Tag Archives: not a rockstar today

Not a Rockstar Today

Things at which I have failed in the last 24 hours:

  1. Being height-weight proportionate, therefore
    1. Being able to fit into all those clothes I bought back when I’d lost a bunch of weight, or
    2. Being willing to buy new clothes, because by gosh, I will keep losing weight this time for realsies even though it hasn’t worked so well historically, so
    3. Dressing like I have any idea how fashion works, what looks good on me, or for that matter, what size I even am.
  2. Exercising or maintaining dietary habits that would bring me any closer to changing #1 (I can’t turn down free pizza. I’m pretty sure it’s in the Bible or the Constitution or something.)
  3. Using those sticky pore strip things. I don’t want to talk about it. It was a fiasco.
  4. Taking a shower, because I’m not leaving the house today, and for that matter,
  5. Leaving the house today.
  6. Not freaking out when we left the house yesterday, because we had to drive on the scary highways. On the plus side, I did not actually shut all the way down, though I may have blathered for a while to distract myself.
  7. Having enough money in the bank to:
    1. Make a down payment on a house, or
    2. Make a down payment on a car, or
    3. Make a down payment on a pony, or
    4. Survive for six months in case of layoff, or
    5. Survive for one month in case of layoff.
  8. Calling my college friend who wanted me to call her; see also:
    1. Calling my mother,
    2. Calling anyone who knows things about real estate,
    3. Calling anyone at all whom I was not literally being paid money to call.
  9. Writing a blog post.
  10. Walking the dogs. Fortunately, we have a backyard, so they can do their business there.
  11. Playing folk tunes I have successfully played before. Violin practice today was…screechy.
    1. Practicing for the full hour I’d set aside. My poor neighbors didn’t sign up for that.
  12. Working on bushwhacking the weeds that are slowly devouring the back yard. And the front yard. And the side yard. And the flower pots, fer cryin’ out loud. Stupid trees with their stupid helicopters.
  13. Dusting, vacuuming, or sweeping. Basically anything involving making the floor cleaner than it currently is.
    1. Ditto for the shelves.
    2. And the bathrooms.
    3. And the windows.
    4. And my desk.
  14. Writing book reviews of the last five-that’s-right-I-said-FIVE books I’ve read. In my defense, three of them are a series and I’m planning to review them all together.
    1. Finishing that other series I started, which Moon Man has finished but I got distracted.
  15. Having flawless skin, hair, nails, teeth, or indeed any other body part. I thought acne was supposed to just be a teenager thing. APPARENTLY NOT.

…and that’s just the last 24 hours, y’all. And just the first 15 things I thought of off the top of my head. I also failed at setting up my sewing machine or using it in any kind of way, or organizing the freezer despite things falling out when I open the door, or decluttering any part of this rummage sale we call a house. I have not been a rock star in the last 24 hours, so to speak; I’ve barely been a rock.

But you know what? That means nothing whatsoever about me as a human being. Yes, I could have made some more productive choices. Yes, I could have done some more productive things. But my decision not to do so–my failure to accomplish stuff–does not mean that I am personally a failure. To swipe a line from Zig Ziglar,

Failure is an event


Here’s the thing, gang: today is World Suicide Prevention Day, and I think that makes today an excellent day to be having this conversation. I have dealt with depression for as long as I can remember–some days with more grace and triumph than others–and one of the first things depression will tell you is that you are a failure.

But today, on a day when I’m feeling clear and sane, let me tell you a secret: Depression is a damn liar. It’ll tell you all sorts of things that aren’t true. It’ll pick up things you’ve heard from other people, jokes the jerks in school made, gossip that spilled over from the water cooler, snotty comments the tv commercial people make in an attempt to sell overpriced skin creams, and it’ll repeat them back to you. It will enumerate your shortcomings. It will compose entire epic sagas about the things you are not and may never be (I once cried for an hour because I was never going to be on MTV’s Real World. I don’t even want to be on that show–and I’m too old for it now anyway–but the fact that I wasn’t “one of the pretty people” was devastating to me that day). It will tell you just enough truth to make you think it’s all true, and then it will sucker punch you in the gut.

And one of its favorite lines is “you’re a failure”.

But now you’ve got a bit of ammunition to use against that one. I fail at things, you fail at things, we all fail at things. Nobody is perfect, as they say, and if they were they would be spectacularly boring. You are not meant to be perfect: you are meant to be flawed and bumpy and lumpy and have baggage, because that’s how we connect to each other–it’s like rock climbing, where you rely on the craggy bits and broken-off parts to make it to the top. If it were “perfect”ly smooth, you’d slide right the heck off.

Failing at things is ok, gang. You’re allowed to fail at things. You’re allowed to fail spectacularly sometimes, because that’s how the quickest learning gets accomplished. You’re allowed–heck, I’d argue that you’re required–to be imperfect.

So the next time the inner demons come nosing around, remind them that failure is an event–a thing that happens and is done, whereas you endure. Explain that you’ve got plenty of time left to sort out what went wrong and take a different approach tomorrow. Tell them to sod right off, because you’ve got gloriously fail-full living to do.

And if their voices get too loud, if you (or someone you love) find that you just can’t seem to shout them down, please also remember that you’ve got backup: you can always, always, always call the folks at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can reach them at

1-800-273-TALK (8255)

and they have all the time in the world to listen, to care, and to help connect you with other folks who will also listen and care. You’re not failures, kids, you’re humans. And we love you for it.


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Filed under General Musings and Meanderings, Play Nicely

The Sharpest Knife in the Knife Block

It’s Thanksgiving, and you know what that means: a Facebook feed full of people waxing poetic about friends and family and blessings and family and jobs and friends and food and friends and family. And don’t get me wrong–all that stuff is really nice, and I’m sure it’s all completely heartfelt and yes, I too am grateful for friends and family and blessings and jobs and stuff.

But you know what I’m most thankful for today?

Today I am most thankful for all those boneheaded, dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks, foolish, ill-conceived, badly planned, poorly thought out, ultra-doofus choices that I’ve made since I hit the age when I was legally allowed to make all those herpaderp decisions and have to clean them up myself. Because sure, they usually made things exceedingly complicated and awful at the time; but today, when there’s bread rising in the kitchen and an amazing hubby sorting CDs in the dining room and a couple of dogs and a couple of cats snoozing in various sunbeams and life generally has that rosy glow about it, today I realize how easy and comfortable and  lovely my life has become as a result of those dunderheaded moments, and I have to honor them.

There was the day at the daycare center when I said “Ok, I’ll trust that the director submitted all the paperwork correctly for this employee, and I’ll process payroll for her without double-checking, because why would the director lie?”. That’s when I learned what it feels like to lose a job you love, and what it feels like to take a Job of Last Resort at the Call Center of Doom…which is what enabled me to arrange my schedule so that I could go back and finish the college program I’d quit halfway through.

And speaking of the college program, there was that day during my sophomore year of college when I met a guy and fell sooooo in looooove and moved him into my apartment six weeks later even though he had no job, no job prospects, and no money with which to support himself; so eventually I quit school to take a full-time minimum-wage job at a daycare center to support him–er, us–and learned that I loved teaching and met some awesome families but didn’t have a degree so I couldn’t advance very far, and then I lost that job anyway (see previous) and, because such is the way of things, the guy eventually ran off with a 19-year-old voice major, but that’s pretty ok because…

While we were together, he started spending an alarming amount of time with a gal he worked with (he did have some jobs, just not consistently or frequently), including ditching Thanksgiving with my family to spend it with her, and after several months of my being increasingly sure that he was cheating on me with her and wanting her head on a platter, I met her…and her boyfriend, whom my guy had just forgotten to mention all this time. I lost the guy (see previous), but she and I became BFFs, and she was the maid of honor at my wedding…

To a guy I met after having dated a string of progressively…um…well, I mean, I’m sure most of them are very nice people and will make someone else blissfully happy. However, that person was really, really, really not ever gonna be me, ’cause ohsweetbabyjesus were some of those relationships disastrous. Hoo boy. So one day I sat down on the sofa, said “Ok, Lord, I am sick of this malarkey. You want me to be in a relationship? You find the person and send ’em at me, because obviously I am not so whippy at finding ’em myself”…and the next day I got an email from Moon Man, via a dating website we were both on.

And he’d made his share of dunderheaded choices too–marrying That Woman comes to mind, but without that choice he would’ve ended up Chicago and we probably would never have met, so while she’s not really the first person I think of when I name folks who are invited to Thanksgiving dinner, I’m nonetheless grateful for her, because she brought him back to Kansas. And she made him buy this house which I don’t necessarily love, but lord lord is it ever a far sight better than the roach-infested apartment where I was living when we met, and it’s nice and roomy for hosting parties and we even have a guest room, which makes me feel terribly swanky and grown-up.

So there it is: this Thanksgiving I’m most grateful for all those moments when I was not, in fact, the sharpest knife in the knife block. The brightest crayon in the box. The quickest brown fox in a room full of lazy dogs. Because when you think about it, those slow, dull, drab fox moments are the ones that dragged me inevitably toward a life that I’m actually really proud of. They’re the choices that got me to a place where I’m safe, happy, stable, sane, and (honestly) rather too well-fed. They brought me my dearest friends (Moon Man introduced me to about 150 of the people on my friends list), my lovable heathen critters, my home, my college degree, and my husband. And I wouldn’t change ’em for…

Yeah, no, that’s a lie. There are some that I’d totally undo if I had half a chance. ‘Cause seriously now, let’s not be hasty. But I’d keep most of ’em…

And I’d totally keep all of you. Happy Thanksgiving, ‘Tracters. I love you each, and I love you all. Even when you’re not being the shiniest jewel in the crown.


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Perfectly Imperfect

In a fit of creativity, I have recently taken up (re-taken up?) embroidery. I remember watching my mother embroider–and beautifully, I might note–and I remember a delightful afternoon when I was 10 or so, when she brought me this little dove-holding-an-olive-branch project and taught me various stitches as we completed it together. I’m reasonably sure it’s still floating around in a box somewhere, probably in her attic.

And I remember a winter, maybe a decade ago, when I decided I would embroider again, and I bought these nifty little canvas messenger bags with plain front flaps and raided the craft store’s embroidery floss section, and made everyone personalized bags for Christmas. As I recall, that was also the year when it became abundantly clear to me that I’m not very good at drawing, so most of the designs were a little…abstract.

So then a few weeks ago, as I watched Seashell knit, I decided I wanted to take up a handicraft again, and embroidery seemed like the best option–I’d enjoyed it before, and it’s portable, easy enough, and lets you escape into that zen space where you can’t really worry about anything important because you’re busy making a million tiny decisions: do I have enough thread on the needle to finish this row? What color should this flower be? Why, for the love of all that is holy, does the bleepin’ bloopin’ floss keep bleepin’ bloopin’ knotting on me when all I am trying to do is pass it through this one bit of cloth which is exactly the same as the bit from the last stitch and so there is absolutely no reason why it should be fighting me? Have I done something wrong? Have I offended it in some way? Does the thread just not want to be a flower?

I’ve been working on my new embroidery project in fits and starts for a couple of days now, and while I can’t show you the entire project (I’m planning to make it a gift), I can show you a representative little piece, so you can see the magnificence and brilliance and frank artistry that is springing forth from my fingertips:


…So. Um. That happened.

In my mind, that was going to be beautiful flowing script. The way I drew it on the fabric with the washable pen, it was beautiful flowing script. The stitches were all going to align perfectly to create the illusion that someone had simply written on the fabric with thread, and they were going to lock and blend together like water in a stream.

Instead, …well, you can see the instead.

So last night I spent some time sitting and looking at my masterpiece, debating whether to continue (it’s a big project), debating whether anyone really wants to receive a gift that will look so very, very much like it was made by someone who had never done this before, debating whether it’s actually rude to hand someone something that’s so spectacularly imperfect and imply that they should look past its flaws to see the loving message that it is meant to carry.

And that’s when it hit me: that’s exactly what I should do.

It is said that the Japanese have a concept, wabi-sabi, in which the imperfect is prized as a reminder of the transience of all things. Nothing in nature is perfect; nothing in nature is meant to be perfect, because all things wither and decay, and it is only our attachment to the trappings of this world that cause us to feel sad or anxious about that. Some artists make sure to include flaws in their work as a way of embracing this ideal; others simply let the work happen as it happens, and accept graciously that imperfections will come either as part of the process of creation or as part of the object’s use.

Moon Man pointed out that a gift with obvious flaws means that it has to be unique–you can’t convince a machine to snag thread like that, or to pucker fabric. And I, being the sort of person I am, took it a step further: when we enter relationship with someone, we come in knowing that we are flawed, that they are flawed, and that those flaws are what make us beautiful. We talked recently about how violent processes can build for us the most amazing internal landscape, and I reckon this isn’t so very different–it is the failures that make the embroidery beautiful. It is the message that makes it beautiful. It is the gift, freely and lovingly created and given, that makes it beautiful.

So who cares if the “o” in “who” is a little boxy? Who cares if the “W” isn’t quite the right size? Who cares if the fabric has puckered a bit, or if the lady behind the needle is fat, or if I’m afraid of heights or still haven’t mastered crispy fried potatoes or have pontoon boat-sized nail beds so manicures never quite look right on me?

What matters is that I am creating a thing for a person I love. I am spending my time working on this thing, just to see that person smile. It is radically imperfect and utterly flawed, but that’s ok–so am I, and the gift’s intended recipient loves me anyway. I’ve already asked this person to look past my split ends and reluctance to go boating and fear of abandonment; I’m pretty sure it’s not going to collapse the whole thing if I add “…and the fact that I am not a master-level embroidery artist”.

Instead, I will embrace the wabi-sabi of my little bit of stitchery. And I will trust that the recipient will understand that the gift is made and given with love, in the same way that the recipient has already accepted me–beautifully flawed, utterly unique, and perfectly imperfect.

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Debbie Down-But-Not-Out

So. Today happened.

Mom’s car shot craps last week, so she’s got my van and will be bringing it back on Thanksgiving. No problem, I figured, since I don’t usually go anywhere during the day, so Moon Man can take our car to work and I can just chill here at the house.

Except tonight’s menu calls for shepherd’s pie–got the lamb all defrosted and everything–and I realized I didn’t have any veggies except some sad old celery and the potatoes for the topping.

No problem, I figured; the grocery store is about a mile away, and a mile is a totally reasonable walking distance, and the weather is quite nice.

Except that somewhere in the last year I lost all my motivation to exercise and started eating everything that didn’t move out of my way fast enough. We did the Paleo thing for a while, with the idea that we would splurge on weekends, but it didn’t take very long for “weekend” to be defined as “starting sometime Friday and ending when the last of the leftovers were gone, usually on Monday or Tuesday”. Pro tip: diets don’t work very well when you only do them three days a week–especially when the diet in question says you’re free to eat protein and fats and only have to cut out carbs. But setbacks be damned; I was going to walk to the store.

No problem, I figured; I’ll just get my exercise clothes on and walk to the store.

Except that as a result of my “eat everything, exercise not at all” plan I’ve gained enough weight–and girth–that most of my exercise clothes don’t fit right anymore. I tried on everything in the closet and everything in the drawers and had a minor meltdown when I realized that the one thing that fit the best was my shoes, and even they never really fit exactly right in the first place.

No problem, I figured; I’ll decide to stride out boldly in my ill-fitting clothes, because if people want to judge me, then that’s fine–I know that these clothes will fit better if I keep at the exercise, and I’ve exercised five out of the last 7 days, so I’m on the way to something here, and if passersby are smart, they’ll be able to see that I’m wearing ill-fitting exercise clothes while I exercise, which is the only way to make them fit better, and they will applaud me.

Except that getting into said exercise clothes turned out to be a minor crisis when I discovered that I have gotten so fat and non-flexible that putting on my socks required weird yoga and tying my shoes involved a certain amount of hopping.

No problem, I figured; the people on Biggest Loser come from this exact place and get all healthy and stuff, and if they can do it, I can do it. Heck, that one guy started at over 500 pounds. He had to lose an entire person just to get down to my starting point. I’ve got this.

Except that they have trainers and stuff, and I have only my shame and my determination to get me going.

No problem, I figured; shame and determination have worked plenty well for plenty of people, so off I go.

…So off I went, and made it to the store in a very reasonable 20 minutes, and got the veggies, and made it back home in a very reasonable 20 minutes, and came inside and let the dogs out and got out of my exercise clothes and got some water.

…And heard dog tags jingling in the front yard

And went to the backyard

And discovered that the gate was open

Because we never did fix the latch when it broke a coupla months ago and the bungee cord holding it closed had finally given up the ghost

…So I went to the front yard, chased down the smaller dog while the larger dog started planning his escape route

And he’s a “flight risk”–we adopted him from a shelter where he’d been brought as a stray

And he’s never quite got the lure of the open road out of his system

And he’s not very good about coming when he’s called

And I don’t have a vehicle to go chase him down

And I was all tired from my walk to and from the store

…So I took the smaller dog inside and stood right inside the screen door and gave him skritches and loud praise, because the bigger dog is deeply jealous and cannot bear the thought of anyone else getting lovins

And it worked

And the larger dog barreled in the door

And got skritches and praise

…So while today technically counts as a victory, because I exercised and walked to the store and back and the dogs did not run away forever, it still feels a lot like a crappy, crappy afternoon

And Thanksgiving is in eight days

And we haven’t gotten a turkey yet

And right now I’m not feeling very thankful.

No problem, I figure; there’s always tomorrow, when I can try this whole damned thing again.

Thank goodness.

I heart Anne Shirley.


Filed under General Musings and Meanderings, Play Nicely

Fine, Fine, It’s Important. (Harrumph)

I found this the other day when I was nosing around Pinterest, and I re-pinned it to my own wall because I figured it was just the sort of thought that would help motivate me on days when I wasn’t really feelin’ the whole “work out, get healthy, try life in a different bodyshape” thing:

So, y’know, it’s pretty much perfect for days like today.

Here’s what’s been going on at the Buffalo Moon Ranch during the last 24 hours:

1. Yesterday, in a fit of Healthy Lifestyle Madness, Moon Man and I went to the little park a few blocks away to play “woccer” (which is soccer for people whose maximum speed is a vaguely hasty walk). We were having a grand and glorious time, getting our heart rates up and laughing like spastic hyenas, when I managed to find a clump of grass approximately 2 microns tall, and twisted the bejeezus outta my ankle. I can still walk on it, etc, but it’s painful–so things like jumping jacks are right out, as are any step-based exercises. The good news is that now I have an excuse not to do lunges for a little while. I hate lunges.

2. Last night before bed, I went to give the dogs their nightly 1/4 cup of overnight crunchies (they go into full-on hysterics if their dishes are completely empty at bedtime, but if you toss ’em a little something, they ignore it and go happily to bed. Crazy dogs); since the dog food dishes live on the floor, I had to bend over to do this and, you guessed it, my back made a fun little “spangggg!” sound and kinked up.

So as of bedtime last night, my back was tweaked and my ankle was twisted and my left wrist, which flares up sometimes just for the fun of it, was in full-on “NoDon’tTouchMeOwOwOw” mode.

Obviously, this does not inspire one to anticipate performing feats of athletic greatness the next day.

The good news is that I woke up this morning with my back mostly settled down (I’m still being mildly cautious, but all the telltale “you’ve hurt yourself” pains have been replaced with my usual daily “oh, so that’s what they mean about how being overweight does bad things to your back” pain), and my wrist has decided that maybe we’re not going to have a massive pain party after all so it may as well back off too. My ankle is still giving me grief, but that just needs some time (and rest, and anti-inflammatories, and periodic ice packs) to heal of its own accord.

But still! I have an owie on my ankle, hints of an owie in my back, and an owie-when-it-feels-like-it wrist! And all of those would make for some absolutely terrific excuses if I wanted to give myself the day off. I mean, you’re not supposed to risk further injury, right? And given that I rolled my ankle while trying to be all sporty, maybe that’s a sign from the cosmos that I should just sit out the next few rounds, right?


The problem is that I’ve learned about a lot of exercises lately, and they’ve all been conveniently broken down by body part. Sure, my ankle is out, but that doesn’t mean I can’t lie on my back and do leg lifts. If my back wants to get snippy about it, I can sit in a chair and do leg lifts. Heck, if my back and legs go into tantrums together, I can use my dumbbells to work my chest and arms. And if those don’t work, I can ruddy well sit here in this chair and squeeze my abs back toward my spine in a sort of Ultimate Lazy Woman’s Crunch.

Because as it turns out, it is important to me. So I will find a way, even when the excuses are so convenient that they pretty much write themselves. This is the shape of my new life: activity is something that I do at least 5 times per week, even if it’s not pretty, even if it’s not easy, even if I have to do a lot of pre-planning and pre-thinking and problem-solving.


I am an active person. And as it turns out, being an active person takes too much time for me to have any hours left for making excuses.


Filed under General Musings and Meanderings, Play Nicely

Observation, Invitation, Exhortation

First, an observation: Right after a good workout, they say you should have some protein so your body can start doing whatever magic it does to make you healthy. Since I am an absolute sucker for dairy products, I like to take that as an opportunity to have a glass of chocolate milk (really! The Expert People say you can do that!) or a serving of cheese (since I cannot be trusted to measure cheese when I’m hungry, I like to have single servings pre-measured and ready for me–either cut into sticks, or via those little individual BabyBel things, or whatever). Today I exercised like a boss, then went upstairs for my post-workout protein treat; and today I wanted cheese, so I grabbed a piece and munched blissfully. Then, in a fit of Attempted Efficiency, which I should really know better than to attempt, I wandered down the hall, cheese in hand, to grab a couple of ibuprofen to stave off the aches that I knew were forthcoming.


That was my first mistake. My second mistake was believing, even for a split second, that I could keep track of which things (in one hand) you were meant to swallow whole and which things (in the other hand) were meant to be chewed.


For the record: do not chew ibuprofen. It tastes horrible.


That’s the Observation portion of today’s post, provided for your amusement. The Invitation portion is as follows: A very dear friend of mine, Zerself, has volunteered to make a great big ol’ Food Delivery to Harvesters (http://www.harvesters.org/), our local food pantry. But that’s not all: she has additionally volunteered to come to local folks’ houses and pick up the food they wish to donate, so if you are in the Kansas City area and wish to participate, all you have to do is gather up anything in your pantry that you’re not planning to use, and give her a call. (Have I mentioned lately that I know some seriously incredible people?) I actually think it is physically impossible to make donating much easier.


Now, in the interest of expanding this a bit, I’d like to hop on the bandwagon, though in an admittedly fairly passive way; that is, if you are in the Kansas City area and would like to participate but don’t know Zerself, then the Buffalo Moon Ranch is hereby being designated as an Official Zerself’s Mighty Food Drive Dropoff Location. Moon Man is returning from a trip to Chicago tomorrow, so this weekend will mostly be spent sitting around and letting him enjoy not being in a car–so we’ll be here all weekend, folks, and since I’m in a baking mood, there will probably be delicious homemade fresh-baked treats. Come say hello, and bring your donations, and Zerself herself (man that’s fun to say) will come by sometime early next week to pick up everything we gather. In an ideal world, we’d have to rearrange the furniture in the living room to accommodate all the donations.


To sweeten the pot, and because I do love shopping, I’m planning to match your donations one-for-one, at least until Moon Man takes away my debit card. I can’t guarantee that they’ll be exact matches, but I am planning to do a one-noun-equals-one-noun arrangement; so, for instance, your donation of peanut butter might be matched with a can of soup. I submit that this is totally fair game.


That’s right, kids; come by, visit with friends, eat some homemade baked goods, and leave with the knowledge that your donation will be doubled just because we love you like that.


That’s the Invitation part. The Exhortation part is for those of you who aren’t really conveniently located–I am deeply blessed to have readers spread out across the country, and it’s really not fair to imply that if you don’t live in the Middle of Nowhere, you don’t get to play.


So here’s the exhortation: if you are not in a place where you can easily make it to the Buffalo Moon Ranch this weekend, please participate remotely by making a donation to your own local food bank. You can visit Feeding America at http://feedingamerica.org/ to find a food bank near you; then hit the sales (and you know there will be sales this weekend) or clear out your pantry and make your own dropoff!


According to the statistics on Feeding America’s site, in 2010 approximately 19.9% of households were either food-insecure or had low food security. In other words, one in five Americans is not entirely sure whether dinner will happen today. With that in mind, do you really need all those cans of soup in your cupboard? Can you really justify buying the premade cheese plate when you can buy a block of cheese, cut it up yourself, and use the savings to buy some peanut butter and tuna to donate?


You can help, is all I’m saying (and yep, you’ll hear this from me with some regularity).


And if you’re here local, you can come help at my house.


So! What are you doing this weekend, and when can we look forward to seeing you? *grin*


Filed under General Musings and Meanderings, Share the Toys

Motivate Me

Oh, lordy, you know you’ve reached new levels of Unmotivated when you sit down at the computer and start a blog post–y’know, on that blog you started specifically to document your journey toward building a healthier life for yourself, which you hope will motivate and inspire others to go out and change their own worlds–so that you can avoid going alllll the way to the bedroom to put on your workout clothes and then go alllll the way to the living room to exercise.

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.


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.

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