No More Weighting

Let me start by saying I know how difficult this topic can be.  I know there are many psychological hot buttons involved here.  I know many of us are struggling, many struggling more than me.  Please know that when I am saying something negative and judgmental here it isn't about you.  It has nothing to do with how I perceive you.  It's all about me and how I feel about myself.  I hope that makes sense.  Now here we go.

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"Are you freaking kidding me?!"  That's what I thought when I looked at the scale.  I had my annual physical a few days ago.  We all know what that dreaded first assessment is going to be.  "Can I get you to step up here?" the 20-something, size 2 nurse asks me.  She was sweet and kind and just doing her job, but I really want to turn to her and say, "Do I look like someone who wants to step on a scale?"

But I did, because we do.  And I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

And to follow that up, when my blood test results came back they showed quite a spike in my cholesterol levels.

And I'm not okay with that.

I'm not sure whether it was the weight or the cholesterol, but now I want to do something about it.  Really do something.

So here it is.  - deep breath - 

I weighed in at 216 pounds.  I am 5'4".  I'm just going to let that sit there for a minute while it sinks in.  While I get comfortable with owning my self.  216 pounds.

I'm not comfortable with it.  Not at all.

I've seen lots of people, mostly women, blog about weight loss and openly share their weight.  I swore I would never do that.  Funny thing.  Now that the decision is made to move in a healthier direction, I can say it.

For years I've told myself I wasn't sensitive about my weight.  I knew I was getting heavier, but I was still able to do most of the things I could before, so how bad could it be?  My skin never felt flabby.  (Yeah, it never does.  It grows with the enlarging mass growing under it.  Duh.)  There was always someone larger than me.  That helped, although it shouldn't have.  It really had nothing to do with me.

But it did bother me.  I'd say it was about being healthy, not about how I looked.  Bull!  What a lie.  One of those self-deception things that helped me get through a situation I felt powerless against.

It was bothering me before I went to the doctor.  I addressed it with him as part of my physical.  "I used to have no appetite and could easily go 24 hours without eating (not healthy).  But now I'm hungry all the time.  I'm more physically active than I've been in a long time, but I'm still gaining weight.  Could it be menopause?"  (I had a full hysterectomy last year.  So even though I'm only 45, I'm in full-blown menopause.)

He told me two of the medications I am currently taking cause weight gain.  Wonderful. :(  Actually, I liked when he said that because it gave me a bit of deniability.  "I would totally be losing weight if I weren't on these meds.  It's the meds' fault."  And that's probably partly true.  But not entirely by a long shot.

I'm getting off one of the meds, for other reasons, and cutting the other one by half.  Finger crossed this helps.  And with my new thyroid medication and the Lamictal I have more energy that I have in years.  (Not a lot, but enough to feel like a tired human instead of a rock.)

This is it.  This is the time.  It's only going to get harder if I wait.  And I'm sick of hiding from friends and from pictures.

There are people I used to work with that I avoid seeing, even though I like them and would love to see them again, because I don't want them to see how much weight I've gained.  And I've hidden from pictures for years now.  There are way fewer pictures of me for posterity than there should be.

Because I'm embarrassed.  There.  I said it.  I'm embarrassed about how I look.  I want to say I'm not.  I want to not care about what others think of me.  But I am.  And I do.

A basic history:

  * Other than being shorter than most people, I was never really petite.

  * In high school (which was the first time I remember even knowing what I weighed) I weighed 140 pounds and wore size 8 jeans.  I was not skinny by high school standards.  There were so many girls around me who were just tiny.  Thin little things.  I was absolutely not that.  I knew I wasn't that but wanted to be.  I developed substantial hips at 14.  I have thoroughbred thighs that run in my family.  I was not tiny.  But when I look back at those photos now I realize how small I really was.  Go figure.

  * I only gained 20-25 pounds with each baby (5).  With my first, I lost the weight quickly and even dropped some extra.  I was very active.  I dropped to 130 pounds and a size 6.  That was the happiest I'd ever been about my weight and how I looked.

  * After each following baby, I kept about ten pounds.

  * In the spring of 2001, when I weighed about 180 pounds and my baby was almost three, the world feel out from under my feet.  By June I was in bed.  All the time.  For the next year and a half.  I was able to function just enough to keep my children alive.  I would lie on the couch and watch videos with them or watch them play.  I would talk my oldest daughter (10) through getting them food.  At night I had a tiny amount of energy and would put together sandwich bags of food for the next day.  Cheese slices.  Carrots.  Crackers.  My attempt at taking care of my kids.  Because that was seriously all I could do.  I couldn't move.  I was so tired it made me cry.  And giving up all the things I did, all the volunteering at their schools and coaching of their teams and taking them to the park - all gone.  I never got a definitive answer about what was wrong, it just gradually got better.  But I've never felt well again since.  I go through times when I can function better than others.  And I go through times when I'm flat in bed.

  * I have no idea how much I weighed in between that time and the next time.  We didn't own a scale.  We still don't.

  * In 2010 I wrote "A Weighty Issue," a blog post about being unhappy with my weight but not ready to really do anything about it.  It really shook me today when I looked back at that and realized it took five years for me to be ready.  I honestly don't remember what I weighed then except that I'd probably just broken 200 pounds.  I'd sworn to myself I'd never let myself hit 200, but I did.  And it devastated me for a few days.  But I shook it off, blamed it on still not feeling well, and moved on.  Seriously, if you can barely get out of bed, how could you be expected to exercise?

  * In 2012 I went to my psychiatrist for the first time.  She asked what I weighed.  I said about 200 pounds, which was hard enough to say.  But it wasn't even true.  Because I had just recently had a physical and the scale said 206.  Stupid scale.  But I wrote some of that off as premenstrual water retention.  You know what I mean; right, ladies?

  * And now, three years later, I weigh 216 pounds and wear size 16 jeans.  Like I said, I had a hysterectomy.  So the excuse of premenstrual water retention is off the table.  I am finally able to move enough to clean my house and function almost like a real human being.  And I know how to do it.  I really have no excuses anymore.  (Well, I still have some flat in bed moments.  But I could work out on the other days.  Which I don't.)

So here's my action plan.  Eat better.  Move.  That's it.  It's more defined in my head, but that's the gist of it.

I don't intend for my blog to suddenly become a weight loss blog.  I may or may not report as things progress (because they will progress, dang it!).  And I don't have a before shot of my body.  Honestly, my fat body hasn't been what's bothered me most or kept me from being in pictures.

It's my fat face.

You can hide your body behind other people, but if you hide your face there's really no reason to be in a photo.  And I've got a big head - like 7 3/8 big.  So when I'm in a photo with other people, my head dwarfs theirs.  I look like Andre the giant.  That was even true before I got so fat.  (Luckily, my husband's head is even bigger than mine.  Thanks, honey.)

But I'm ready to own it.  I'm ready to move on.  And in order to move on, I have to acknowledge where I came from.  So here are some of those photos.  (Sorry I don't have better photos.  Not only do I hide from the camera, but I also haven't digitized many.)

My wedding day - 1990, 25 years ago.  This is the oldest digital photo I had of myself that you could see my face in.  This was two years after I graduated.  I think my face looks pretty good here.

Five kids later - probably early 1999, 16 years ago.  I'm not thrilled with my look here.  My hair is pulled up in my "softball/cleaning" ponytail; not super flattering.  But there's no double chin yet.

I'm guessing this is about five or so years later - let's say 1994, 11 years ago.  See how I'm throwing my head back.  At this point I'd started to notice a double chin in photos and was trying to avoid that.

2009 - 6 years ago.  My daughters are super cute, but that's about the only thing I like about this photo.  See how I'm hiding behind them?  Still trying to tip my head up and back a little?  See those flabby arms?  See that double chin?  Yeah, not cool.  But I got in the photo.  For that, I'm proud of myself.

2011 - 5 years ago.  By this time I'd decided I needed to start being in some of the photos.  I'd also learned that being cheesy in a photo made it less bothersome when I didn't look great.  Okay, I look kind of like a drowned rat here because of the rain, but also notice how round my face has gotten.

2012 - 4 years ago.  This is a photo I both love and hate.  It's a picture of me teaching at church, which is something I absolutely love to do.  It was a wonderful time in my life and I'm glad I have a record of it.  But, seriously, can you believe how fat my face is?  How fat I am?  Oh, my heck!  I about cried when I saw it.

2013 - 2 years ago.  Hiding behind someone again.  Tilting my head away and back a bit to try to hide that double chin.  Failing miserably - Ugh.  That double chin.

2014 - last year.  I'm kind of proud of myself for just letting the shot happen.  I'm not hiding or tilting my head back.  I've come a long way toward acceptance of my true body size by this time.  But, oh, how huge my head is.

2015 - last week.  This is me now.  I voluntarily took a photo of my face and put it on facebook.  I own it.  This is me.  I'm a fat girl.

I'm ready to move forward.  No, I don't want your help.  Yes, I'd love your support.

With Purple Hair

On December 2, 2014 my family and friends received a bit of a shock.  Without telling anyone - not my husband, best friend, or children - I dyed somewhere between six and eight inches of my hair purple (actually, my amazing hairdresser did).  Bright purple.  Troll doll purple.

Troll doll with purple hair

Me with purple hair

Reactions varied.  My husband and my best friend both loved it.  My kids had mixed reactions; mostly I think they just needed time to adjust.  My son worried that it increased the chances that I would hurt myself (I had received a diagnosis of Bipolar 2 shortly before this, although I'd had symptoms for years, and have a history of self-harm).  We got through that.  They adjusted.  Everyone adjusted.  And even though people were surprised, there seemed to be a general, "Oh, that's just something Robin would do" attitude.

They asked why.  I said it was just time.

The reasons are many.  First let me say, I'm color-blind.  I've done various things in shades of red in my hair many times in the past.  It has to be very bright in order for me to see the red in my brown hair.  When it fades, which it does very quickly, I can't see it anymore.  Other people can and they still comment on how great it looks, but I can't.  And that bothers me.  I dye my hair for my own entertainment.  For my own pleasure.  Because I like the way it looks to me.  That effect is nullified when I can't see it.  And that's a lot of money to like what I see for only a few days.

Also, a part of me has always wanted to do something bold and shocking with my hair.  I'm generally only rebellious in subtle ways.  I'm not really a whole-head-purple or shaved-head person.  I'm more of a comes-out-with-a-couple-washes purple-streak-for-Halloween person.  But for some reason, it was just time.

And purple has never been a favorite color of mine.  But since my daughter was diagnosed with a Chiari malformation a couple of years ago and purple is the color of Chiari awareness, it's grown on me.  Purple has a special place in my heart now.

My hair has gone through many phases as it's faded.  My hairdresser told me it would, but I wasn't quite prepared for it.  When it lost the very intense brightness I was sad.  But then I saw all the variation emerging and it became fun on a different level.  It became My Little Pony purple.

My Little Pony with variegated purple hair

Me with variegated purple hair

Truthfully, once it got to this stage I still only saw it as purple.  My husband would point out where it was purple, where it was blue, and where it was pink - but it just looked purple to me.

And, see, that's part of the point.  While I couldn't see all those colors, I could see the purple.  Every step of the way I could see the different color from what it used to be.  That made me happy.

Then it faded more and my friend told me it looked like Meryl Streep's hair in Into the Woods.

Meryl Streep

Me

Seriously, how can you go wrong when you're being compared to Meryl Streep?  Even if it's when she's playing a witch.  (By the way, that's one of my favorite semi-recent photos of myself.  My hair looks good.  You can't see the bags under my eyes or my double chin.  It'll be my profile picture for a good, long time.)

That was about a month ago now.  It's faded a lot more.  There is definite white showing through.  Since we had to bleach my hair in order to dye it, just letting my hair go back to its natural color isn't going to happen.  Without the color my head would look like the hoof of a Clydesdale.

Clydesdale hooves

My bleached hair before the purple

It's time for something new.  Tomorrow I'll be getting it colored again.

So I thought today would be a good time to reflect on what I've learned in the last two and a half months.

As much as I pondered this, (and it was planned for more than two weeks before I did it) I didn't think through all the ramifications.  I was prepared for the way my family, friends, parents, neighbors, and ward (parish) members might react.  I wasn't prepared for the way strangers would react.  They either stared or refused to look at me.  Except the younger ones.  The ones my kids' ages and younger would come right out and comment on it or just move past it.  The ones my age and older either glared at me (seriously?) or glanced and then turned away quickly (while sneaking secret looks when they thought they were out of my field of vision). 

I get it.  Especially when it was bright purple it was a bit shocking.  But some of the looks I got, many in fact, felt like judgments.  Like me having purple hair meant I was a certain type of person who believed a certain type of things and acted in a certain type of way.  And worse, like it was something to be embarrassed about.  My daughter (who shaved her head almost two years ago in support of her sister who was having brain surgery) said she went through similar things.  In fact, she was flat out told to hide her head more than once.

Let me tell you something, judgy-judgers, most of you would be hard pressed to find more conservative people than me and my daughter.  We are both very active in our church and attend every week.  Neither of us has a tattoo.  Neither of us has ever done drugs or had illicit sex.  Neither of us has been to jail.  We both vote in every election and take that right/responsibility seriously.  In fact, neither of us has even ever had a ticket.  By most measurements of the world, we are quite boring.  We just did something fun with our hair.

The other thing I wasn't prepared for was how I would feel about these reactions.  It's not that I care so much about how others feel about how I look, although the first time (when I was completely unprepared for it) I felt very self-conscious and couldn't wait to get back to the safety of my own home.

No, the reactions of other people served to point out how public this experience was.

Okay, so that should have been obvious before I did it, but it wasn't.  I dyed my hair the way I did for me.  I wanted it to be distinctly different from my natural hair.  I wanted the lift it would give me in the middle of winter.  I wanted the fun of that little bit of rebellion.  But I was irritated by the fact that I couldn't do this fun thing - that I couldn't play - without the whole world watching.

I went to a high school basketball game a week or so after I had it done.  I don't know how many people fit in our gym, maybe a couple hundred.  But as I walked in and felt the eyes of so many people on me I realized I was the only person in the room with purple hair.  I don't think I've ever felt so much in the spotlight as I did in that moment.  And it was not something I enjoyed.  I prefer to blend into the crowd.  That moment kind of freaked me out.

But I've adjusted.  I've acclimated to the new temperature of the waters.  As I prepare for the next color, I'm ready for whatever it brings.  Because I've been there before and the personal joy it brings me is well worth the cost.

Rerun: A Pebble or a Pea?

I was recently going through old posts, from very early on in my blogging days, trying to clean up all the spam comments.  I found myself reading some of them and remembering how much I liked them.

My readership has grown a lot since the early days, so I have decided to share a few of my favorites from times gone past.  And if you've been following my blog from the beginning, just consider them reruns.

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A Pebble or a Pea?

Let me take you back to your childhood, the days of fairy tales. 

Remember the story of The Princess and the Pea?  Maybe like me, you remember it as told by "Kermit the Frog" reporting.  While the details change in the retelling, the basic story goes like this.  In an effort to determine if a young girl is a real princess, so that she is suitable for the young prince to marry, a bed is prepared for her as a test.  The bed has many mattresses.  And a secret.  Underneath the mattresses is a single pea.  If the girl is a true princess, she will be sensitive enough to notice the pea despite all the padding.  Morning comes.  The girl hasn't slept because there was something hard in her bed.  She IS a real princess.  Happy ending.  All is well.

Only, let's think about it.  Now that we have lived a little life and had our share of troubles.  How do you see the princess now?  I'm afraid she is now a joke.  Someone who has had such a blissful and pampered life that the smallest difficulty is so troubling that she cannot sleep.

And let us consider another difficulty of similar size.  A pebble.  On the path in front of you it is nothing; inside of your shoe it is everything.  It's about the same size as a pea, but few would argue that you were wrong to be troubled by it.  It would bother most anyone.  Of course it is a problem.

So how often do we confuse the two?  I think that sometimes I'm the princess.  Things have been going well and the smallest thing ruins my perfect picture so it becomes a big deal.  Other times I am so involved with everything else that I try to ignore the pebble in my shoe.  It just doesn't seem like that big of a deal.  But it does take its toll.

Sometimes the pebble is an easy problem.  I take off my shoe, dump it out, put my shoe back on, and am back on my way.

Other times the pebble is disaster.  It was the thing that pushed me over the edge.  I sit down, take off my shoe, throw it, curse it, and cry.

I would like to be better at discerning between pebbles and peas in my life.  And since I have difficulty with my own problems it would stand to reason that I would have even more trouble judging someone else's.

I will try to remember this the next time I see someone I think is a princess wallowing over a pea.  Maybe it was really a pebble in her shoe and she has been walking with it a very long time.

I Don't Know How I'm Supposed to Feel

My friend's sixteen-year old daughter is missing.  She left a note.  She ran away.  But they suspect she was lured away by predator she met on the internet.  It's been a week.

It's such a horrific thing.  My heart is aching for my friend and her family.  I pray for her safe return multiple times a day.

And I feel guilty that I still worry about my own problems.

Big problems like my husband being out of work for a couple of months, with no real prospects on the horizon.  Little problems like my sadness that my son will probably get very little playing time this season of football.  And in between problems like the messy house and my lack of energy or motivation to do anything about it; the medical bills that just keep coming; trying to help manage my husband's depression.

Whenever I get stressed about money and trying to meet all our obligations, I remind myself that my children are safe.  When I notice the signs of depression in myself, I track each of my children in my mind and know where each of them is.  I am so grateful for this.  My children are my life.  I can't imagine the heartache my friend is feeling or how unimportant those other things would be to me if I didn't know where my child was.  What right do I have to worry about the stupid things in my life when she is going through something like this?

I know I need to do things to help myself, to care for my family.  But I find myself checking on her status several times a day to see if there's news.  Sometimes every half hour.  Sometimes I feel guilty that I am so worried about her and her family and not spending enough time worrying about my own family.  What right do I have to neglect my family and our problems by spending so much mental and emotional energy on my friend's family?

I spent years being numb.  Not feeling much of anything.  Most of that comes from a childhood where feelings were not acceptable.

I still have difficulty identifying my feelings.

And sometimes I think I'm feeling everything, like in Harry Potter when Hermione is explaining to Ron and Harry how Cho Chang is feeling.  Ron thinks no one could possibly be feeling all those things at once.  But we can.

I'm feeling sad and scared for my friend.  I'm feeling sad and scared for myself.  I'm feeling blessed.  I'm feeling irritated and disappointed.  I'm even feeling content sometimes.

But I'm judging those feelings.  I'm judging myself for feeling all of these things.  Like I am bad because I'm not feeling what I should be feeling -- whatever that is.

I know I shouldn't.  I know I should experience the feelings and try to see what they are teaching me or just acknowledge them or just let them pass by unnoticed.  I wish I could stop judging them and just feel.

I tell myself that I am not a bad person because I am worried about my own life, even simple things that won't matter in a month.  It's okay to be happy.  It's okay to cry.  It's even okay to be numb for a while.

Now that I've said it, I'm going to work on believing it.  My feelings are mine.  And they aren't right or wrong.  They just are.

Right?

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Update:  My friend's daughter has been found and is safe and back with her family.

When I Couldn't Do Laundry

I did some whites today.  It was kind of urgent; I haven't had clean underwear in a few days.  Tired on top of sick on top of tired led to me having no clean underwear.  As I loaded the washing machine I thought of how nice it would be to have clean underwear.  And this led me to a sad memory of a dark time.

I've never been a clean freak, or a neat freak, but I always made sure people were clean and had clean clothes.  For years.  And then I went off the deep end.

I've mentioned it before, the year and a half I spent in bed.  I haven't fully written about it for a couple of reasons.  First, my memories from that time aren't really clear.  And second, I'm ashamed of my life from that time.

Maybe ashamed isn't the right word.  I did the best I could.  But I am embarrassed about it.

I still don't really know what started it, why I could no longer function.  I was eventually diagnosed with major depression and we tried some meds, but nothing really helped.  I just had to wait it out and adjust my life.

The reason doing laundry today reminded me of that dark time is because of a moment.  It was the moment I'd worked up the drive and determination to get out of bed long enough to do a load of laundry and my ten-year old daughter was super excited because she was going to have clean underwear.  I went to my room and cried.

No child should ever go without clean underwear long enough to be grateful when they finally get some.

I knew the laundry situation was dire.  I knew they were wearing the same clothes day after day, or cycling through them without them having been washed.  I knew it.  I was sad about it.  It bothered me.  But I couldn't do anything about it.

I had a child come home and tell me no one would sit by them because they said my child smelled bad.  I wanted to write it off as lack of bathing because then it was only partially my fault.  They could mostly all bathe themselves by then.  But that wasn't what it was.  It was wearing dirty clothes over and over.  Including underwear.

It killed me.  But I couldn't do anything about it.  I don't know how to explain the paralysis.  I was able to get them up and off to school (most days).  I was able to feed them (most meals).  I did my best to keep the kitchen clean enough that it didn't smell bad.  And then I crawled back into my bed.

I was barely functional.  I often went a week without bathing.  Days without brushing my teeth.  Unless I had to leave the house.  Then I got cleaned up enough that no one would know.  Because that's what we do.  We kill ourselves to make sure no one knows we are having a hard time.

I missed a lot of appointments.  I missed my turn helping in my children's classes.  I dropped the ball and left people hanging.  I cared.  I was humiliated.  But I couldn't do anything to change it.

I had five kids, 2 years to 10 years, and it was all I could do to keep them alive.

My husband did what he could.  He was working a lot.  Before that I had done everything around the house.  Then I almost completely withdrew from life.  So far that I couldn't even help him see what needed to be done or how to do it.  I don't know how awful it was for him, how powerless he felt.  He wanted to take me to a doctor long before I let him.  I wouldn't let him tell family or friends.  I don't know how he feels about that time because we haven't talked about it.  I tried once or twice, but I don't think he wants to go back there -- even in thought.

I was with a group of women a while back who were talking about helping to clean out a house when someone in the neighborhood moved.  They talked about how dirty it was and how certain areas had probably not been cleaned the whole time they'd lived there.  They ridiculed and judged, asking how a person could live like that.  I said there must have been more going on in their lives that led to the house being that way.  I tried to get them to look at it a little differently.  But I didn't want to speak up too much for fear that it would draw attention to my life and my home.

I'm not a good housekeeper.  I never have been.  But it's gotten so much harder and so much worse since my health fell apart.  It's not that I don't see it.  It's not that I like it this way.  It's just that I'm doing the best I can do.  I'm meeting the responsibilities that have to be met and letting the others slide.  Which often means my kitchen floor doesn't get mopped and the toilets don't get scrubbed.  For a very long time.

So, please, the next time you see someone whose house is a mess, whose yard is overgrown, or who might be wearing dirty clothes, don't judge.  People don't choose to be dirty and messy unless something is wrong in their lives.

We're all just doing the best we can.  And we're grateful when we have clean underwear.

Weak People Need Therapy

This is what my 15-year old son said to me.  Something happened and I joked that he would need therapy for it.  That's when he said it.  And he meant it.  He would never need therapy because he wasn't weak.

I was struck.  I didn't know what to say.  His 21-year old sister did.  She turned to him and said, "Do you have any idea how rude what you just said was?  Especially to someone who goes to therapy?"

He didn't.  They argued about it for a bit.  I just left the room, trying to sort out my emotions.  Not really upset but definitely unsettled.  Not because his statement implied that he thought I was weak, although that didn't thrill me.  I was unsettled because his statement showed a real lack of understanding and empathy.

After thinking about it for a week or so, I'm trying to chalk it up to immaturity.  He's a 15-year old boy.  He really isn't expected to have much empathy at this point.

But I am doing everything I can to raise him to be a good man.  A considerate husband.  A caring father.  Including going to therapy.

That's one of the biggest reasons I'm in therapy, to know better how to raise my kids.  To know how to help them be good people who are happy.

Because this is something most of us aren't taught growing up -- how to parent.  We learn through modeling, through what we see around us, primarily in our own home.  And when we learn abusive parenting at home, it's tough to know any other way.

Growing up, my heart told me that the way I was treated wasn't right.  Honestly, that it wasn't how God wanted me to be treated.  I deserved better.  Everyone deserves better.

But I didn't know how to do any differently.  Early in my marriage a lot of my behavior with my husband and children was so much like how I grew up.  I had the mentality that it was important for a child to submit to his parents.  That if a child balked at what he was told, he was to be put in his place.  That I had to break their will if I wanted them to be good people.

Even though I was a lot more gentle and involved than my parents generally, when there were behavior problems I still reverted to what I'd experienced.  Way too often.  Partly because I wanted my parents to see how well behaved my children were.  Because I thought having children who always do what they're told was a sign of good parenting.

Luckily I found a better way.  I spent less time listening to my parents' tapes playing in my head and more time listening to my heart.  I spent a lot more time on my knees, asking God to help me do better.  And I went to therapy.

Therapy has changed me.  It's made me a stronger person.  It's helped me trust my heart.  And it's taught me so many truths about how to have healthy relationships.

And it's made me a better parent.

I talked to my son about this a few days later.  I told him he'd hurt my feelings; he was genuinely sorry about that.  I told him I was doing everything I could to help him not experience what I experienced.  I told him going to therapy was one of those things.

I told him he needs to work on thinking before he speaks.  I told him that as he grows I think he'll find I'm one of the strongest people he knows.  And I told him I hope he never needs therapy.

Because then I'll know all my therapy paid off.

Ending a Relationship

He was sobbing.  He didn't understand how she could do this.  Had it all been a lie?

I remember standing with my friend as he faced the end of his marriage.  She said she never loved him.  She said it had always been terrible.  And his heart was breaking because he just didn't understand.

My heart was breaking for him.  She was also my friend, but I was hurting for him.  This was something she was doing to him.  She was hurting him.  She was the bad guy.  I never got her side of the story.

When a relationship ends it's easy to feel like we need to take sides.  Those of us on the outside seek to understand so we know who's side to be on.  Maybe not always, but often enough that we should be ashamed.

No matter how close we are to the situation, we are not those people.  We do not feel what they feel.  We have not experienced what they experienced.  We do not know why they made the choices they did.  And no matter what is said or who is blamed, we probably have no real way to know what happened.

I have never ended a marriage.  I have never had my spouse end a marriage.  But we did come close.  I did ask him to move out.  And he was so angry. 

I didn't understand.  I was trying to save our marriage.  I believed that separating would help us figure out what was wrong and heal without being in such close proximity that we were destroying each other.  He felt rejected and powerless.

And that's why being in relationships is so scary.  We are giving power to the other person.  By choosing to love someone, we are giving them the power to hurt us.  Sometimes relationships end because both people want them to.  Other times, one person chooses to end it and the other person is at their mercy.

This is true of any relationship that involves love.  When you love and value someone, and they remove themselves from your life, it hurts.  It could be a parent.  It could be a child.  It could be a friend.

For me, it was a friend.  I am the one who ended it.  And I am seen by many as the bad guy.

I guess I am, in a way.  I didn't handle it well.  I was so afraid of hurting her that I was not direct.  I slowly removed myself from her life.  Little by little we were just no longer connected.

Friendships are tricky things to end.  It's not like you file for a divorce from a friend.  Where is the line?  How do you tell when a friendship is over?

I was not angry.  I do not think she is a bad person.  In fact, I think she is an incredible person.  I admire her a great deal.  But for whatever reason the friendship was no longer good for me.  I think we grew in different directions.  I think we both changed so much that we didn't fit together any more.  Even after trying to put it back together a couple of times, it just no longer felt right.  It felt forced and fake.

The relationship was not good for me.  I'm not saying she wasn't good.  We weren't good together.  I was unhappy.  I wanted out.  The more I tried to make it work, the worse I felt about myself.  I was being untrue to myself by pretending I could make it work.

Ending our friendship hurt her.  I am sorry about that.  I hate the fact that I caused her pain.

But it is my responsibility to take care of myself.  Our relationship was causing me pain.  Maybe that is selfish, but I believe it is what was right for me.  I wish there were a way for me to make the decision that is right for me without making a decision that caused her pain.  I couldn't find one.  And I did try.

We had many good years together.  I am a better person because of her influence in my life.  I think of her often and hope she is happy.

And I know I made the right choice.

A Difference of Opinion

How do you handle it when you have a difference of opinion from someone else?

There are times I think I handle it well.  I have a good friend with whom I frequently disagree, especially about politics.  Sometimes people come to our book club just to watch the heated discussion they know my friend and I will be having.  We argue and debate.  We get passionate.  But in the end we are still friends and we are able to let things go.  I believe it's because we approach our discussion with mutual respect.  The fact that we disagree doesn't mean we think the other person is stupid.  We don't call each other names.  We don't bring in irrelevant events to try to prove the other person is lacking in intelligence and so their argument can't be valid.  I believe I have a healthy dialogue with this woman.  We are friends who work well together in our church callings.  We choose to get together for game nights.  Despite our political differences, we remain friends.

Maybe my friend deserves more of the credit here than I do.

Because there are other people I don't argue with as respectfully.  There are some people who choose to attack when they disagree.  Sometimes I can remain in control and be polite in these disagreements.  Sometimes I lose it.  Sometimes I get right down in the mud with that person.  Even if I win the argument, I come away feeling dirty.

This is how I feel about my last post.  I responded to a post by a fellow blogger.  And I did so badly.  Something she said struck a nerve.  I did not intend to be unkind in my response, but I was.  I had a juvenile moment and attacked.  Not my shining moment.

I disagree with her point of view.  I believe women should be told they are of worth no matter how they look.  I believe women should be told they are wonderful even if they choose to spend the whole day in their pajamas.  I believe we should do all we can to build women up.  I believe we should strengthen each other and back up a woman's right to choose her own path.  I want women to feel the freedom to be whoever they want to be, regardless of society's dictates.  And that includes my fellow blogger.

Because I fought back in an immature way, my message was lost.  And I did not offer this woman the same support I was arguing for.  Sometimes I get so frustrated by women thinking they have to be what society tells them to be that I forget some women actually choose that route because it's right for them.

This woman has made choices in her life because she felt they were right for her.  More power to her.  I believe all women should be able to choose for themselves and with far less judgment.

I apologize for letting my emotions overtake my manners.  I apologize for being unkind.  I apologize for not arguing her right to choose for herself because I didn't agree with her choice.

Shopping in My Pajamas

As I hop from blog to blog, I frequently run into people whose lives are completely different from mine.  People who value different things and focus their energies in other areas.  For the most part, I enjoy this.  I like learning about other people and seeing a way of life that differs from mine. 

But every now and then I run across someone who irritates me.  Not because she is different, but because she is superior, snotty, and judgmental of those who are different from her.  In her world, she is right and anyone who sees things in any other way is wrong and stupid and doesn't deserve the good things in life.

This happened recently.  Through a blogging community, I found myself at the blog of a woman with whom I am fairly certain I have almost nothing in common.  We are both women.  We both live on the planet earth.  I'm guessing we both breathe oxygen.  I'm pretty sure that's where our similarities end.

She is single, lives in London, and focuses much of her attention on fashion.  And I offend her.

I know I offend her because she said so.  In the post that bugged me she said that anyone who shops in their pajamas offends her.  She said that I had no business in the grocery store in my pajamas.  That there is no excuse, no matter how tired or lazy I am.  She said shopping in my pajamas is a statement about my low self-esteem.  She then proceeded to tell me the proper way to go to the grocery store.  The GROCERY store!  Seriously?

I understand that this post was meant to be comedic.  She was going for snarky/funny.  And from the comments on her blog it looks like her audience liked it.

I found it ridiculous.

If we are going to ban people from coming to the grocery store dressed offensively then I have a few things to add:  ultra-short shorts (the kind that barely cover their cheeks); wife-beater shirts; intense cleavage; and any clothing that is so tight or revealing as to be inappropriate for public viewing (since I am making the rules, I get to decide what is inappropriate).

From now on we will all shop in uniforms.  All pants/skirts must reach the knee.  All necklines must reach the collar bone all the way around.  Your clothes must be loose enough that you can easily put them on even when you are wet.  And I want them to all be olive green.  That way, people won't clash as they walk past each other -- because that offends me.

What an incredibly lucky young woman the author of said post is.  Her life must be flowing along smoothly and without any major problems if she has time and energy to worry about this.  She must be generally healthy and have plenty of money.  And thank heavens she decided to make sure we know what is and is not appropriate to wear to the grocery store.

I guess she has never run to the store in a hurry to try to get there before it closed because her child came down with a fever and she needed medication (after she'd gone to bed).  I guess she was never told at 10:45pm that her child had a project due the next day that would make or break his grade so she decided to sacrifice her sleep to run to the store to get what he needed and stay up all night helping.  I guess she has never been so ill she didn't know how she would make it to work and had to run to the store for anti-diarrhea medication so that she didn't get fired for missing work.

And besides all this, I guess she is so worried about what other people think of her that she feels she must put on a show every time she steps out of her house.  Some of us are actually self-confident enough to be seen in whatever we happen to be wearing without caring if the people around us approve.

I sometimes shop in my pajamas.  Sometimes because it takes every last bit of energy I have to get to the store so my family has milk.  Sometimes to get a treat for my daughter who had a difficult day.  And sometimes just because I am comfortable in my pajamas.

When I mentioned this to my friend, she pointed out that when super models are trying not to be noticed they walk around without makeup on and in sloppy clothes.  (I guess that's because they're so insecure, right?)

So I would say to the author of that post, next time you see a woman shopping in her pajamas just pretend she is a super model in hiding.  Maybe that way she won't be so offensive to you.

**********

No question, this was a full-on rant.  I was not proud of how I handled myself and addressed it soon after in A Difference of Opinion.

What's the Opposite of Wanderlust?

Our family just got back from San Francisco.  It was perfect weather.  The completely different scenery and diverse population were fascinating.  Everyone got along almost all the time.  We had a great time -- success!

But even on the heels of this successful adventure I will readily admit I don't like to travel.  It's just not in my top ten list of things I like to do.  Probably not in my top one hundred.  And to some people that's a crime.  It's just not right to not like to travel.

About a year ago I was with a group of women, chatting.  One of them mentioned a trip she was planning and how excited she was.  The rest of the group got excited as well, talking about how much fun they were going to have.  I said I didn't like to travel (at an appropriate time, not just in the middle of everything).  The room went silent.

They stared at me like I had two heads.  How could anyone not like to travel?  How can you possibly not want to visit every corner of the earth?  (Especially the travel agent in the room.  You'd have thought I just said her kids were ugly by how offended she seemed.)

I like reading about, hearing about, or watching documentaries about other places.  Other people and lifestyles fascinate me.  But not enough to want to go there.  I just really like where I am.  There are enough incredible things to see within a two or three hour range of my house to keep me busy and satisfied for a lifetime.  Actually, there's enough in my own town to keep me happy for a lifetime.  I just honestly cannot think of another place in the world I'm dying to visit.  My life will be perfectly complete if I never leave my hometown again.

But what I found most interesting in this whole thing is how strongly it affected the other women in the room.  Why should they care if I don't like to travel?  Why would they spend the next fifteen minutes trying to convince me that if I were with the right person or "did it right" then I would love to travel?  Why isn't it okay for me to feel differently about something they love?

I bear no ill will toward those who like to travel.  In fact, I love hearing about their trips when they come back.  I love watching their faces light up as they describe each incredible thing they saw or did.

I love differences of opinion (as long as they are handled respectfully).  I think that's what makes our world function.  How would we survive if no one wanted to farm because everyone wanted to be an electrical enigineer?  What would happen if all little boys grew up to be firefighters and no one became a garbage man?  We need diversity.

So feel how you want to feel.  Celebrate what you want to celebrate.  Love what you want to love.  And please offer me the same freedoms.

The Power of Women

I have four daughters and one son.  They range in ages from 12-20 years.  We are talkers.  We talk about almost anything.  One of the things we talk about a lot is human behavior.

Recently we were watching a movie.  One girl got angry at another girl for a perceived offense.  She then began to systematically ruin this girl's social life.  And so began our conversation.

My son didn't see it coming.  My daughters were all able to predict what would happen each step along the way.  It seems this is one way males and females are still different.

My husband taught me about how boys handle things like this.  He told me a story about when he was in junior high.  A boy had a problem with him, didn't like him.  He told my husband so.  My husband said that was fine because he didn't like the boy either.  Soon the fists were flying.  They both got in trouble.  The police were involved.  They learned their lesson.  And before long, they were good friends.

As I've talked to men over the years I've come to understand that this is a common happening.  Guys have a problem, they deal with it (not always with fists), and often they become friends afterward.  If not, at least they are direct and know where they each stand.  Then they just leave each other alone.

Girls, on the other hand, are not as direct.  They often continue to act friendly in person but destroy each other behind their backs.  They spread rumors, they steal friends, they poison the social waters in any way they can.  And it works.  It works because girls/women are of the heart.

We understand how people feel.  We learn what is important to them.  We understand that they are social creatures, that cutting off their social support is like suffocating them.  We know how to hurt another person in a way that is so much deeper than a physical injury.  And because we are of the heart, these wounds damage us.  This attack works.

I wish I could say this ends in junior high.  For some of us it probably does.  I've known some incredible women who would never say anything bad about another person, who would never strike at another's soul.

I wish I was one of them, but I'm not.  Sometimes I'm petty.  Sometimes I'm jealous and self-centered.  Sometimes I'm just impatient.  And often I am critical.

As women we have an incredible ability to do good.  We can use this same power to lift others up.  Instead of seeing how those around us don't measure up, we can look for things they are doing well and praise them.  We can encourage them.  We can thank them.  It's this same exact power -- the power of the heart -- that offers us this choice.  We can do so much good or so much harm.

People don't need to be told what they are doing wrong; they already know.  They need to be told that they are of worth.  They need to be told that they are capable of better, that we believe in them.  They need to be appreciated for what they have to offer, not told how they are lacking.

I am a woman.  I have the power of the heart.  I commit today to use this power more wisely and kindly.  Because I can.  I have a choice.  I hope you will join me.

I'm Not Who You Think I Am

I spent most of my life letting others define me.  They told me what to be and that's what I became.  Or they told me what I was and I believed them.

I was so many different people, depending on who I was with.

And this was such a part of my life that I really had no idea who I was.  And sometimes I still slip up.  Sometimes I still believe what others think of me.  Or I know it's not true but it still makes me question myself.

It's so easy to look to others for our value.  It's easier to believe what others tell us about ourselves than to decide on our own.

Some people like me.  They think I'm kind.  They think I'm honest.  They think I am strong and dedicated.

Others aren't so fond of me.  They think I'm a snob.  They think I'm selfish.  They think I'm judgemental.

Still others claim to like me but constantly tell me what is wrong with me, how I don't measure up.

I'm an angel.  I'm a witch.  I'm self-centered.  I'm compassionate.

All, some, or none of those things may be true.  There is probably someone out there to vote for each trait, who would assign it to me.

But no matter how others perceive me, no matter who they say I am, I know what is in my heart.

I am a person.  A small person in a big world.  A person with a purpose who is just trying her best.

I am okay with that.  And that's all that really matters.

Pet Peeves

We all have them.  Those things that really irritate us no matter who does them. 

One of my biggest pet peeves is poor etiquette at concerts and plays.  Seriously, I want to throw rocks at those in the audience.  Sometimes I get so worked up about it that I can't even enjoy the production.  I've tried to get over it, but I just can't seem to let it go.

But this post isn't about my pet peeves.  Or your pet peeves.  It's about the term and idea of pet peeves.

When I look it up in the online etymology dictionary it brings up the connection to peevish.  Peevish is an adjective that describes a person showing irritation or annoyance.  That certainly fits.  That's definitely how I feel when my husband does any one of the hundreds of things he does that annoy me.

What about pet?  Aren't pets those cute little things we bring into our lives that add joy and comfort?  Things we choose?

Sometimes.

Sometimes they are those things that your child talked you into on a day when you just didn't have the fight left to deal with it.  Or the thing you agreed to keep thinking it would keel over dead before long.  Or that thing that was so cute when it was small and just makes a huge mess and takes a lot of work now that it's big.

One more thing to take care of.  One more thing to clean up after.  One more thing to worry about.

And I guess we do feed our pet peeves.  We do care for them and carry them around with us, nurturing them as if they were a pet.

Just something to think about.

Now, I'm off to try to overcome some of my pet peeves.  I'm starting to become the crazy cat lady with more pets than I can keep track of.  No wonder my life stinks.

Racism: A History

A history, not THE history.  I don't believe the history of racism can be written.  It would fill volumes upon volumes and never be complete until everyone has told their story.

This is my history of racism.  My experiences with it.

I am white.  I have spent my entire life in a mostly white community.  My experience with racism is extremely limited.  I don't know that I have ever been the target of racism.  And I have only seen it on a limited basis.

I have heard relatives, friends, neighbors talk about someone and make judgments based on that person's race.  Make jokes about people.  Complain about people.  Not about the one person they know or have had experience with, but about all people they associate with that person.

Prejudice is a prejudgment.  Deciding something about a person or group of people based on their race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, whatever without really knowing that person.

When we expand it to talk about prejudice instead of just racism I have slightly more experience.  I have been treated like I was stupid because I am a woman.  And my religion has been slammed over and over, especially recently.  Since I am Mormon, people think they know what I am like.  That all Mormons are the same.

I do not understand.  I do not understand prejudice.  I do not understand writing someone off because of how they look or where they are from.  It's a logical fallacy.  A sweeping generalization.

This apple is red.  This apple is sweet.  All red apples are sweet.

Most of us can read that argument and know that it's not true.  We've probably all had red apples that were tart, so we know that's not true.  It's obvious.

So why isn't it obvious when the same argument style is used about people?

This person is from Pakistan.  This person is a terrorist.  All Pakistanis are terrorists.
This person is a woman.  This person doesn't know about cars.  Women don't know anything about cars.
This person is Mormon.  This person is closed-minded and judgmental.  All Mormons are closed-minded and judgmental.

I could go on and on.

I do not understand judging a person based on a group they are affiliated with.  I do not understand people who hate African-Americans.  I do not understand people who look down on Latinos.  I do not understand people who shun homosexuals. 

I believe much of it is based on fear.  A fear that something about that person threatens our way of life.  A fear of the unknown. 

And I find it difficult to process that our country's struggle with equality is still going on.  I can't believe that the struggle for civil rights was still going on in my lifetime.  It seems like something from ancient history.  I can't believe that as advanced as we are in so many ways we still get so hung up on personal and ethnic differences.

Maybe it's because I grew up on Sesame Street and The Electric Company, very forward-thinking shows.  I really grew up believing that we are more alike than we are different.  That we can be friends.  That we can learn to work together.  And that we can do all of this with respect and understanding.

I am sad that this still has to be a wish for the future because it isn't the present.

The Measure of a Patriot

Yesterday in church we were greeted from the pulpit by our ecclesiastical leader.  He welcomed us and announced that The Star-Spangled Banner would be our opening hymn. 

(Now, I know that many religions stand when they sing.  We generally don't.  Sometimes during an extra long meeting we will stand during a rest hymn to give people a chance to stretch.  But generally we remain seated.)

As he made this announcement my mind began working.  I think we're supposed to stand when we sing the national anthem.  Aren't we supposed to stand?  I want to stand.  I don't want to be the only one who stands.  I hope people stand.

I looked up and in the front of the room two young men stood.  These are fine young men.  Devoted scouts.  Dedicated to service.  Evident patriots.  They didn't wait to see if others would stand; they chose to lead.  They knew they should stand and would do so whether anyone else joined them or not.  Soon everyone was standing.

As we all stood together, singing our national anthem, I felt proud.  I felt unified.  I felt patriotic.

When I was young we said the Pledge of Allegiance every day at school.  In high school not only did we say the pledge on many occasions, but since I was in the marching band I also played the national anthem several times each football and basketball season.  I felt patriotic. 

When I go to parades, scout meetings, or funerals where the flag is displayed I stand and place my hand over my heart.  I feel patriotic.

I love the fourth of July, Independence Day.  I love paying homage to all those who made our country possible.  I have tender feelings for those in the armed forces as well as civil servants.

But in that moment in church, where I have so many friends, I did not want to stand alone.  And I feel a little ashamed of myself for it.

How do you measure patriotism?  Is it what you feel or what you do?

I think that's a tough question.  I think it's kind of like defining a person's faith.  We look and we see so we think that we know.  We see each other's behavior and think we know if someone is a patriot.  But would you want someone to judge whether you were a patriot or not based on just what they see?  How do you judge what's in a person's heart?

Obviously, it comes down to not judging others.  A tough thing to do, but so important.

Today, I feel like a patriotic person.  I feel like there is room for growth, but my intent is good.  I love my country.  I am glad I am here.  I am grateful for all it affords me.  And I will try harder to find opportunities to stand up for my country.

And I imagine that people all over the world feel the same way about their countries.  That they are patriots.  Like me.

Things I am Totally Hypocritical About

May I just tell you how much I HATE hypocrisy?  I can't stand it when people preach one thing and do something completely opposite.  Who do they think they are?  Are they so righteous that the rules don't apply to them?  Man, the superiority complex.

Have you ever heard that those things which irritate us most in others are frequently the traits we hate about ourselves?

Allow me to present Exhibit A -- Me.  (There's really only one exhibit, but in all the law shows they always label them with letters and it just sounds stupid without it.)

*Don't eat at the computer.  Oh, how many times I have chanted this mantra.  The amount of punishment I have dished out.  The frustration I've expressed at the greasy mouse and crumby keyboard.  Don't these kids know how to take care of anything?

Exhibit A -- Me sitting at the computer after the kids have gone to bed, eating chips (greasy ones, crumby ones) and placing my full glass of milk on the desk right next to the mouse.

*Get plenty of sleep.  Why do kids ever give up naps?  Why do they get up early when they don't have to go to work or school?  Why do they think summertime means they are entitled to stay up as late as they want because they don't have to get up early to go to work or school?  Don't they realize that their minds and bodies need sleep in order to function properly and be healthy?

Exhibit A -- Me staying up until 3 or 4 in the morning because the house is finally quiet.  Reading a book.  Watching the latest episode of The Good Wife.  Blogging.  And suddenly realizing that it's 4:30am and I'd better go to sleep soon or my husband will catch me awake when he gets up to go to work in an hour -- BUSTED!  Wondering why I find everyone so irritating the next day.

*Don't spend so much time on the computer.  I have to monitor the time my kids spend on the computer like a hawk or they would be on it all day.  It's not healthy for my son to play World of Warcraft for five hours straight, only to take a break when I call him up for dinner.  It's not okay with me that my daughter has been on facebook for the past two hours taking quizzes and feeding her pets.  Their bodies need physical exercise, not just their fingers.

Exhibit A -- Me telling my kids that I ran errands and did laundry while they were at school.  Of course I wasn't on the computer all day.  While I secretly know that I read 68 blog posts, played 25 games of solitaire, and took care of my pet on facebook.

*Walk into the other room to talk to me; don't shout.  Don't call me on the cell phone from the living room.  I chastise every person I live with for this one at least a couple of times a week.  I mean seriously, you can't get up and walk the fifteen steps it would take to communicate with me without shouting?  Do I not deserve a little more consideration than that?  Are you really that lazy?

Exhibit A -- Me yelling at Kid 4 to leave Kid 5 alone from my bedroom while they are in the living room.  Me calling Kid 3 on her cell phone to wake her up in the morning because I don't want to get out of bed.

*Be kind.  Why is it so hard for siblings to be nice to each other?  Can you really not walk past her without touching her?  Can't you say something nice about that person instead of always tearing them down?

Exhibit A -- Me and a couple of friends griping about a neighbor who's driving us crazy.

Unfortunately, I rest my case.

The Mirrors of My Mind

I look in the mirror and see what I am.
I start to cry.
For in the mirrors of my mind I see what I could have become.

Is that the ultimate in teen angst or what?  I wrote it when I was about fourteen, in my poetic phase.

Isn't it funny how at the age of fourteen I thought I was all I would ever be?  That who I was then was who I would be for life? 

I was such a perfectionist back then, absolutely unwilling to forgive myself for the smallest flaws.  I'm sure that depressive episode, aside from being hormonal, was about not doing well on a test or disappointing my parents.  It didn't take much to make me get down on myself back then.

Unfortunately, that fourteen-year old girl is still inside me.  I still tend to be a perfectionist about many things.  And it's still way too easy for me to get down on myself.

I'm doing better, but I still have room for improvement.

And now I know that.  I know that I will continue to grow and progress.  Trite though it is, I am a human becoming not a human being (I know - *big groan* - sorry to be so cheesy). 

I can always be more.  And my idea of what more is changes as I grow older.  I think smarter will always be part of it; I want to be smart.  But now wiser is more important than smarter.  Having lots of people like me is great, but having lots of people that I love is better.  Producing a lot that is visible to others is wonderful.  But the internal growth that no one else sees is of more value to me now.

Learning that I judge myself far more than others judge me was important.  Learning that I am the only one whose judgments matter was vital.

The mirrors of my mind are more forgiving now.  I see more clearly now.  And I am content with what I see.

Your Place or Mine?

My husband and I have separate bedrooms.

I'll just let you sit with that for a moment and get all the judgments out of the way.

Feel better?  Good.  Let's move on.

Okay, maybe you already knew.  Maybe it doesn't bother you.  Maybe it makes you just a little unsettled.  Maybe you think it's just plain wrong.  Whatever your reaction, it's okay.  I don't mind what other people think about it.

I was surprised when it bothered other people so much though.  I didn't realize that our sleeping arrangements were of interest to anyone else.  My elderly neighbor found out and thought it was his place to counsel me strongly against it as we were standing in line at the grocery store.  Most people just raise an eyebrow but keep their mouths shut.  My therapist was thrilled.

It was either separate rooms or divorce.  We tried separation, but we missed each other.  And sharing a room was too much.  When we aren't getting along sleeping on the couch just doesn't do it.  We need to be able to go to our corners.

There were lots of things that went into the decision.  There was a little worry about judgment initially.  We worried about how our kids would react. 

All in all, it's been great for us.  Our kids have even told me how much better things seem.

There are tons of benefits.  He snores and talks in his sleep; I am a light sleeper.  He goes to bed early because he has to get up early; I am almost never in bed before midnight.  He can listen to music to go to sleep; I can read in bed for hours.  My room can be what I want it to be and his can be what he wants it to be.  And many, many more.

Please don't think I am taking a stand on sleeping arrangements.  I have no idea what is best for you in your house.  It was the right decision for us.

We aren't forced to spend time together.  Because we have separate bedrooms, we have to choose it.  But it's okay, because we do.

The Penitent Blogger

I am afraid I need to apologize.  Publicly.

I have felt guilty since the moment I published my last post.  It's been bugging me.  So I thought I should repent and say how very sorry I am.

In a moment of hyperbole, I implied that I hate Stephanie Meyer.  I do not.  I have never met her.  I am sure she is a very nice person.  A very nice, 14-year old girl stuck in a woman's body, with a serious unfulfilled bad-boy fantasy, and in need of lots of therapy.  I apologize for judging her the way I did.  It was unfair.

There.  I feel so much better.

Another Reason to Hate Stephanie Meyer

As if you needed another reason.  As if the swooning teen girls (and far too many of their mothers) were not reason enough.  As if rewriting the myth of vampires to suit her needs was not enough.  As if the fact that her shallow and salacious writing gets compared to -- I'm so ashamed to even say this -- Harry Potter with all its depth and development and, um, intelligence was not enough.

May I just say that even with all of that, I think there is a more important reason to feel disdain and loathing for the woman (or maybe it's her people, but still her fault).

She and the Twilight franchise have completely and unabashedly hijacked the red-black-white color scheme.

These used to be classy colors.  Colors you wear to a formal ball.  Colors of a contemporary wedding reception.  Even really hot lingerie.

But not now.  Now red-black-white means vampires.  Mainly one vampire trying not to eat his girlfriend, the love of his life.

"When he looks at me with those eyes, and I know he wants to kill me but won't, that's how I know he loves me."

Come on!  Really?  This is love?

I'm not going into a full rant about Twilight here.  There's just not enough time or exclamation points for my true feelings.

But I will not surrender red-black-white to her.  I will not let those colors make me see the black cover, pale hands, and red apple (as in forbidden fruit -- duh).

When I see those colors I am determined that I will see Victoria's Secret on Valentine's Day.  And I will feel good about it.  So there.