Most Especially Snotty

I didn't write here this week because I was dying.

Okay, not literally, but at moments I was certainly wondering if death would have been kinder. There are a lot of jokes made about man colds and how whiny men can be when they get sick and to be honest, I've never really understood them. (Even though I've been known to make them.) (The depth of my hypocrisy knows no bounds, really.)

The truth is, Bruce is rarely ill and when he does succumb to the latest virus or plague, he's terribly stoic about it. It's very annoying.

Mostly, because I am the least stoic person around when I'm snotty and congested.

I whine. Loudly and often. 

I don't do well sick. I do sick even less well when Knox is also home sick. Because you know what is worse about being knocked on your arse with the plague? It is having to take care of someone else who is more plagued than you.

It was the sick caring for the sick, which is worse than the blind leading the blind. Or so I'd assume.

There is no solace in whining to Knox as I feed his fever and starved his cold. Or vice versa. Whichever. Whining to Knox is useless. He can't hear me. And to be honest, that's probably a good thing. If suffering were a contest, he's always going to win.

If this week was a test on my inner strength and maturity levels, I'll admit it, I likely failed. So you know, it wasn't much different than most normal weeks. 

Zing.

Luckily, Knox and I are on the upswing, the snot is receding and fever has broken. My teenagers won't have to mutiny this ship after all. I'm sure they were each considering it at some point this week, as they listened to Knox and I trying to out whine one another.

I wish I were one of those stoic people like my husband who can be ill and do it with grace and dignity. But over the past 37 years I've learned that as much as I'd like to be refined and elegant, I can't manage it. Most especially when I'm ill. 

No. I'm always going to be the girl who is loud and brash and irritating. Most especially when I'm ill.

To you classy genteel folks, I salute you. I sincerely wish I could be more like you. Most especially when I'm shoving tissues up my nose to absorb my snot.

Have a good weekend everyone.

Get Bent

Since I'm one whisker away from official middle age, I've decided it's time to get serious about my health. Since I will never quit chocolate or french fries, this means I need to get serious about exercise. Knox isn't getting any lighter and I can't afford to get any weaker. It's time to shake it like my arse is on fire. I need to get strong.

Like most things in life, though, the saying is easier than the doing. And it's the doing that is tripping me up.

For those of you who haven't been following along over the years, in order to get fit I need to overcome the obstacles of anxiety, depression, an impressively damaged spine, bad hips, weak knees, lungs that are still black from the five years I sucked back as many cigarettes as I could get my hands on, a sausage casing of fat around my middle and arse dimples so deep you could lose a finger if you poked at them.

I am a sexy beastie.

Last year I started running. And by running, I mean cursing loudly when I had enough oxygen in my lungs to do so and trying to wipe away my sweat before I was blinded by the volume of it. I was as graceful as a three-legged elephant trying to do hopscotch, but with persistence and stubbornness it got better.

I now look like a three-legged hippopotamus trying to hop but I get the job done. 

I've learned something about myself in my quest to become a runner. 

I've learned I hate running. I hate running on treadmills. I hate running on asphalt. I hate running on gravel. I hate hills, I hate straight stretches; I hate it all. There isn't much I like about running except for that sweet, sweet moment of when I stop.

And still, I run. Never fast and never really far because I start having visions of jumping in front of moving vehicles to end the dreariness, but still, I run. 

Yet I hate running. I would stop entirely, but since I started running, my back pain is under control. It's been the best pain management I have found. I'm never stopping. Even though I hate it.

But it occurred to me the other day, as I was cussing and huffing my way to the end of yet another run, that I am a grown-arse woman and I can totally find an exercise that I like to do. It doesn't have to be all pain and hardship and hate. 

Enter, yoga.

I've heard good things about yoga. Well, mostly. I once attended a church service where the pastor proselytized about the dangers of yoga, while shaking his fist and invoking the name of the Lord. I just figured he was bitter about not being able to do the crane pose or something. Everyone else I know, loves yoga.

I decided it was time to discover yoga and see what the fuss was all about. So I did what anyone who is serious about learning something new would do: I downloaded a bunch of apps.

What could go wrong?

With my iPhone in hand, I unfolded the yoga mat that had been collecting dust in my closet, opened up the app and pressed 'Start.'

At first, it was a total breeze. "This is so easy!" I thought to myself. "I'm not even breaking a sweat. How is this even considered a work out?"

A few minutes later, I conceded that it may be getting a bit harder, but that was only after I fell on my face after trying to get into a pose I had no business even attempting to get into. 

After stopping, brushing the dust off my nose, restarting the app, this time being sure to use the 'beginner' setting like I should have started with (whoops), I made it through an entire 60 minute workout.

I will be honest. I was feeling a little smug. I totally made that downward dog my bitch. 

I rolled my mat back up, stuffed it back into my closet and phoned my husband. 

"Ya, I don't think yoga is the work out I was looking for. It was way too easy."

"Um, okay. I've seen you try and tie up your shoes. You can't even touch your toes woman."

"Well sure, I had to make some modifications and I went with the easiest, gentlest level, but still Bruce. I think I need to find something more 'active.' Maybe zoomba. Or one of those boot camp type of classes."

"Or maybe you should join a yoga class and learn it properly. Millions of people swear by it. They can't be all wrong."

Nope. I was done. Yoga was way too easy. I got nothing out of it. I want an activity where I can feel the burn, I argued, proving that running really has ruined me and made me insane.

The next morning, I went to roll out of bed and let the dog out of his crate like I always do and that's when it happened.

The yoga train hit me. Apparently, all that yoga stretching and posing was actually doing something. Something like shredding every single muscle in my body into tiny bits and pieces. 

"What's the matter, Mom?" Nash asked as he watched me hobble into the kitchen for my morning coffee.

"Yoga is the matter. I hurt so much. Even my belly fat hurts," I grimaced.

"That's not your belly fat Mom. It's your abdominal muscles under your fat."

Which is really weird, because you know, I thought I got rid of any abdominal muscles I had years ago. Two pregnancies ago at least. 

It turns out yoga comes in like a lamb and roars out like a lion. Those yoga apps should all come with a giant flashing warning for amateurs (and stupid people like me.) PROCEED WITH CAUTION. IT LOOKS EASY BUT TOMORROW YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO WIPE YOUR OWN ARSE YOU WILL BE SO SORE.

So I'm going to keep up with the yoga, along with the running. Because I embrace pain and because there is a pose called happy baby that is both slightly obscene and really happy. This is my type of exercise.

But I'm going to find a class so that I can learn yoga safely and properly. 

I figure the humiliation of learning yoga in public will be counterbalanced by all the Yogi Bear jokes I'll make in my head as I learn.

Hannah-Barbera will be so proud.

***

It's been a tough week filled with a sick boy, a teething puppy and a lot of hospital food. I'm glad the week is over.

 Don't feed the Bear.

What Abbott does whenever I sing. I kid you not.

Boy sized delusions extend to the size of his wheels, apparently.

Pillow talk at nap time. Little sleeping was done.

Buddies.

Have a great weekend everyone. Here's to getting bendy. Without the pain that follows.

Tricky Whisker

I have a whisker on my cheek.

A WHISKER.

Not a chin whisker, I've been sprouting those for years now. Not a boob whisker, I've been plucking those for almost a decade. 

(Sorry to kill any hair-free boob fantasies you may have held.)

A cheek whisker. Like the ones my husband and my son grow and shave off when the mood strikes them. Except, unlike the whiskers Bruce and Nash grow, this whisker is not blonde.

No. It's long and black. A thick wirey whisker. Pointing out of my cheek like it's an old fashioned radio antenna looking for a signal. 

You know who grows cheek whiskers? Men and old women. I'm too young to be old so the only logical conclusion is I'm turning into a man.

To add insult to hairy injury, my whisker moves. I can never catch it to pluck it. Oh sure, I'll crane my head, use two mirrors, the brightest lights and the sharpest tweezers, but I can never find it. I'll think to myself, "oh, it was a false alarm, that long hair I was just fondling, it doesn't really exist." And I'll put the tweezers and the mirrors down and turn off the bright lights and walk away.

My tricky whisker? It is still there. I'm walking around with a whisker. It's similar to walking around with toilet paper stuck to one's shoe. You don't notice it until someone points it out and then you die of mortification.

"Um, Tanis? There is something on your cheek. It looks like a smudge."

I rub my cheek, and ask "Is it gone?" and that's when they'll furrow their brows and then look closer and I can tell the moment they realize what it is that caught their eye.

"Oh! It's not a smudge! It's a WHISKER! Holy, it's kinda long!" And then they'll proceed to try and yank it out of my face except they will only succeed in pinching my skin and shaming me. My tricky whisker will live on to see another day.

Rinse and repeat. Day after day.

I know the day is coming that soon my tricky whisker will have company. I'll soon sprout a field full of cheek whiskers. There is no such thing as a sole whisker. They get lonely. Ask my chin. Or my chest.

My immediate future.

I turned 37 and it all went to crap. My fine lines are actual wrinkles, I've old lady acne and now, man hair. On top of all of this, there is no way anyone could ever use the word 'perky' to describe me unless they're talking about my sparkling personality.

Don't get me wrong. I'm healthy and I'm happy. I'm just also kinda hairy now. In ways I never was before. I look at my beautiful daughter, morphing into a woman, more so every day, and I marvel. I once looked like that.

Smooth. Whiskerless. Youthful.

She's an unlined blank canvass, ready to take on womanhood.

I can't wait for her whiskers to come in.

Misery loves company after all.

Next up: neck whiskers and a full beard! 

***Postscript***

Bruce has since informed me that I already have neck whiskers. He said he didn't want to point them out to me because I get all weird and hysterical about stuff like that but he insists they are cute. And by cute, he means, turn to the left and lean a bit because if I stand in the right spot while he's playing games online, he's convinced all my whiskers will help channel faster Internet signal into his Xbox.

I've since scheduled to have everything between my forehead and my belly button waxed.

I'm also looking into traveling circuses. Anyone need a bearded lady?