(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.

Lighter than...

air?

Lighter.

I feel lighter today. There’s a weight that’s lifted off my shoulders and my neck. I can turn my head more freely, to look around me and see my world. I can stand taller. I feel cleaner. I feel clearer.

The deadlines I write of still loom. In my business, they always do. The boxes still sit from our move, some unpacked, some not, some opened, but still full, sticking their proverbial noses out at me. We have a guest coming for three weeks, and nothing’s ready.

But I feel lighter.

On the surface, it’s my hair. I went to Jae today, and when she asked, “Just a trim?” per usual, I told her I was feeling a little antsy. “Do whatever you want,” I said. After...jeez...20 years? of cutting my hair, I trust her. She knows me.

She talked me out of my itch to put in a colored streak. Just a little one, tucked under, at the nape of my neck, where you really couldn’t see it. “But is it me pushing 42 and trying too hard to be young?” I asked her. She paused. A long time. Got it.

So I read a silly magazine, and we caught up. She worked her magic, quickly, efficiently. With each snip, I felt cleaner and lighter.

Cut, all Jae Woo at Franz Sebastian Salon, Bethesda. Color, all mine.

It’s a little shorter and a little edgier than my recent long cut. I’m a sucker for long hair. I love being able to put it up, and I love feeling it fall down my back. It’s glamorous, and I have a naturally covetable hair color. Truth be told, though? While it had been a bit too long since my last cut, I was particularly lazy on hair maintenance this time around. I’m a once-a-week washer, at best (thank the lord for dry shampoo). I can blow dry my hair well, but I don’t. Even if I could find my dryer in the boxes, I’m lazy, and only blow it out once in a while. So my hair loses...something.

“You look good!” No.2 said when he saw me afterwards. “But it’s too crazy and poofy.” They like what they like - and what they’re used to.

So do we. We like what we like. We like what we’re used to. We like our habits. But today, I took a total of an hour, including the drive and parking, as Jae’s the fastest stylist in town, and let someone alter a little thing (because let’s face it, she knows me, and the cut just isn’t that radical) lift me up and out.

I took care of myself today, and honored myself by maintaining my physical appearance. I let go of whatever had been hanging on in my lazy hair: that overwhelmed feeling that doesn’t let me feel like I can wash it, that reluctance to “bother” with something so trivial when I have so many other things to do, that focus on everything else.

Wash. Wash. Wash.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Poof. Poof. Poof.

One hour. Lighter.

Being on the Edge

Lately, I’ve been scared. I’ve been scared of the edges of a lot of things: new beginnings, old weights, things I can do, things I think I can’t do. I’ve even been scared of using things I know help me through the Scared, like writing and running and reaching out.

I have a couple of safe spaces with people - women, mostly - I trust implicitly. Even there, though, I’m hesitant. I’ll ‘fess up, look for sympathy, hear their support and advice. Then I blow past it, turning to unhealthy habits and hiding under physical and emotional covers, piling on the layers of protection.

And then, as it does (and has been trying to do recently - remember this?), the Universe started shouting at me again. While I haven’t even been able to bring myself to hide from my worries in books - my escape as long as I can remember - the reading I have been doing, on the Interwebs, poked at me again this morning.

Maria Popova’s Brain Pickings is one of my favorite places on the Interwebs. She has an incredible knack for finding the most apt observations - written and otherwise created - from recent and distant artists and writers. As a writer, that her pieces often speak to creativity and how our brains may or may not process and work speaks to me. Over my second cup of coffee, first at my DayJob desk, and procrastinating from starting a challenging day of “racking and stacking,” of “blocking and tackling” to get through the deadlines between me and next Wednesday, I read this.

I read it after this.

The sweet Scary Mommy piece left me wistful over my own 5 and a half year old. I’ve been lucky enough to spend the last few days with only him. His big sister is away at my mommy’s, so it’s just us. Yesterday, after an indulgent couple of hours at a mall chain restaurant and toy store, he crashed out, thrilled beyond belief that he could wear his new skeleton PJs, which he’s been wanting for ages. That they may not glow in the dark like he wanted might not be relevant. And I might be buying a new pair that does. But that’s for another indulgent day.

As I found him an hour after he went to bed in ours, completely relaxed and vulnerable, I marveled at his state of mind. I wished for his openness. I wished for that, as Libby Galin wrote in “20 Reasons 5 and a Half Rules," ”The willingness to wear a t-shirt with a jar of peanut butter wielding a butter knife fighting a jar of jelly brandishing a spoon, with no sense of irony at all.” (But number 6? The one about the joy of butt and farts? Got that one. Never lost it.)

I fell asleep early, but not as early as I’d have liked, worrying about the deadlines looming, and having wandered from cabinet to fridge to cabinet in my kitchen, looking for something just the right sweet-fat ratio to dull my worries. On edge, I walked away with an unsatisfying glass of cold water and went to bed.

So when I watched Bianca Giaever’s film this morning, smiling and nodding at the 6 year old view of a story that needed to be told, I got a little blindsided. I’d ignored the title, you see. “The Scared is scared” slipped by me, then crept back up after the bear and the mouse had to leave the pool after a not long enough visit because it closed.

the Scared is scared from Bianca Giaever on Vimeo.

“The Scared is scared of what you like.”

We adults wrap ourselves in layer after layer of worry and fear of the fear. I’m in that place right now. I know what works to help myself out of it, and yet I’m allowing myself to be in that space, oddly happy at the shield I’ve built, despite the frustration and shadow hovering. I know they’re there. I can feel them, and I can see the deep grey cloud at the edges of my world. I know what I like. I know my Scared is scared of it, and I know that’s why I won’t pick up a pen like I didn’t last night and write. If I did that, you see, I’d have to allow the frustration and shadow to creep past the edge. I’d have to allow them not in, but out of hiding, and acknowledge them.

5 and a half year olds and 6 year olds know how to do fear and edges. They may not have the words, but they know that they can cry and even scream to voice those emotions. They may not have the words to name those emotions, but they can acknowledge them. Especially if a grownup is there to listen, they can be in that space. It’s our job - my job, as a mother - to help them be there. As an adult, though, I have to be that for myself. I have to know that it’s not only ok to name and acknowledge the emotions, fear especially, but that it’s healthy to notice and observe where I am. I have to give the Scared a name and let it be there a bit.

That edge is a scary place. If I can name that place, then, and only then, will I, the grownup, be able to lift a pen or lace up my sneakers and let what I like chase the Scared away.

She's Got Legs, and She Used Them

It was a typical Wednesday morning. Running late, I ducked into the neighborhood Starbucks, and emerged with my regular quad grande skinny mocha and a spinach feta wrap.

Uh huh. Quad. I have a little caffeine issue.

But back to our story. I got back into the Honda I drove that day, set up my breakfast “table” so as not to drip spinach juice on my dress, and checked my mirrors, pulling out of the spot in the busy lot. I backed up, watching the Honda behind me, checked next to me, and stopped. A man waited to pass.

He motioned for me to pause. Thinking I had a car issue, I rolled down the window. I recognized him from inside the ‘bux (big sunglasses and a man-bun are remarkable in suburban Maryland), but I was still a teensy bit cautious.

“I just wanted to tell you that you have wonderful legs.”

Gape.

Apparently it wasn’t a break light out.

Recovery. Smile. “Thank you,” I said. It took many fibers of my being not to dismiss it with a deflective statement. I thanked him deliberately and purposefully. “You made my morning. Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” I retorted, as I pulled away and buzzed up my window again. Somehow, that simple nicety felt like a retort instead of a mannerful response.

I drove out of the shopping center parking lot a smidge thoughtful and mildly conflicted.

“Good thing I put on a dress this morning, or I wouldn’t have gotten that compliment.”

“Was I just cat-called?”

“If I was just cat-called, am I OK with it?”

“But I like my legs, their shape, and their strength. How could someone complimenting me on them be bad?”

“I have on small wedge heels today, and I still got a compliment on my legs. Didn’t even need the 5” heels to get it.”

“Did I want a compliment?”

“Interesting that I got the legs compliment on the day I wore a dress slightly shorter than I’d usually wear to the office. I wonder if I’d have gotten the compliment in a longer skirt.”

“Is it OK that I’m happy I got a compliment?”

Let me set the record straight. My hipster-in-the-burbs complimenter had zero creep factor. His words were respectful and straightforward. My gut is that he was doing nothing more than trying to share a little happiness at 8 in the morning.

So why was my brain going a mile a minute, dissecting the encounter?

Part of my mental state is certainly feminist rhetoric. Then again, I’m not one to spurn physical attributes or their application for concern over objectification. As I’ve written before, I’m happy and confident in my physical presence.

There is a difference between understanding the power of your own physical impression and being objectified. Pages and pages have been written about how much first (and ongoing) impressions matter, and how we need to be aware of the message we send with our appearance. When someone turns that appearance against us, particularly openly and purposely, however, is where we we push up against objectification and discrimination.

Whether my simple, practical choice led to an almost cat-call, I'm not sure.

From a strictly office fashion perspective, the dress I chose to throw on this morning was just that: a dress I threw on. We’re still unpacking, it’s a quiet day in the office, and it’ll be 102 degrees today. A straight, sleeveless shift dress that doesn’t cling to any part of my body is a purely practical move. I thought briefly about my hem length, but dismissed the temporary concern because of the dress’ demure cut and picked a lower heeled shoe.

Whether my dress choice opened me up to, shall we say, closer observation, I’ll never know. Any speculation about man-bun-man’s choice to say something to me is just that: speculation. I choose to accept the compliment as such. While it set my brain a-hummin’ with some pretty juicy considerations, I’ll take the smile it put on my face and the reminder of my physical strength as a source of power, and use it kick today’s virtual ass.

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

Healthy Style: 5 Ways to "Make it Work" When You've Lost Your Style Mojo

"I've been struggling lately with food and activity, not to mention work-life balance. My #healthyme clothes don't fit like they did (10+ extra lbs will do that), so I find myself returning to old comforting strategies: perfect shoes, bright toes, and color. Lots of color. It may not improve my mood much right now, but every little but helps #WW #ootd #wearing @gap perfect khakis, @lillybeeshoes Ann, and pedi colors picked by the Bean"

When I put my tootsies up on Instagram this morning, I wasn't feelin' it. I haven't been feelin' it much at all lately. I've been feeling like I added an extra layer in a lot of ways - not the least of which is from extra food and increased inactivity.

I've lost my #healthyme mojo.

I'm not sure where I lost it, but I've been struggling some over the last year, starting last Easter. You see, I had a major run in with some jelly beans. That reminded me how sensitive I am to sugar, and sent me into a bit of a spiral. My activity stayed up for a while, so I was able to maintain reasonably, and even get back to my happy body place and fit into an amazing yellow dress.

But for the last few months, it's been worse. I've been eating well, cleanly, and happily. I've been eating too much. And then, after running a lot, I've stopped. As much as I love it, I haven't lifted a toe, really. So on came the pounds.

And then the clothes don't fit. Getting dressed in the morning isn't interesting right now, as much as I like my closet. When I can't wear whatever I want, it's just not.

So I'm calling "truce" with my body, and listening to my soul. I'm going to slowly return to the strategies that got me to my #healthyme goal, and adjust as needed. In the meantime, I'll reuse strategies that comfort me like I did today. These 5 things will help me "make it work" until I'm out from under the cloud.

1. Find 3 things that work. 3 things that, with other stuff in my closet, will get me through. I don't have to love them. Number 1? The power pants.
2. Reuse those 3 things to no end. We think others are keeping track, but they're not. And reusing things makes it easy, if only for a little while.
3. Get a manicure. Or a pedicure. Or both. Nothing does a lady good like pretty fingers and toes. Really. I could look at mine all day and they make me smile. Currently, these pink butterflied toes and silver sparkly fingers.
4. Pick out the one pair of shoes that makes me walk taller - whether they're heels or not. I haven't worn these old favorites in ages (um, winter), but I'm so glad I broke them out. I'll be reusing. Many times.
5. Find one item - be it clothing, shoe, or accessory - that's as bright as can be. You guessed it: reuse it. Wear it to death. Make it a "signature piece."

Only I'm not sure how many times I can wear my "power pants" before it gets a little ridiculous.

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