Saturday, January 24, 2009

They Don't Know (About Us)

You know how you'll hear an old song and it takes you back and makes you feel all warm and gushy and young and nostalgic? That didn't happen to me tonight.

The girls have friends over. The house was loud. The hubs was frustrated with me. I wanted a beer - no, a martini - no, a margarita - no, a shot of tequila - no, a really cold shot of Jaeger. But I couldn't do any of that. Remember? The girls have friends over. Just what I want them to go home telling their parents... So no mommy juice for me. But I still needed to get out - the walls were closing in. Just for a little bit. Just for some air.

So I went to the grocery store. As you do.

As I'm shuffling through the grocery store feeling frumpy and more than just a little sorry for myself, the song "Chevy Van" is being played on the muzak. I know it's not muzak anymore, but I reserve the right to use the term anyway, because I darn well like it. Anyway. "Chevy Van". Now this is definitely not a squeeee worthy "OHMIGODILOVETHISSONG" kind of song. Although it might be a nice tune for one of those SNL skits where the stories of "the first time I heard this song, I was..." get exponentially more ridiculous and uncomfortable with each repeat of the chorus... But I digress. It was a nice little tune that came out when I was a pre-teen. I was aware of and familiar with it. That's all. But hearing it tonight at the grocery store in the mood I was in, it just made me so sad. I got that familiar hot feeling behind my eyes and I said to myself (I said) "you will not cry over a 70's country/pop song all by yourself in the middle of Kroger on a Saturday night. You. Will. Not. Now pull yourself together and head for the dairy aisle. Milk and eggs aren't going to buy themselves."

Hormones are wicked, wicked entities.

I was mourning the freedom and sweetness and beauty expressed in this song about a one-night-stand with a hitchhiker. Because I used to have tan legs and moonlight in my hair, damn it! I'm sure I did! And now I'm grocery shopping on a Saturday night AS AN OUTING!!!

Does anyone remember the Tracy Ullman video for "TheyDon'tKnow" (cleverly referenced in the title of this post) which begins with a glamorous Tracy falling in love and ends with her shuffling through the grocery store in pink fuzzy slippers, pregnant, disheveled and with a little kid or two? That was exactly how I felt.

That video ends with her looking glamorous again and driving off into the sunset with Paul McCartney, though. So there's that...

For now, though, time to "get some sleep and dream of rock and roll" (lyric - Chevy Van 1973)

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

01-20-09: Hope Over Fear

I had a 1-20-09 button long before President Obama (how good does THAT feel?) even announced his intent to run. I have long been ready for change. When I bought that button, the possibility of that change was still hypothetical. But I needed to hope, and that date (THIS date!!!) gave me something to hope for.

I had intended to write a long and heartfelt entry to commemorate today's historical inauguration . I settled in front of the TV with a notepad in hand, prepared to take notes with just such an end in mind. I knew I was in trouble when tears welled up in my eyes when they introduced the Clintons. Darn it, I was already crying and there was a loooooong way to go! He may be "no-drama-Obama", but that sure isn't what he inspires!

Soon the sketchy notes that I'd managed to make were smeared with tears. I put the notebook down and gave in to the moment. I couldn't find words to write, anyway. The whole situation was just so completely beyond mere words. I was (am) overwhelmed by joy and hope.

He did make it clear that change is not going to be easy and it's not going to be fast. I get that.

But now there's something that's been lacking for years: Hope.

I'll take it.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Football. You Bet.

I grew up deep in Steelers territory. My dad was - is - a Steelers fan, but more importantly perhaps, he was - is - a football fan. Even growing up in the era of the Steel Curtain I could just never catch on. With the advantage of hindsight, I think I've figured out why. As a young girl, trying to share my dad's interest, I would snuggle up next to him on the couch and try my hardest to watch - to learn - to understand this game that he loved. But I could never properly follow the action. He would change the channels back and forth from one game to another, following as many games as were being played. I would feel like I was just on the brink of getting it and he would change the channel.

Monday Night Football would've provided a good opportunity to just sit down and watch one game all the way through, but my sister and I were banished to my parents bedroom during those games. My dad and my Uncle Will would watch the games in uninterrupted-by-little-girls-and-their-silly-questions manliness. We were sent upstairs to watch the much more kid friendly lineup of All in the Family and Maude. Right on, Maude. I don't actually recall why I didn't utilize post-season to watch complete non-channel-changing games. Perhaps we were similarly expelled from man-land. Or maybe by that time in the season I didn't care anymore.

At any rate, it wasn't until I married Tom that I really learned to watch and like then love then become obsessed with football. The keen observer will perhaps notice that I said when I married Tom, not when I met him. Because Tom was not a football fan. A very lovely moment in our pre-marriage relationship occurred one Thanksgiving when he and I had decided not to visit relatives, but rather to enjoy our Thanksgiving feast just with each other. I asked if he wanted to watch the game and he asked if I wanted to watch the game and we hemmed and hawed a little bit until one of us said what we were both thinking: "there's a Beavis and Butthead marathon on MTV..." 'Cause we like stuff that's cool. And we hate stuff that sucks. Eh. Heh heh.

No, Tom was not - is not - a football fan in general, but he has some team loyalties. He loved the Jets, (I came of age under the Steel Curtain in western PA, he came of age in New Jersey during the Joe Namath era...) but he also loved the Eagles. And after the opportunity to watch the first uninterrupted games of my life, so did I. In the early years of our marriage, living in what he called the Atlantic City suburbs and I called the Philly suburbs, I became a ridiculously obsessed Eagles fan. I remember sorting my laundry in those days into whites, darks, greens and pinks. (Lea was a baby at the time. Baby girls receive a lot of pink clothes. Stay with me, here...)

I went from not being able to follow a game at all to being able to follow one on the radio - if I was unfortunate enough to have life get in the way of actually watching a game. Before Lea could speak, we would say, "TOUCHDOWN!" and her little hands would go up in the air.

I finally - for the first time in my life - understood the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. I experienced the pulse-racing tension followed by elation or disappointment. I. Got. It.

When we decided to move to Ohio, we hadn't really considered the fact that we wouldn't be able to watch every Eagles game anymore. We moved in January, so it wasn't something we really needed to think about for another 9 months or so. When we DID think about it, we decided we'd better pick a more local team to follow, if we wanted to watch weekly games. Columbus, of course, doesn't have a pro team. We have a college team - you may have heard of them - and this town is ALL about the Buckeyes. Pro loyalties seemed to be split between Cleveland and Cincinnati. And Pittsburgh, but we didn't learn that till later. TV coverage, we soon learned, was also split. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We decided we'd follow Cleveland (while maintaining loyalty to Philadelphia first, of course. If you can't watch the team you love, honey, watch the team you're with. Or something like that.) This decision, for me at least, was based largely on the fact that when I'd been pregnant with Liv - I've mentioned before that it was a high risk pregnancy - Ty Detmer's (QB for the Eagles at the time) wife's pregnancy was being monitored at the same clinic. Ty was moving to Cleveland to play with the Browns. It seemed like fate. Or something. So we tried to follow the Browns, but realized very quickly that our local affiliates were not going to be consistent about airing the games. If there was conflict between a Browns game and a Bengals game, they would show the one who was doing better at the time. It wasn't often the Browns.

It all started getting jumbled up again and I pretty quickly gave up. I just don't care about football anymore.

Post season this year I perked up a little bit - it looked like there was a good possiblility that my father's team - the team I'd tried so hard to love as a girl - would be facing the team who'd taught me to love the game in the Super Bowl. THAT would've been big fun for me. I headed into the final play-off games full of anticipation and excitement.

And then I was reminded of that agony of defeat part.

So, I might not bleed black and gold, but I think I've still got a Terrible Towel stashed around here somewhere. I'll watch the Super Bowl all the way through. And not just for the commercials.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

The Postman NEVER Rings Twice

I miss my old mail carrier. She was a lovely woman who knew everyone on her route by name. I guess that's not such a spectacular achievement. After all, she did have our MAIL in front of her with it written all over it... I guess what's more spectacular is that she bothered. We all knew her by name, too. She always traveled with a bucket of lollipops and if the kids would run out to meet the mail truck, she would reward them with a candy treat. She knew how many kids lived in each house, too. So if only one of my kids ran out, she'd give her her treat, then add - "one for your sister, too".

When she delivered a package, she would always bundle up all of our mail for the day, too, and bring it up to the door with the package (and the appropriate amount of lollipops) and ring the bell. If we were home, we accepted the mail, the package, the treats, and a friendly greeting. If we were not home, the mail was returned to the mailbox and a nice little post-it note was placed on top of the mail, informing us that there was a "parcel at the door". It was always signed with a pleasant greeting and her name.

I guess we took her for granted.

She retired a little over a year ago. I have no idea what the new person looks like. I get other people's mail on a more regular basis than I like, causing me to wonder if other people get my mail, too.

Today I received a package. I watched the mail truck pull up and deliver the mail to my mailbox. Then the mail carrier got out of the truck and attempted to balance my package on or around my mailbox. When he failed, he put it on the ground beside the mail box and headed back for the truck. He must've thought better of it before he drove off, because he came back around, heaved a heavy sigh, and brought the package up to the front porch. He didn't ring the doorbell. When I waded out in the snow a few minutes later to pick up the mail from my box, there was no indication that he'd left a package. (Nope, I'm gonna call it a parcel. In honor of my old GOOD mail carrier...) Without any protective covering on my porch in a snow storm. Ahem.

Now I'm sure he did nothing technically wrong. He did his job.

I'm reminded of a time shortly after my sister and I had both started working at the pizza shop. I had made a silly mistake of omission and it was bothering me. She and I were out with a friend and I kept berating myself for forgetting to do this one little task that had been asked of me. Our friend said, "What are you so upset about? It's just a stupid job waiting tables at a pizza shop - it's not even a real job." My sister and I were both taken aback. It's not a career, perhaps. It's certainly nothing by which I wish to define myself. But it is most assuredly a real job. Someone is paying me to make sure that said job is carried out. ANY job can be done well or merely adequately. There is pride to be taken in a job well done, no matter how menial that job may be. I had not done my job well on that particular day, and it bothered me. It should have.

Back to the mail carrier. He did what was required of him. The old mail carrier went above and beyond. But really, how much more energy did she expend? If she was walking to my door with a parcel anyway, did it cause her extra work to carry my mail along with her? And if she had to walk said mail back to the truck, how many seconds did it take to write that post-it note and put it on my mail? Such small things! Things that really required next to no additional effort - yet they made such a big difference.

My goal for today? Go that extra mile - concentrate on the little things that make interactions special and sweet. Yeah. I think I can do that.

Maybe I'll hand out lollipops.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Battling the Two-Headed Beast

I am surely reminded, as I am every January, that having a bigger than average body is the scariest most horrifying thing in the world. Having a bigger than average ass is an almost unspeakable abomination. I am reminded of this every time I turn on the TV, walk into the grocery store, have a conversation... Folks will do anything to fend off fat cell growth - employing all manner of unnatural devices behaviors and eating plans to do so. Do whatever it takes or you might get fat! And then what? Shudder to think. On second thought, don't even think. Just buy this this and this, join this this and this don't eat (or drink) this this or this while eating (or drinking) plenty of this this and this. Ka-ching! While this goes on all year, of course, there's a big surge in January to further motivate the resolution warriors.

People who go to the gym regularly - a group I used to be part of and hope to be part of again within the next couple of months - look at these resolution warriors as a scourge at worst and a joke at best. I remember the year I was pregnant with Olivia. I continued going to the gym after the pregnancy was confirmed, but very shortly after that the pregnancy was deemed high risk and my activities were limited. Doctors orders were to stay away from the gym and any other remotely vigorous activity until 6 weeks after the baby was born. No big - a pregnant me was a compliant me, for sure. It was less restrictions than I'd faced with Lea's pregnancy (which had me spending 3 months or so lying on my left side with next to NO activity...) No big - except that Liv was born November 25, making 6 weeks post-partum just a week into January. I really sweated this - I even considered putting off starting back a few extra weeks, lest I be mistaken for a resolution warrior. (I ended up going back the first day I was allowed. Figured everyone who knew me at the gym knew when the baby was born and knew my plans were to return as soon as I was allowed. I decided I didn't care about what anyone who didn't know me might think. But I really did put quite a bit of thought into it...)

But back to the scary part.

Last week over at Shapely Prose a lively discussion emerged on a similar topic. When it was mentioned that this was scary scary stuff for most women, a lot of folks - bigger folks, like me - started chiming in about how awesome we must be because we face that fear head on every day and still manage to continue existing. I told Tom that since I was able to face the two-headed beast of fat and aging in the mirror without perishing I must be some kind of superhero. I live with what you fear daily and survive! Yay me!

Except that's not honest. I guess I don't fear it any more. Guess I've got that part conquered. But I don't exactly live with it in peaceful harmony. I, too, give it - the two-headed beast - more power than it deserves.

The other day a dear friend confessed that she'd always been jealous of me. This really threw me for a loop. I couldn't begin to imagine what would make her feel that way (and she wasn't divulging). I am entirely unenviable. I really couldn't figure it out.

Then I put some thought into it. I really do have it very good. I have caught a lot of breaks and been afforded quite a few opportunities that not everyone has. I'm educated, well-traveled and happily married. I have a home (humble as it is) and enough money (no extra, so I find time to whine about that, but always enough). My family is relatively happy and healthy. Damn! That is some enviable stuff, for sure! But I convinced myself that I am unenviable because I am fat and my once exciting life has become mundane. Good heavens! All of those wonderful things negated so easily! Wow! That two-headed beast is powerful indeed!

It shouldn't be so scary. We're all different sizes and shapes and ages. It would be terribly dull if we weren't. Easier to look at, by societal standards, perhaps, but dull all the same.

When I do go back to the gym in a couple months, I know what I'll be. I'll be that person you look at who gives you just that little extra push. "Damn, if I don't keep running/stepping/pedaling/lifting I might end up like that." Instant power surge. You're welcome, I guess. No one sets out to be a cautionary tale. But if that's my role, I suppose I'll take it.

The last time I ever ran, I was entered in a small 5K. I was in pretty good shape at the time - I'd been working out/training pretty heavily and my strength and endurance were probably the best they've ever been. But I was still fat. Because that's how I am. Anyway. I started running and there were two girls behind me. One said to the other, "Ohmygod - how's THAT for motivation to keep doing this?" Then they giggled. Now let's think about that for a moment. I was probably both twice their size AND twice their age, yet they were looking at my caboose in a race. How is it that I'm still the punch line in this joke? Yet I somehow was. I made it through that race, but never entered another. Know your place. I kept going to the gym though. And I kept being fat.

So I've got to tame that two-headed beast - somehow strip it of its power - because it isn't going away. Power to those of you who continue to try to fend it off. Because I guess you're kind of right. It IS scary.

Monday, January 12, 2009

This Used to be My Playground

It's an odd thing, this mother-daughter relationship.

Tom has always said that he doesn't understand the jealousy involved in the mother-daughter dynamic. I always told him he was smoking crack. I wasn't jealous of my daughters - I was proud of them, and happy for them - but never jealous. They certainly weren't jealous of me.

And then a pair of shoes brought it all crashing down unexpectedly on my head.

Lea bought the cutest shoes this weekend. She knew I'd love them and she knew I'd say yes. She also knew the first words out of my mouth would be, "did they have my size?" Before she could even jog off to check, though, I told her "never mind." Why? Because it's not my turn. There is not a single aspect of my life that cannot be properly accommodated by shoes already in my possession.

It's not my turn. It's her turn. Her turn to wear cute shoes and cute clothes. Her turn to go to the movies and giggle with friends and talk about cute boys. Her turn to dream about dances and what her life will be like when she's grown. It's her turn. I had my turn. My turn is over. It's her turn.

And I'm sorry - I mean, I really really am - but I do find myself a little jealous. I hadn't planned on being such a cliche. But I wasn't done with this ride yet. I don't want to go to the back of the line. I'm not ready.

Which is not to say that I don't want her to have her turn - I do! I most sincerely do! But can't we ride the ride together? Why does the beginning of her turn have to mean the end of mine?

Because it just does. I should've gotten off this ride years ago, anyway. I can go get on a different ride, I suppose. One where the shoes and clothes are more practical than cute. One that moves a little slower. One that doesn't have as many restrictions about who should and shouldn't ride. I'd be more comfortable there, anyway. I know this.

I just don't want to.


Tom and I have almost completely stopped going to bars because it is inevitable that someone - often more someones than one - will approach us and say, "Smile!" or "Cheer up!" or some variation thereof to indicate that our sour countenances are seriously harshing their buzz.

Now, I'll confess, we're rarely the life of the party. And Tom has confessed to studying the frown as an art form. But we're basically happy enough people. Well, content anyway. And we're funny as hell. Well, at least in our own minds.

It's true - we don't sit there with simple grins pasted on our faces for no apparent reason. So I suppose we maintain neutral countenance. That doesn't seem so bad to me. But it seems to bug the shit out of all the strangers around us.

I do not have lovely teeth. Actually, structurally they're pretty nice - perfect alignment and never had a cavity. But we all know "it's not how you feel, it's how you look." And they are not nor are they ever likely to be blindingly white. Or even whitish. So there's that. But probably more importantly, when I was 7 and still had a mouthful of baby teeth I broke one of the only permanent teeth I had right in half. A front one, of course. Being 7, there wasn't much they could do till my mouth grew a little. I had a new temporary cap every 4 months. (I have a permanent cap now and it precludes me from using any of the commercially available whitening systems currently being marketed to target yet another of our insecurities). It was not very cosmetically appealing. So I learned at 7 to smile with my mouth closed. Never had a big toothy smile in my life. I thought the more subtle Mona Lisa type close-lipped smile was a fine substitute. And way more intriguing. Ahem. We think what we've got to think.

A new friend just commented that my somewhat flat affect stops people from seeing what a bright happy person I am. (Ha! New people will say ANYthing!) But seriously - it does make me wonder. Does my fear of looking silly and simple as well as my lifelong practice of smiling with my teeth covered result in a look that is off-putting? I would hate to think that that was so, but I hate even more to think about how weirdly false and possibly manic and scary a constant shit-eating grin would be.

So if you make me smile, apparently you've accomplished something. Congratulations. Don't you feel lucky?

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Late Night Computer Paranoia (or: The One Where the Title is Longer Than the Actual Post)

Does anyone else worry - for just a second - when they take a Fug or Fab quiz at Go Fug Yourself - that they've chosen the wrong answer? Just me? Ok.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

It's in the Bag

My mom loves bags.

I mean this on so many levels.

Like most women, or at least many women, or at least most of the women I know, she loves purses. My mom loves teeny tiny purses in neutral colors on long straps that she can securely wear around her neck and tucked under her opposite arm. I think my girls were calling that "Memaw Style' as soon as they could talk (ie: when you put on your Brownie sash, you wear it Memaw Style). She likes her handbags like she likes her home - a place for everything and everything in its place. Use all the space you have and use it efficiently. My friend Karen also loves purses, but she likes hers in rich colors and big enough to contain the kitchen sink, 'cause you never know when you or someone else is going to need something. How grand, to reach into the depths of that mammoth bag, root around a little, and come up with 'just the thing'. My mom would've sucked on 'Let's Make a Deal'. Karen would've rocked. Me? Aw, you know me. I'm a big ole show off. Most of the bags I carry are bags I've made. I don't have a 'type', like Karen and my mom do, but I am a big ole whore for a compliment. My most recent bags have been: an oversized rather shapeless hobo with no compartments - fulled rather than felted - knit in a gorgeous green/purple variegated wool and an interesting pattern. I could never find anything in that bag. Next up: a very small black clutch - this one was crocheted with a stiff shiny nylon and made cool by its impromptu old T-shirt lining. It was way too small. Now I'm sporting a really pretty purple mid-sized bag - strongly felted - with 2 outer pockets. So far so good.

I hadn't really planned to talk that much about purse bags. Indulge me - let me call them pocket books just once. Thanks. That bugs my kids a lot, so, of course, I say it a lot. "Let's go!" "As soon as I grab my pocketbook!"

I had really intended to talk about my mothers tendency to use as many plastic bags as possible. Plastic grocery bags, ziploc baggies, larger department store plastic bags - she LOVES 'em, and is never without a couple. When shopping for the girls, she will ask for seperate bags for what she buys each of them - even though it's all coming home to the same place. "Bag those seperately, could you?"

Once I stopped at her house on the way home from a long trip. She packed me a lunch to eat in the car on the way home. She handed me a nice insulated canvas lunch bag and told me to return it next time I saw her. I thanked her and got on my way. A few hours later, when I decided a little lunch might be just the thing, I opened the lunch bag. I knew there was a sandwich in there - I'd watched her make it - but I couldn't see it just yet. I pulled, out of the insulated lunch bag, a large ziploc bag. Inside that was a can of Diet Coke and one of those little cold packs. And some smaller bags. I pulled out the largest of them - a medium sized ziploc - which contained 2 paper towels and a smaller ziploc which contained my sandwich. But wait - there was more in my large ziploc bag - there were some celery and carrot sticks in, you guessed it, a snack sized baggie. There was also a Tastycake (man, I love visiting out east! Can't get Tastycakes here...) which was wrapped in napkins and secured in its own ziploc. "So it wouldn't get squooshed" I was told, when I asked later why a packaged lunch cake needed it's own baggie. So my simple lunch used 5 disposable plastic bags. I suppose I could be glad she packed the whole thing in the insulated lunch bag instead of in a grocery bag.

Do I have to tell you how much this woman loves gift bags? I've seen her buy gifts in pre-packaged little gift bags, then put them in an additional gift bag, then put several of THOSE gift bags in a larger gift bag, THEN pack folded larger gift bags in THAT "in case anyone needs one".

I've made an issue of it on more than one occasion, trying to explain the whole bad for the environment thing, and she says, "of course you're right" then goes right on doing it.

A couple years ago I bought her some reusable canvas shopping bags, and she thought they were great. She loved the concept so much she bought them for everyone she knows. She uses them to carry things in. Things which have - you've guessed it - already been packed into plastic bags. It's just a bag to carry your bags in. I've given up. Old dog, new tricks, all that. She has at least become a little more aware, though. She told me recently about asking for an extra bag somewhere and then confiding to the salesgirl that "My daughter would have a fit if she knew I was asking for that." So there's that. I'm on her shoulder, like Stacy and Clinton are on mine. She just chooses to ignore me, like I choose to ignore them.

But here's where it gets disturbing - where you start pondering apples and trees and how far the secondary falls from the primary...

While I do try to use as few plastic bags as possible, I LOVE reusable canvas bags. I have no less than 10 in the front seat of my car right now, as well as 2 insulated bags. There are more in the trunk. There are always several at the top of the basement stairs (where the plastic grocery bags used to be kept) and there are usually some in use around the house (containing a project, for example). Sometimes? When I go shopping? I'll forget to take one in with me on purpose - just so I can buy another one! I have them from many different stores in many different styles and sizes. I have favorites. And, if you're on your toes, you're probably thinking, "hey, ya big ole crafty compliment whore, why don't you make your own darn bags?" I HEAR you! And I think I should.

Oh dear.

This can't end well.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Living in the Present

It feels like I should be posting reflections from the year past and resolutions for the year to come. It's what's done, no? So I tried. Truly I did. I thought about the year past - the highs and the lows - but mostly the pleasantly mundane middles. I thought about the things I should resolve to do in the year to come. I couldn't come up with anything that held my interest long enough to bother to write about it.

Last night at a New Year's Eve party, there was some discussion over whether we live in the past, present or future. We all agreed that we spend some time living in all of those places. I know I do. But if I'm going to be honest with myself, I do spend a lot of time living in the past. My past was more interesting. It was more exciting. It makes for a better story. My present, while certainly more pleasant than my past, doesn't make for a good story. Let's pitch the book, shall we?

Ok, it's about this middle-aged unemployed-by-choice chick who is happily married and living in the suburbs. Also she's overweight.

Where's the conflict?

There is no conflict. She goes about her life and is mostly happy and content. Sometimes she gets frustrated, though. Is that a conflict?

Depends - what frustrates her?

Well, her kids don't always listen to her. And the world isn't always nice to people who are overweight.

That? Is not a story anyone would want to read.

No, I guess it's not. So I think about my wild misspent youth. I think about how much better the music and movies were when I was younger. I listen to said music and watch said movies whenever I get the chance. I impose them on my children so they'll "know what good is".

Speaking of children, Tom and I are constantly telling Lea to live in her present. She, like so many of her generation, will be out somewhere - with actual people - but will continue to do most of her socializing via text. We remind her to enjoy the people she's actually with. "Be where you are", we say to her. She rolls her eyes, puts the phone away for a moment, and has it out again the next time our backs are turned. I've stopped coming down on her so much about it, because I recognize that it's not just her. It really is the hallmark of this generation.

But not mine.

So I think, if I'm going to make any resolutions at all, that my resolution will be to live in the present this year. I will go to the gym because I feel better when I work out, not because I am working towards a weight loss goal I'll never achieve. (hold me to that one, will you please? It's so hard not to fall into the "this time it's gonna work - for real - I just have to want it badly enough" mentality) I will live today for today and not long for yesterday or dream of tomorrow. Ok, I'll still totally do both of those things, who am I kidding? But I'm going to resolve to give today precedence.