The Power of Love

Thank you to Kathleen Flemming of Majestic Unicorn, for sharing her story and inspiring me to put fingers to keyboard, long overdue, to share mine.

About 2 weeks before the end of last school year, our baby boy started lashing out uncontrollably. Massive fits of anger over tiny little things, unpredictable, but nearly daily. I was the one at home after school with them, so by the time H came home, I was done. I'd try and give him time outs, but he wouldn't sit. I'd try and give him consequences (taking away toys or screen time), but there was no effect.

I couldn’t figure it out. While he could - ahem - make better choices at times, and he’s 100 percent a rough-and-tumble kid, he’d never shown what felt like violence. He is sweet to the core, loving, and affectionate. The kind of Mama’s-working-hard-behind-a-closed-door-but-I-interrupted-her-to-give-her-a-kiss-and-say-I-love-you affectionate a mama dreams of (and yet, it’s still the most lovely surprise when it happens).

Pounding fists upset wasn’t my baby.

Then one day, out of the blue, and at my wit’s end, I uncrossed my arms and lowered my voice. Instead of walking away from his outburst, I walked into it. I walked towards him, calmer than I’d been in ages. I scooped him up, plopped down on the floor right there, and, as he fought me, held him tight.

“I love you, baby. You’re safe, and I love you. I know you’re hurting, baby, and I love you.” Over and over again.

It didn’t feel like he heard me. I was glad for my healthyme journey and the residual strength I had in my arms. I had a tiger cub I was wrangling, trying to keep him safe while he fought hard against the feelings he couldn’t name.

He couldn’t name his feelings, I realized. At 5, he had no words for them. As he started to let up, I started to offer him words, “Are you angry, baby? It’s ok if you are.” He wriggled and fought. I kept it up. “I love you.”

I felt a little silly. I felt a little crunchy granola permissive parent. And I listened hard to my instinct telling me to make sure he knew how loved he is. Eventually, it subsided, and my tired, emotional boy went on with his evening and off to bed.

I was spent, nightly, but as I kept it up, the frequency abated. In the opening, I finally had the courage to mention it to his teacher. As teachers of very young children are wont to do, she reminded me that his left arm had left school early for a family trip. The person my baby loved with all his heart and soul, the person he told me repeatedly he was going to marry, and insisted regularly was family, was gone for the summer. They’d been inseparable since they met the year before in preschool.

His best friend was on vacation. His safe place, his pre-K classroom, was wrapping up for the year. We were starting to talk about The Big Move to the suburbs.

My instincts had been right. My baby was confused and angry, lost because his world as he knew it was crumbling. I kept up the hugs, and my patience grew. I understood. Things settled, we went off to his happy place Down Tha (Jersey) Shore for a week, and he healed. Some.

Then we packed up and moved to our new home. We’d talked about his new (own) room and its secret hiding place (seriously, neighborhood legend has it that a CIA operative was the original owner of our 1960-built manse). We’d gotten excited about running out the backdoor and playing soccer whenever we wanted, about watering the garden that was just ours and we didn’t share with anyone, and about catching lightning bugs without having to descend 6 floors in an elevator. We celebrated his sister’s 8th birthday with a huge party, replete with water gun battles, every meat you could imagine on the grill, and running lap after lap around Our House. We were happy.

He took his new job VERY seriously. 

Before we moved in fully, we brought over a few of their favorite things.

Relishing our newfound backyard

And then, once we’d spent about a week in our new home, it started again. The moments were long. They were brutal. He’d grown, it felt like, in those weeks since the last outburst, and was stronger. There were also stairs and a long hallway and a front door and his very own bedroom door to slam. Day after day, it repeated during the witching hour. Day after day, I tried my patience and my love. Some days it worked better than others. Some days I lost it and yelled back. One day, I let my guard down and his angry punch, which I could usually block, connected with my nose.

And then, one day, we were in a restaurant, eating peacefully, laughing about something. He turned to me, looked up, and said, “Mama, I didn’t know what moving was like.”

In that moment, I remembered that there was no way a 5 year old who’d lived in one place his whole little life, who felt things sometimes excruciatingly deeply, and had all of his connections ripped away from him, understood what “let’s pack up all of our things and move them somewhere else and stay there forever” meant. It’s absurd, really.

It took a while, but with a few extra trips to the old neighborhood, some happy camp time (art, music, “regular,” and tae kwon do, since you asked), countless nights falling asleep with his sister or us (he’d never slept alone, another thing we never realized), and a visit from a favorite 15 year old cousin willing to have epic slipper battles at the end of every day on our front walk, and he settled in. We settled in.

Almost too big for the swings he was first in as an infant

That they have these moments...

Craft cocktails two blocks away for weekend brunch? Yes, please.

Little things, like the library carpet in the new school being identical to the carpet in his pre-K classroom, are priceless. He had to sit in his spot and he told me to send this picture to his old teacher.

He still gets upset, and there’s an occasional slammed door. He sometimes tells me he misses our old house and we all need visits to our old ‘hood (it’s only 12 minutes to our favorite bakery - we clocked it), but he taught me to listen. I’m not very good at it, sometimes. Sometimes, I don’t hear what he, his sister, or even my mother-in-law or H (she’s now living with us) aren’t saying, either. Sometimes, I’m angry myself, or I just can’t hear it. But then, I remember. I remember that settling in to love and showing it unconditionally has more power than anything in the world, if we can hear it.

(If Only I Were) Lost in a Book

I’m a reader, but I can’t find my way back into books.

I tell myself it’s because I’m too tired, or too busy, or not in the right frame of mind. And then I remember: books are my escape. Books are my safe place, where I can hide from the world and heal. Books may not be as scientifically helpful as your body healing while you sleep, but they let me step away from my worries.

So why do I have umpteen books on my makeshift nightstand started, but collecting dust? Why does my nighttime ritual involve me rolling into bed, intending on reading even a sentence, if that’s as long I can keep my eyes open, but going to set my alarm on my phone and instead looking at social media? Why won’t I let myself escape into my books?

If I were back in therapy, she would remind me to notice just that, notice my feelings at that point, and then later wonder about it all. Doing something about it will come later, she’d remind me as gently or strongly as I needed to hear it right then.

So this is me noticing it. I know I asked the questions two paragraphs up, but I’m going to put them on hold. I’m noticing that I’m not able to open books like I used to. I feel - as I do often at the moment - like I’m sticking out my tongue a little (maybe behind my back, where I can’t get caught), thumbing my nose at my able self who knows she can cope better with reading in her life.

“I don’t wanna!”

I’m more comfortable at the moment in my state of disrepair, my state of discomfort, than I am seeking comfort and safety in the written word. Even to put pen to paper and fingers to keyboard feels like I’m challenging my current state. Today, wanting to journal for a few minutes daily, but not knowing where I’ve still got the what feels like dozens of empty notebooks I’ve bought along the way packed from our July 2015 move, I wandered into Paper Source. “I’ll buy a journal,” I thought, so there are no excuses.

I walked out without one.

That one’s pages aren’t wide enough. There are too many words in that one. $21.95 for a Christian Lacroix gold embossed journal? Tempting, but I’m apparently feeling way too practical and frugal for that one.

I walked out without a tool I know would help me.

The same goes for books. That topic, while fascinating, is a non-fiction work, and I can’t handle that right now. This one, which H has urged me to read for years and I’ve started and am enjoying? I haven’t opened it in a week. Nothing is jumping off the shelves and shelves and shelves of volumes we have - a sanctuary, if I’d let it be one - in our family room.

I won’t use a tool I know would help me.

I won’t solve it here. I don’t want to. But I do know that, while I didn’t buy a notebook today, I put fingers to keyboard, and I wrote. I took one step, one as sure as the ones I used to march in the blustery chill of a day. And that little walk helped.

Writing, checking in, and, oh yeah...10 years.

A little unorthodox for me on here, but at just past the 10 year mark (yes. 10. I've written here for TEN FREAKING YEARS), I'm wondering where this site and my writing will take me. So in the face of storied Weight Watchers online community IT issues (if you're a WWer using eTools of any kind, you know what I mean) that wouldn't let me post my darn WW blog this morning, I'm sharing it here. I needed it to be out there in a universe.

i'm checking in. i'm checking in with me - and you all just happen to be there. as usual, i don't have a lot of time, a deadline looming, but i've set my mind to recognizing that helpful things 99.9% of the time don't take much time or much effort.

so i'm writing.

i’ve had a number of mini-realizations in the last week or so - reminders, really - that i’m most centered when i’m writing. when i’m most centered, i can make productive, helpful decisions, like:


responding kindly, instead of harshly to those around me, including my babies

stopping to drink a glass of water instead of shoving some cookie in my mouth

pausing before collapsing into bed to swing my reluctant body through a single sun salutation and a twist or two

making a list of things i want to accomplish during the day

give my husband a kiss instead of an eye roll


if i stop for 5 minutes (i wish i’d timed this for myself, would’ve been useful data) and dump it out, whatever comes, i’m more me.

i’ve been tapering. i haven’t been tracking as well as i’d like. i’m still dragging my feet on getting back into the smart choices. i feel good about the possibilities smart points offers me, and i know tracking smart choices helps me oh, so much. and teenagery me is still there. so i’m tapering into my semi-annual food-based cleanse (a lot of you know about them - join me, ellen is a-MAZ-ing). i’m looking forward to it as a way to start making my choices well and reminding myself how good i can feel when i fuel well.

heck, i’m looking forward to the green.

i’ve barely seen a leaf lately, and i’m not talking about the ones now blanketing our backyard because we had no idea how much work it is to rake them all. my body and my mind miss the green. so starting monday, once i’m caffeine-free (except for green tea and cacao), and gluten-, dairy-, alcohol-, red meat-, egg-, and sugar-free (yes, it seems extreme, but in practice, i find it very calming and helpful, once i did it the first time around), those greens will roll in.

this time around, it may look different. i haven’t wanted a smoothie, for example - which i had obsessively every morning for almost 3 years - in months. i’m craving different. so i’ll listen to my body, and maybe have broth for breakfast (cannot wait to make this smitten kitchen/atk one now that i have a slow cooker), then something else later. i’m open. i might be more open now than before, but i’m getting ready.

and i’m writing.

PS - this view, on a 3+ hour drive from MD to WV for the dayjob, is part of what reminded me i need to write.

Bridges, Boxers, and the Blues

Dateline: Sunday morning, home alone

“Two steps ahead of the county line...

...Everywhere I go, I get slandered, libeled,

I hear words I never heard in the Bi-ble.”

I straightened up and sang along, instinctively, belting it out the full lyrics, dancing in my seat.

“I barely learned the tune, so soon, so soon.

I remember Frank Lloyd Wright

All of the nights we’d harmonize til dawn...”

The mood shifted to languid, easy, and rolled across the fluid tones of the bossa nova flute melody.

I knew the words to every line of this one, too. Every single word.

I don’t think I’ve listened to Paul & Art for years. Maybe I’ve had a song or two pop up in a Pandora or Google Play station, as I do love my pseudo-retro-folk, but I can’t remember the last time I put on my “Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits” CD. (Yes, I’m still mostly on CDs, people. Working on that digital thing.)

I see my teenaged knees, bare and pulled up to my chest. I held the album cover, its dulled corners showing love, front down. The back had lyrics written in a teeny tiny font. I’m aware of the simple “indoor-outdoor” carpet my parents put in my new room over the now finished garage. The pull and force of “The Boxer’s” quiet power must have spoken to me in my youthful angst.

“...til he cried out in his ang-er and his PAIN...”

There may have been a contrast to the sunny yellow paint I’d picked out for my trim. It wasn’t pink, decidedly. I was too old for even the sophisticated ballet pink of the childhood room I’d shared with my 7-years-younger sister. The stenciled tulips, poppy red and kelly green, though, belied the dark, tortuous self I wanted to be. Yeah. Not me - despite the occasional - ahem - deep poem I’ve since unearthed.

I poured over those lyrics. I listened to the album over and over, until I knew them all. The LP spun on my parent’s castoff stereo, complete with wood paneled receiver and massive speakers. When they had upgraded, I claimed the system faster than my pubescent tears could even flow.

The air. I can feel the air. I can sense the fluttering eyelet valances. The early fall afternoon light - not unlike the tinged filter we’ve been getting here the last few glorious days - settles over me.

The orchestra rises beneath the acoustic guitar, and “heeeeeeeeere Iiiiiiiiiii aaaaaaaaaaammmm...” Every. Single. Word.

I must’ve been 12, maybe 13. That makes it 30 years, give or take a muddled memory. Mind and memory are a wondrous thing. Every word. A sense of belonging I still carry with me from singing The Boxer in harmony with a middle and high school friend. I haven’t seen her since maybe graduation. Word has it that she’s now a Buddhist nun. The music brings me back to her and the closeness that we all crave, especially in those tender years.

Truth is, that closeness can still be elusive. We connect, and we reconnect. Sometimes, there are missed connections. Today, when I pressed play on the “Bridge Over Troubled Water” album, I reconnected with myself. I felt tied to family, and I touched old friends and sweet memories. I started to write today because I fell back in love with the idea of lyrics written on an album cover. I realized that my children might not get that, but as I typed, fully aware that what I really needed to do was pick up a pen and write longhand (but that’s another piece), the memories flowed, and the webs somehow wove themselves back together and into a lovely, sweetly tender image.

The balance has been particularly difficult to find lately. I’m teetering more than usual. That gentle pain that bubbled up through the vision and the music is somehow helping to rebalance me. We need those touches. I need those touches. The little pricks open up things dear to me and tie me down to what I know and believe. The feeling of The Boxer and my friend remind me of those I’ve chosen. Bridge Over Troubled Water, on the other hand, brings my parents’ relationship and our family of five back up. Played at their wedding, and now, decades after they understood they couldn’t be married any longer, it holds in it the hope and support that even separation can bring.

Support and strength come from places we often don’t expect, and sometimes don’t want to accept. Today, a worn LP and its cover, long-lost, brought the emotions I needed to recognize to the surface. They’re here, and I acknowledge them. I’m letting them flow out over that water, as corny as that metaphor might sound. I’m trusting my senses and my self, built and molded over nearly 42 years.

In the Eye of the Beholder

“I like your earrings, Mama.”

“Thank you, baby.”

I smiled, congratulating myself mentally for choosing to wear long, dangly earrings different than my usual suspects. I tucked him into the car seat. He watched me buckle him in, then looked up at me.

“I’m going to get you some better ones for Christmas,” said my 5 and a half year old. He sat tall in his seat, somehow coming across as far older those 5 years.

I'm fairly certain I've had these earrings languishing in my drawer for nigh on 10 years.

This past Saturday, H took him on a Target run before we had people over. We’ve been reveling in our new space, and vowed to have people over every 2 weeks. We needed hot dog buns and beer and paper plates.

So when my boys came back, piling the plastic bags on the kitchen floor, I wondered at the shimmery straw baseball cap tumbling out.

“[He] wanted to buy that for you,” H said. “He insisted.”

I didn’t wear it for the party, but put it on to play tourist with friends the next day. I wouldn’t have picked it out for myself, but you can bet your booties I’ll wear it if my boy buys it for me. He was thrilled, and beamed with a sort of surprised pride when he saw it on my head.

I pause here, in writing. I could go a couple of ways. I could go all “mamas should wear the things their babies make and give them.” There are plenty of clay pots and macaroni bracelets to go around. I could also write about how our babies see us as much more beautiful than we see ourselves, and gee, shouldn’t we take some of that with us throughout the day. It’s Instagram-quote worthy, probably.

But what really gets to me about what my boy - and my girl - sees is that he sees me so much more clearly than I see myself. That clarity manifested in a baseball cap this weekend. It cleared the outfield wall, in my mind.

With our recent move, our new jobs, and the end of a school year, the mood has been tenuous at home. Some days we are giddy over the newness. Some days we simmer with the tumult change brings. If one of us bubbles over, the rest of us take it on. Even if I think I’m keeping myself on an even keel, managing the stress and staying cool, I forget that my family, and especially my babies, see me with x-ray vision. They see through any facade I’m using to managing my adulthood, and see me for who I am and what I’m feeling in exactly that moment. They take on my fears, no matter how far beneath the surface I might I’ve tucked my worries.

Standing in my underwear on a mildly tense Monday morning - and just before I got my earring compliment - H reminded me: when you’re tense, they feed off of it.

I might have bucked the idea, and wasn’t willing to hear it at the time.

And he’s right.

My children see me clearly, and know me better than I know myself. Sometimes, they share that knowledge by talking their father into buying me something new. Sometimes, they can voice it, in wanting to do my job or go to the office with me. Sometimes they aren’t even aware of their vision, but it shows in their moods, both light and heavy.

I need to pay attention to what they’re saying. There is no responsibility greater than honoring my babies’ sense of being. It’s a weighty one, for sure. But sometimes, it means I get to wear a sparkly gold baseball cap.

Old Friends and New Beginnings

A little over 3 years ago, I embarked on a fairly radical trip. I left a company I’d been with for nearly a decade, jumped to a drastically different industry, and into a new role. I used that break with my own history to jump start my HealthyMe journey. Within a year, I had lost more weight than I ever imagined I would, and was stronger than I had ever been, even as a teenage athlete. I’d even started running, which I claimed to hate. Professionally, I was making waves - the best kind - that moved an organization forward and in directions it not only needed to go, but, like me, had never thought it would.

During those 3 years, I shed quite a bit. I casted off pounds and I released images and perceptions I’d had of myself in my career and personally. I opened up doors I never wanted to open, and found that, while there was meaty, juicy stuff inside, to get to access it, I’d have to grow.

Growing is painful, people. So is change, and so is loss.

There were more tears than in most other phases of my life (well, maybe not more than when I was a sleep-deprived mother to a newborn, but you get the picture), and there was an immense amount of joy. Sometimes, the joyful tears mixed with those from mourning.

While many of those tears were deep, emotional ones, some of them were for what seem like trivial things. There was the time I bawled in the J. Crew dressing room because I tried on a button down shirt - and it fit. One day, I lost it because I was playing around with the Beans, made muscles, looked in the mirror, and I was RIPPED.

I also let ‘er rip when I gave away some clothes that had been in my closet for years. Some I didn’t wear any longer, but I held onto them as remnants of a different life, and couldn’t let them go. Then, one day, my friend Rosana came over, worked her insane stylist magic, and with a single look, helped me release a pile of those clothes with tears of laughter vice sadness.

I was going to consign a bunch of those pieces. I’d never done it before, but they were in too good shape to let them go. So I put them in my car, intending to call the consignment store and schedule an appointment. That was a year and a half ago.

Since then, they’ve moved from car to car, in and out of garbage bags, and even back into our home again. Finally, I decided I’d do good with them, and instead of unmet promises to consign them, I’d take them to Goodwill, where they’d serve both with the money they’d bring for their sale with the service they’d give their next owner.

They’re still in the back of my car.

The other day, I made a rash and admittedly painful decision on those clothes. I’m going to take them out of my car and try them on again. They might fit.

After training for my first half marathon, I went through some stressful times. I turned back to my coping mechanism (one of them), and let major sugar back in my life. I let my psyche try to hide from itself behind a second helping here, and another one there. I gained back nearly a quarter of what I’d lost. Some of my new wardrobe was starting to get tight, so I kicked it back into gear. I kept running, and I went to yoga. I ate clean (or cleaner), and I used a gala as a goal to get back to where I wanted to be. I made it.

Our prom picture...remember the marigold dress?

And then I let it creep back up. Again.

I’m still strong. I still know what food fuels me. I know better than I did 3 years ago what cuts and styles I can rock. And I’m incredibly glad right now, when, up nearly half of what I’d lost, I never did follow Stacy & Clinton’s advice and get rid of things that didn’t fit. I’m not feeling great about myself right now physically, frustrated by the lack of time I have to focus on my health - but all for good changes (another step farther in my career, a new home, and changes for our whole family). Having a cushion of things that might let me follow Stacy’s recommendation to me personally (remember this?) and having a few things that fit me well where I am now? That opportunity, born out of procrastination, feels downright like a rescue at the moment.

I don’t know whether any of the pieces in my car will fit me. And I certainly don’t advocate hanging onto clothing “just in case.” But I can tell you that, right now, for me, I’m grateful for the possibility that some of my “in between” clothing might be that for me again - a stepping stone and a tool in my getting back on the path to where I feel best about myself.

Style Dilemma: Hitting the Spring Sales as a Woman Executive

It's been an interesting wardrobe week. I started in my new role, with a new company, and with new people. While a few of the folks have known me for a long time (connections, people, connections. It's how the world works), most don't know me at all. As I finished up in my last role, I was not only tired, but also in a more internal space. I could push the boundaries of "business casual," even in a conservative industry, because I was a) in the "creative" role, and b) rarely around folks external to the company.

Oh, and have I mentioned that I've gained back 20 of the 50 pounds I lost 3 years ago? So even my go-to dress options (love me a sheath, a shift, and a shirtdress - so very easy), which would be perfect for a female executive in a more outward-facing role, are limited. Some still fit, but their numbers are reduced because they just don't fit properly. Let's not discuss the pants.

So inspired by Alison over at Wardrobe Oxygen culling the Ann Taylor sale for us last Friday, and taking Stacy London's 2012 advice to me (yes! to me personally), I decided to do a little online shopping and fill a few holes with transitional pieces that will hopefully serve me well at varied sizes, match my corporate level, and still let me keep a little edge and personality.

I found another easy shirt dress, a denim pencil skirt with some nautically-inspired details, and two wider-legged trousers. The dress is a no-brainer. The skirt, a little higher waisted, will keep me feeling sleek, even when I don't really feel that way. The wide leg pant with the stripe is just too good to let go - it's a tuxedo for the office, after all, and the paperbag waisted pant, though it has widely mixed reviews online, could be just interesting enough (and yay cinched waist) that I couldn't pass it up.

From top left: Ann Taylor Fine Stripe Shirtdress, Ann Taylor Edgestitched Denim Pencil Skirt, Banana Republic Piped Navy Drapey Wide Leg Pant, Gap Paperbag-waist pants

Both Ann Taylor and the Gap companies have sales going on through today (and you can bet your peep toe booties there will be more tomorrow), so check them out - what are you banking on? 

Britney Survived 2007 (Now with Winner!)

Ladies, the ladies I know have had it rough lately. Nothing terrible, just one thing after another. First, a bad morning, then an especially long commute. After that, a deadline missed (by someone else, which pushes back your deadline), complicated by a cold. Or the stomach flu.

A couple of us keep saying that 2015 is gonna be the year of change, and the year of Great Things. I may have said that myself lately, more than a few times. In the process, though, change hurts like a mofo.

So when I saw this mug in my Instagram feed this morning, I kinda just had to. And then I realized, well, how 'bout I share some of the love? We could all use a little strength, and if it comes with a little levity, all the better, and best if there's room for your favorite caffeine. Which there is. 15oz' worth.

So, my friends, if you'd like a shot at a mug, give me your best shot, share the best craptastic story you have from your own personal life so far in 2015 in the comments. It can be funny, serious, silly, or morbid. I have no strict rules, just that you have to share your story in the comments here on the blog (not on Facebook or my other social media channels) by 12:00am March 1, 2015. That gives you 2 more weeks, even, to come up with more soul crushing insanity. Then I'll peruse the stories and pick one, and post a winner on my Facebook page, as the easiest way to let folks know, and find a way to get it to you. (Hint, hint, follow me over there!)

Go on. Give it your best shot.

Winner Update: Deb, this mug is yours. I'm all about putting this mug in front of that sort of soul-crushing behavior. Stand tall, sit straight, and drink up. (I'll be in touch to get the mug to you.)

Thanks to all of you puke-ridden candidates (really, there's a lot of vomit lately). Wish I could give you all something to get through...so maybe I'll find a way for another contest soon.

Healthy Style: Pretty Is as Healthy Does

I believe strongly that we each have to find our fit, healthy, happy point, and I believe strongly that it looks so different for every body.

But somewhere in the social media universe (ok, on Instagram), when documenting and sharing my #healthyme journey out there, I started using a hashtag: #prettyisashealthydoes. It just popped into my head recently.

It's true, for me. I feel better, I look better, end of story - for me, that is. But I don't want to push the idea of being skinny. I don't want to push the idea of beauty only. I want other women to feel strong, confident, and beautiful for themselves. It's part of why I started this blog in the first place (the other reason being my writing love).

It's such an odd place to be in, that our confidence is tied so closely to our physical appearance. It makes me uncomfortable. We're not supposed to want to look pretty, but we spend time with makeup and such. We spend loads of money on it, and clothing - as a culture, anyway, and some of us as individuals.

Maybe I'll look back in a week, a month, a year, and think "what was i thinking?!" for now, though, I feel like this is it. Pretty is as healthy does.

image via

Why Running is Important to Fashion

Running is critical to fashion.

"Ummmm...?" you say?

Season after season, show after show, pin after pin, and every time I see someone on the street that gives me pause, I've come to realize something. Fashion is about knowing your strengths and taking chances.

Sure, we have our uniforms. Designers, especially, are famous for theirs. Donna and Karl prefer sleek black. Dame Vivienne hasn't wavered - in 30+ years - from wearing that which she designs. Regular people, too, find what works and stick with it: a shape, a fabric, a color.

And then, one day, they - and we - try something different. We see something, are inspired by something, and decide to play.

Sometimes playing comes easily, and it works. Sometimes, the play feels uncomfortable, and it falls short.

Wish I knew where the image was from...

If you've been following me for a while, you know about the #healthyme journey I started in 2012. I started not because I wanted to play, or even because I was inspired. I started because I was unhappy and didn't feel good.

Well, my friends, it turns out playing does wonders for the physical and emotional souls.

You see, somewhere along the line, I learned to play, thanks in large part to my work with TrainerJen. I took a chance, helpless, almost, and willing to try anything, and she coached me into bear crawls and leaps and jumps.

And running.

She claims, actually, that I told her we could do anything she wanted - except running. I have no recollection of that brash statement, but apparently, I made it.

And then, about a year later, I took it back. Little voices started speaking to me, telling me to go for a run. They were kinda like those voices that claim you should try the fancy sweatshirt trend even though you don't think you like it and in fact you really despise it because you did it already in 1987. Then those voices keep repeating themselves every time you walk past the rack at Target and you think, "Well, maybe, it's kinda cute...but I can't."

"I can't run. I hate running."

"Well, if I'm going to try a trend, I might as well try it from Target, where it's not going to cost me as much."

"Going for a run won't cost me anything but time outside. And those voices."

So a year ago now, I went for a run. And then I signed up for races, and ran at least a mile for 64 out of 65 days straight. And now I'm willing to try almost anything, athletically or sartorially, because you never know what will work or make you stronger or happier or healthier. You never know what muscles you'll learn to flex and what new heights playing will take you to.

All of this is really warm up. Because I'm about to be a running pusher. You see, TrainerJen has a new program, and it kicks off this Monday night. She's hosting a Spreecast Webinar to talk about why everyone should consider adding running to their fitness program.

And no, the only reasons to add running are not just in case of zombie attack or to be able to wear a Viktor & Rolf gown.

But they're pretty good ones.

What: Why Everyone Should Run Webinar
Why: Zombies and gowns and playdates, oh my!
When: Monday, March 11, 7:30pm
Where: online - Spitfire Fitness Arts' facebook page has the details

Healthy Style: On Badassery

I originally posted a version of this over on my Weight Watchers Online blog. But I thought this fashion-interested world might want to read it...so here it is.

We've all been using it.

"I feel like a BAMF."

"I'm one of those people out in the freezing cold, running."

As compliments to others on their running, their yoga, their Tough Mudder, or their Crossfit,

"BEAST!"

It struck me the other day, as I read a post from a running friend about how and why to run in the cold. I'm with her, 100%, I've found I love it, but something isn't sitting right about one of her reasons for getting out in the cold: "I'm usually the only one out there at 5am in the freezing cold, and if I see others, they're usually much younger, and men. So own the BAMF of being out there," or something like that. Why do we want to be a badass? Or maybe the question is "why do we call a strong, accomplished person who pushes themselves towards goals a badass?"

Isn't that a derogatory term?

We certainly use other phrases and words to describe our womanly selves: strong, committed, dedicated, healthy, thoughtful, gorgeous, brilliant... So why do we feel the need to steal terminology that otherwise applies to people we do not want to be? Even in my bloggery fashion world, I've got a Rocker Chic(k) Pinterest board, with lots of leather and studs, shit-kicker boots, and black eyeliner. I love that stuff. In fact, I'm wearing all black and my combat-like boots today (allbeit with a cozy hand-knit scarf, white wool coat, and fur hat and gloves, balancing that badass).

The fashion-y version of badass. Bullet bracelets and The Real Deal

I suppose it's because we want to feel strong - even when we don't. We want to feel that we can do anything, and byjesus, those biker chicks who kick their biker boys' a.sses whenever they like, well, they can do anything. I suppose it's because we want to leave the doubt of our "softer selves" behind, and charge forward without looking back. I suppose it's because, somehow, boys are still better at this than we are. In our heads, at least. I mean, really, no matter how strong a feminist we are - ahem - I am - there's still doubt. All the rocker chicks and wrestling divas and I'll-give-birth-then-acquire-a-company-2-hours-later CEOs, well, aren't they simply emulating the male?

I hear it now. If this were to "take off" on the interwebs like things do now, I'd be bashed up one side and down the other for saying women just want to be men.

It's alright. I can take it. I'm one of those BAMFer-ines people talk about.

For her birthday last year, H gave the newly 6-year-old Bean a "comic book" of Athena myths. She (and her brother) loves it. Admittedly, I picked it out for her, knowing he'd want her to have a link to her Greek heritage. And what better link than the original lady badass? True, Princess Diana, aka Wonder Woman (also a hero in our superhero-ridden home), also comes from old mythology and the strength of the ages, but Athena? Don't mess with her. It's a message H and I want to the Bean to hear.

The Bean reading Athena to her brother

Be strong. Be true. Be honest. Be kind. Honor your parents and your elders. Speak up for and protect those who cannot speak for or defend themselves. Honor your heritage, your body, and your self by taking care of yourself, both mentally and physically.

And if a devious demi-god tries to get in the way, hold your head high, look forward, and walk right over them with your a.ss-kicking motorcycle boots.

 This year, she's going with a Frye Veronica slouch boot (last year, it was the moto-like Engineer Pull-on, kids' styles, here. We got hers at Nordstrom.). I, on the other hand, got my combat boots at Target

Style Inspiration: Defining Your Style Using Pinterest

"You have a lot of dresses."

"This is so ladylike, I want to sex it up a bit."

"You like earth, don't you?"

All three of these statements came out of DC Style Factory's Rosana - directed at me - last Wednesday afternoon.

As we plowed through my overflowing, unmanageable closet, things made themselves clear. There's more to share, and I'll give more of a blow-by-blow on our experience (hint: we. had. so. much. fun.) soon, I promise, but the crux of it is:

Now that my closet is culled, I can see clearly.

I can see clearly what speaks to me - or rather, what has already spoken to me. It's in my closet. Perhaps I'm an unusual client, in that respect, as I do have a sense of what I like. That being said, I didn't think I knew myself as well as I apparently do. Not only is it on my hangers and in my drawers, but it's also on my boards. Even as I started to pin things for my emerging #healthyme body last year, I knew. I may not have known what size would fit, and I may not have known which new silhouettes I could try, but I knew what I was drawn to.

Then I looked at my Pinterest boards. It was all there. Right here. I have  loads more boards, but the essence of it is there, methinks. (Rosana might take issue with these, but I'll let her tell me I'm wrong.)

So if you're starting to redefine - or even define - your style, my biggest piece of advice, akin to the old-school "cut-pictures-out-of-magazines-and-take-them-to-your-salon" schtick? It's in four parts:

1) Get thee to Pinterest and start a board for your new style, your new closet, your new drawers. Whatever you want to call it, your New You.

2) Pin. Pin anything that catches your eye. But here's the catch: make sure you don't just pin with wild abandon. Note in that comment field what speaks to you. Is it the cut? The fabric? The color(s)? The overall sense of the picture? I usually use a simple formula - literally - to note it (like + like = like).

3) Step away. Don't pin for a while. A few days, a week...let it stew.

4) Look at your boards again. Notice what's there. What pieces, what colors, what broad styles show up? For me, I realized that, after the closet culling, it comes down to 6 elements. Maybe that's too many, but it's a start for me.

When I looked, these boards weren't all together. As I looked through things, and remembered what Rosana said, I saw where my style heart was pulling me:

"Buy Less, Choose Well," a la Vivienne Westwood: This is my new closet mantra, and will, from here forward, define my "Creating a New Closet" pursuits.

Weekends Around Town: I need and want to look and feel good on the weekends as well as during the work week.

One and Done: Dresses: See Rosana's comment above. Dresses are an overworked mama's best friend, with virtually no thinking involved (provided you've shaved your legs recently, of course).

Rocker Chic(k): Personally, I'm drawn to leather and punk. I'm drawn to concert Ts and jeans. This is my indulgence, so to speak. It may not be yours.

Borrowed from the Boys: It may be trendy, but when Rosana asked me to name my style icon, I paused ever-so-briefly, and said "Katharine Hepburn." Need I say more?

Ladylike: I was kind of surprised when Rosana called me out on this. A bunch of the pieces I tried on for her needed "sexing up" or "toughening up" to balance their girly, ladylike look. Then I looked at my Pinterest boards, and there it was. [Hand slaps forhead.]

For me, this exercise alone - using Pinterest to notice my own personal trends - has been helpful. Try it, and let me know if it's working for you. Or if you've found another "style definition" trick, share with us, please?

Confessions of That Skinny Mommy at Kindergarten Pickup

The Bean's kindergarten class threw us one of the Mother's Day parties that were all over facebook and Instagram. You know, the ones where we all snapped the "selfie" of us with our adorable children?

The one with the gifts we'll one day wonder whether we should toss or not? Mine's a marigold that hasn't yet sprouted and a clay bird.

There were bagels (cut in quarters) with cream cheese. There were pretzels. There was fruit salad. There was lemonade and water.

Then there was cake.

The Beans were instructed to serve us our beverage of choice and to get a plate of food for us to share. The Bean did.

There was cake.

As I sat at a table with 2 other mamas, trying desperately not to eat The Cake (I failed), lamenting the cake, one of them said to me,

"But you're so skinny you can afford to eat cake."

I would've stopped dead in my tracks if I'd been walking.

As I told her "It's hard-fought. Very hard fought," and then we went on to talk a little about my Weight Watchers journey, my left-hand column was going a mile a minute: I'm that mommy. I'm the skinny mommy in skinny jeans at pickup the other mommies "hate" because she's effortlessly skinny.

I felt embarrassed. Or was it guilty?

I "hated" me not that long ago.

The other mommy relaxed a bit after I told her about Weight Watchers. She'd thought, she said, that I was one of those people who worked out 2 hours a day. She'd thought I was That Mommy. But once I told her that I struggled - am still struggling (see earlier statement about The Cake) - she felt better. Visibly.

What is it about weight and body image that makes us feel better when we know we're all in the same boat? Why would it not have been ok - or at least less ok - if I were That Mommy Who Plays Tennis and Lunches and Is Skinny?

Why is it more ok that I'm struggling with this #healthyme journey of mine?

I suppose the answer is, at least partially, that we all like to feel alike. We like, as a society, and especially as  American women, to feel like we're all "in it together." No matter how much we say we want to be different, we don't like it when "one of these things is not like the other." Especially when that one thing is us.

One of the reasons I chose to write about my journey here on my fashion blog is for exactly that reason. I, like so many others, struggle with my weight and my health. At a seemingly superficial level, I struggle to fit into the beautiful, fun, and interesting fashions I admire daily on the interwebs. At a less superficial level, I wanted - want - to like how I look and to be That Mommy.

My initial steps in the journey have been faster than many. In my Weight Watchers Online community (and my unfailing support through this whole venture), I've "met" people who have struggled with their health for much longer than I have, and are still fighting to lose even a few pounds, when I've hit my goal weight in less than a year.

But part of what this journey and this community have taught me is that it is all relative. We all have our struggles and battles and have to fight them as we are able. We have to be ready to fight them. Just over a year ago, I was. I was ready. So I started My Fight. The person next to me may not be ready for years - or ever. What is a battle for me may not be a battle my neighbor is even interested in fighting.

We judge so much in our world (yup, going high-falutin' for a few). We judge others. We judge ourselves. We judge ourselves in comparison to others. What we really need, though, is more patience. It's one of the hardest things to find, I think, yet one of the most useful and rewarding practices. "Be patient with yourself" and "be kind to yourself" are two comments that fly readily in the Weight Watchers Online community that has become yet another online home for me. Often, we're not. Often, I'm not. When we're not patient with ourselves, we get frustrated and become unproductively negative. When we are patient with ourselves, we begin to make choices, one-by-one, towards whatever goal we've set.

I'm not good at it. No one is, I think. But I will keep telling myself to be patient with myself - and with others. Then maybe being That Skinny Mommy won't be so scary. To me or to others.

Healthy Style: Girls Don't Have Muscles

I was showing Bean No.2 old pictures on the computer yesterday. I showed him one of me, making a muscle. An old Instagram pic before I went fully un-anonymous, my face was obscured by my pink cell phone.

"Who's that?"

"I don't know."

"It's me."

He leaned in to the computer, unsure. It wasn't just the no-face shot that was giving him pause, I know. It was the muscles.

Then, I was getting The Beans ready for bed. I was still in my yoga pants and workout tank from my 6am yoga class.

So sue me.

I made a muscle in front of the mirror, as I (admittedly) am wont to do these days. I'm still fascinated by my new body. And I own that I walk around, checking myself out in the mirror. I own it. Because I still can't believe it.

"Look!" I showed them. "These are Mama's muscles."

They looked at me, bemused and laughing. I happen to be one of those lucky people whose muscles look like, well, muscles.

"You don't even look like a girl, Mama," The Bean declared.

It caught me by surprise, then I recovered, "Girls are very musclely."

We went on, brushing teeth and reading books.

Once they were asleep, it bubbled back up for me. It was beyond the typical, "girls are strong, too" thought and rhetoric. I wondered: "Do my kids know any musclely women?" Most of the female images they see, I wondered, do they show muscles?

A quick Google search today over my veggie burger at my desk, and, guess what? The images they see? Nope. Their visions of even the superheroines are certainly sleek and strong, even menacing, but there's nary a muscle in sight. If you venture into the, well, inappropriate versions of most of the female superheroes, there's more of, um, everything.

Michelle Pfeiffer, though not a heroine, as Catwoman, via; Batgirl, via; Storm, via; Lynda Carter's Wonder Woman, via. I mean really. She's an Amazon forchrissake. Where the heck are her muscles?

More thought, and even the Olympic skier with whom The Bean is absolutely infatuated, Krista Schmidinger, whom we met in real life, and whom we stalked into the bar after she coached Ski Liberty's racing team so we could give her a "letter" The Bean wrote her (completely of her own accord), while unequivicably an immensely strong woman, doesn't look muscled.

It's curious. It's worth thinking about.

But then again, I'm not worried. The Bean told me the other day that she doesn't like princesses anymore. "Why," I asked. We'd been obsessed with princesses for a while, as many 5 year old girls are. "Because they're always getting rescued," she responded.

I launched into gentle prodding about Disney's Rapunzel and The Princess and the Frog, and how they save the day in the end, not the princes. Even Snow White, I said, was strong in her own way. Backpedaling and such. These are the things Mamas do, sometimes.

"It's ok, Mama," she chirped. "I like Barbies now."

Healthy Style: Black Friday Workout - Training to Shop

I did my...


Suicide sprints - for beating the crowds when I spot The Item

Medicine ball tosses - for reaching the top shelf

Farmer walks with weights - to be able to manage my haul

Did you...?

_______

In reality, I have zero interest in Black Friday shopping. Zero. I'll find presents for the people I want to give presents to, and they may or may not be on sale. If I score a deal, great. But I am not getting up at the crack of dawn - or not going to bed on Thanksgiving night, as people do nowadays, to get The Item.

What we will be doing today is loading up the car and driving north to my mommy's. We'll have a whirlwind drive up, stopping at a hometown favorite Italian place that used to be a takeout sub shop for The Best Cheesesteak Ever, visiting an amazing hometown museum, the Brandywine River Museum, to see their Christmas displays (and for me to get all wistful about Chester County, PA), and then enjoy a quiet Saturday running around outside at Grandmom and Pop-Pop's house.

We'll play in their driveway, make friends with their new dog, and imagine with the dollhouse that used to be mine. We'll revel in the quiet of "the country."

It'll be at least 10 degrees colder there, so I'll have an extra layer or two, but my uniform will be the same as today: skinnies, a top, and moccasins or riding boots. There is literally no need to look even presentable this weekend. Which is sometimes a joy.

Video thanks to TrainerJen, who had this crazy idea for a collaboration. And so we did. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I would not be where I am with out the wisdom, grace, and guidance Jen has shared with me. I am thankful that she took the leap 10 years ago and started her personal training journey, and that her Spitfire Fitness Arts is what it is. Thank you.