Bad Touch

I remember the afternoon I first told my parents I had a boyfriend. A real boyfriend, not just some celebrity boyfriend who lived in my imagination, inspired by the pictures I tore out of the latest copy of Teen Beat and tacked to my bedroom walls.

Here's looking at you River Phoenix, may you rest in peace.

I was fifteen years old and swoony over a big blue-eyed blonde boy named Bruce. (I always did have a weakness for alliteration.) I was spending the week with my best friend, who just so happened to be Bruce's cousin and I was excited to tell my folks all about my new beau.

In my teenaged exuberance, I hadn't stopped to take into account how my parents, most specifically my father, would feel about their daughter entering the dating world. I ignorantly thought they'd be as excited as I was. Because! Hearts! Flowers! True Love! Forever!

Since the boy who held my affection happened to be my father's best friend's youngest son, a boy my family had known his entire life, I naturally assumed there would be much praise and congratulations bestowed when I told my parents my wonderful news.

I stood, holding the telephone to my ear, grinning from ear to ear, staring out upon the same fields my father had stared at when he was my age, and waited for one of my parents to answer the ringing phone.

My dad picked up.

I launched into my excited tale, words shot like rapid-fire bullets into his ear, as tiny invisible hearts swirled above my head. 

My dad? He made about as much noise as a rock does as it sits in a driveway. I barely noticed as I chattered on. Innocent and so, so stupid. 

When I finally managed to stop long enough to inhale, my dad asked a question I had not expected:

"Why him? What's so special about him?"

You could say familiarity had bred contempt. You could say my father had maybe hoped I'd date a city slicker instead of the son of his oldest friend. You could even say I had probably shocked him into not really knowing what else to say. Any of this could be true. Perhaps all of it was. 

All I knew was it wasn't the reaction I was expecting. I didn't know how to answer; so shocked and stunned was I by his question.

I muttered something completely inelegant and trite, as were most of the things that came out of my mouth at that age tended to be and I staggered under the weight of my dad's obvious disapproval.

My love bubble had burst. Thanks Dad.

I had forgotten that conversation with my father, and the words he said. I had forgotten his reaction and how, for one second, it made me question everything I had been feeling towards the boy I later ended up marrying.

That conversation, that memory, had long been relegated to the dustiest corners of my brain, eroding a little further with each day that passed. 

And then my daughter started dating a boy she has known for most of her life, the son of a man my husband has known for much of his life. Suddenly, memories I didn't remember I had have all come flooding back to center stage. 

Nostalgia has washed over me, bathing me in the past, reminding me that the innocence I see upon my daughter's face was once mirrored on my own.

Is it wrong that I covet the boyfriend's truck? Complete with haybale for traction?

I never fully realized how soothing nostalgia is as a parental balm. It's probably the only thing that is keeping me from walking around screaming "Bad touch! Bad touch!" every time I see my daughter's boyfriend so much as look at my daughter.

(Okay, so I may have already yelled 'bad touch!' once or twice at them, but it was all in good fun. Maybe.)

But what I've come to realize as my daughter starts to explore her dating world, is that nostalgia isn't such a soothing balm for Bruce. It is more like Tiger's balm. The nostalgia and memories, they burn. Or maybe it is just that daddies are predisposed to growling about their daughter's boyfriends, regardless of how awesome those boyfriends may be.

I am fully enjoying watching my husband navigate this minefield my daughter has so thoughtfully lured him into. It's given me insight into my own father's reactions all those years ago. Because yes, I really did marry my father.

My husband hasn't stopped twitching in weeks. And these two kids haven't even been on a real, un-chaperoned date as of yet. 

If and when that finally happens? Well, I can't guarantee I won't be twitching right along with Bruce. Probably while reminding him that it was all our "bad touches" that lead us to this moment to begin with.

Heaven help us all.

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.