, that was a very big deal), but part of me felt awkward and out-of-place. I’m from a lower-middle-class family. I got less than zero training on how to behave in fancy restaurants because we never went to any, and so I  managed to embarrass myself approximately every 30 seconds while we were there (though Moon Man apparently noticed none of it, so, y’know, that’s a good thing). I ordered the salad wrong. My biscuit crumbled into a thousand pieces so I couldn’t butter it. I dropped my napkin. None of them was a crisis, really, but they all added up to make me pretty well convinced that even if I could wear the red-carpet gown, I’d be completely out of my element on a red carpet. I wouldn’t have the first idea how to act if I were invited to tea with the Queen. Shoot, I barely know how to comport myself when I’m around friends; don’t get me started on how to manage with fancy strangers. Far better to be too fat to be invited to the parties where the swanky people go, y’know?

And then there’s heights. Remember Assassin’s Creed, from up there in the first paragraph? Part of the game is that your character has mad parkour/Spiderman skills, and climbs buildings all the blessed time. Which is cool and all, but as it turns out, it gives me vertigo. I get all tense watching Moon Man play, because his character is forever ascending to high places, and I am just petrified of heights. But apparently leading a fit and healthy life means you have to do things like that–there’s a Citi commercial, for instance, where the nice people go rock climbing instead of getting an engagement ring, and I am forever seeing pictures of healthy people scaling mountains. Skinny people go skiing. They ride roller coasters. They go cliff-diving or parasailing or bungee jumping. And I don’t want to do any of those things. I want to keep my feet right here on terra firma, thank you very much, and as long as I’m fat, I don’t have to do any of those things, because it would never even occur to people to invite me.

So I’ve built myself this armor, so I didn’t have to risk rejection or get invited to swanky parties where I wouldn’t know how to behave, and so I didn’t have to come up with a way to say “No thank you, I would not like to go horseback riding with you, because while I am very excited about the theory of it, the reality is that horses are tall and I am vaguely terrified of the idea of climbing up on something that is more than about six inches off the ground and which might actively try to fling me to  my death”.

But I’m tired of this armor. That’s why I’m working on getting rid of it, one piece at a time. I’m married to a wonderful man. I have wonderful friends. I am learning how to say “no, thank you” to invitations that don’t interest me, and learning how to push my boundaries a little bit when I am interested in something and just don’t have the relevant skill set yet. I am putting myself out there, flappy bits and embarrassing parts and fears and dreams and all, on this little blog, and if people don’t like it, they can just close the tab or window.

I’m still a little bit afraid of this big scary world, but I think it’s time to try it without the training wheels. It’s time to get rid of the armor.

…Well, it’s time to get rid of part of the armor. The legitimate self-preservation part can stay. Surely there’s something skinny people do for fun that doesn’t require a death wish.

(Hint: it’s not rock climbing, that’s for darned sure.)

1. I have recently joined a fitness website, where you earn points for exercises you complete.

2. As you accumulate points, you level up. I am currently a level 3, bucking for a 4.

3. At some esoteric times along the way, you unlock quests, which have specific sets of exercises you can do for bonus points, which in turn help you level up faster.

Now here’s the thing. I am an absolute sucker for anything involving points, leveling up, etc. Long-term goals don’t interest me–I’m too capricious for all that–but something short-term, measurable, and with immediate arbitrary rewards (like the chance to earn points, or stickers, or “props” from complete strangers)? Man, give me a quest like that and I am on it like a lion on a wounded elephant. (Do lions eat wounded elephants? I should really fact-check before I start writing these things.)

So I joined this site, and I got this quest which wanted me to do 100 jumping jacks in one day’s workout (among other things). 100 jumping jacks. When I read that line in the quest, my first thought was something like “uh-huh, and then I’ll build a ladder to the moon and bring you back some green cheese”. But I figured, “ehh, what the heck, I’ll give it a go. I won’t make the full 100–lawd knows I won’t make the full 100–but we’ll see how close I can get, and work up from there”.

And this is where the hilarity set in. First, as a person with approximately half her bodyweight to lose, I’ve got some … let’s call them “flappy bits”. Also, we live in a house that was built as part of the “let’s build a zillion houses as quickly as possible!” boom of the ’90s, so it’s a little creaky, and while generally sturdy, it does have its quirks.

Moral of the story: each jumping jack was a series of vaguely unsettling sounds. Creeeeak, went the floor as I leapt into the air; flap! went my extra insulation; THUD, went the floor as I plummeted back to earth; and *rattle*, went the windows as the house shuddered beneath my thundering Godzilla-like attempts to tear it apart from the inside. And that was rep #1. Of 100.

Creak, flap, thud, rattle.

Creak, flap, thud, rattle.

I did 25 of ‘em, then had to take a breather. Another set of 25, and my legs started cursing at me. Another breather, then another set of 25, and by that point, I was committed–either I was going to finish these damnable ‘jacks or I was going to destroy the house, and either way, I was going to have an answer today, by gosh.

Another 25.

And then it was done. I was done. I had done 100 jumping jacks in one day’s workout (plus some planks and some crunches and some pushups…let’s just say that whoever wrote that quest is a creative sadist).

I did it. I did 100 jumping jacks, and both the house and I survived to tell the tale.

It wasn’t pretty. Sweet baby Tebow, it was anything but pretty. There was an unsettling amount of creaking and flapping and heaving and panting and sweating, and I may have had a brief out-of-body experience at one point. But I did it. I did every single one of those jumping jacks. I completed the quest, and I got my points, and I am now >this< close to leveling up again. Tomorrow’s workout should push me over the edge.

So given the flapping and the sweating and the grunting and the horrible alarming sounds, does this get to go down in the book as one of my all-time great moments?

You bet your sweet bippy it does, because I looked at something I obviously couldn’t do and then I just got up and did it.

I think today is a two-sticker day, thankyouverymuch. And I also think that if I can do this, you certainly can. If you can’t do 100 jumping jacks, do 10. If you can’t do 10, or if you’re prohibited medically from doing any at all, do something else. I don’t care what it is; just do something…

…because it is shocking what we can do when we get out of our own way and just go for it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make sure the window is still actually attached to the house.

I even did the little fist-pump thing, which confused the heck outta the cat.

I want you to imagine going to the grocery store (or the drugstore, or your job, or your doctor’s office–basically any place with a parking lot will do). Imagine yourself driving into the lot, and looking for a parking space. Head toward a good space…now pull into it…now hop out of the car and head inside. How long did it take you to get from your car to the door? One minute? Less than that? Congratulate yourself on finding an excellent spot!

Now imagine the next person who comes into the lot. For the sake of argument, let’s say that you got the last really good spot in the lot; all the rest of the available spaces are way out in no-man’s-land, where it’s going to take you several minutes to get to the door and you’re going to have to cross the parking lot entrance (which as we all know is an awful lot like playing Frogger). You’re right up next to the door, all happy and feelin’ cute, but the next person is stuck parking in the wayback.

So how would it make you feel if you learned that the next person into the lot was, say, your grandpa, the one who can’t afford the hip replacement he needs but is too stubborn to get a handicapped tag? Or a foster mother who’s just gotten a new emergency-placement child who is freaked all the way out and is extremely reluctant to do much of anything, but there’s nothing in the house for dinner and the nice lady just can’t bring herself to leave the kiddo with strangers since he’s already had enough upheaval for one day? Feel free to substitute “newly returned veteran”, “extremely attractive member of whatever gender you prefer who has broken his/her leg in an awful snowboarding accident”, or “little old lady from Pasadena”…whatever works best for you. You should also feel free to imagine that it’s snowing, or raining, or sleeting, or that the zombie hordes have descended upon us and this person is trying to reach the building for safety.

Here’s the point of this: most of us park up close to the building because we’re lazy. We are fully capable of walking all the way across the parking lot (and with the exceptions of giant places like the stadium or the concert hall, that usually means about a two- to three-minute walk, tops), but we don’t want to. ‘Cause, y’know, heaven forbid we might inconvenience ourselves in any way.

But the problem is that as a result of our hogging the good parking spaces, Aunt Bee over there, who walks at approximately half your speed, has just been involuntarily signed up for a 5-minute hike through the lot (and remember, she has to play a round of Frogger halfway through) with the freezing rain hitting her face and making her arthritis flare up even worse than usual…you get my drift.

So I propose that we start a Parking Lot Revolution. If you are at all capable of doing so, please consider parking at the back of the parking lot (or take public transportation, or bike, or walk, but that’s an argument for another time). You’ll burn an extra few calories getting to the door, which I know I could stand to do, and you’ll leave that spot at the front free for someone who might need it more than you do. Sure, it might get snatched up by the Probably-Spoiled Entitled-Lookin’ Teenager who was riding your bumper all the way through the lot, but as long as we’re giving people the benefit of the doubt, maybe TeenieBopper is actually there to grab dinner fixins so she can go babysit the kids of the neighbor who was just rushed to the hospital with a heart attack, so she needs a great space so she can run in and run out and get back to the house in 10 minutes or less.

Whatever; I could do this all day. Short form: Try parking at the back of the lot. It’ll burn some calories for you, and leaving the good space for someone else is a nice thing to do.

Let’s start a little revolution, shall we? One parking lot at a time.