When Eat, Pray, Love came out, I, like millions of others, read the book cover to cover and dreamed of taking off for distant lands. Eating my way through pasta and pizza. Enjoying silence (in very scant supply around this house!). Remembering who I was before I was a wife and mother.
Then, I watched The Bucket List and saw the men's point of view. And, frankly, I identified far more with their List than the mid-life crisis of Elizabeth Gilbert. I started a List of my own. And that opened a Pandora's box of "what ifs" and slight regrets...
The point of a Bucket List is to have a certain number of things to do, or be, or see, or whatever before you die. I see it as almost a "to do list" for living. A list of things that don't have to do with laundry, or cleaning, or errands. It's a selfish list. A list only for me. Not of what I can do for others, but what I can do for myself. To make me feel alive. To feel rushes of adrenaline that have nothing to do with being late for the carpool line. To eat exotic, and sometimes disgusting, foods that I didn't have to make. To nourish my heart and soul.
And, after reviewing my List, I found a pattern.
Apparently, I have a taste for adventure. And roasted bugs.
Almost everything on my List is a place I'd like to travel to, a high adrenaline activity I'd like to participate in, or a native food I want to eat. And, I'm not talking wanting to go to Italy and eat pizza (although that would be divine...) No, I want to go on a rustic safari and eat roasted mealy worms. I want to work on an archaeological excavation site and eat fried crickets. I want to learn how to scuba dive and then eat raw eel or something.
Sure, there are "normal" things on my List, like owning a convertible and hiking part of the Appalachian Trail (I mean, it's only a hour or two away. It's practically beckoning to me.) and going white water rafting (ditto). But, that Explorer part of my personality, tucked away behind the overwhelming Negotiator and Builder, is desperate to get out.
When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I did travel. Not a whole lot, but enough to whet the appetite. I went up and down the coast of Eastern Asia with my mom and aunt, and got to eat curry and yaki mandu for the first time. I discovered that I have a high tolerance for "gross" food--aka, the "ammonia bread" I ate in Bangkok (it was from a street vendor and I was half-starved for dinner. It was the best damn bread I have ever eaten--and it smelled like pee. There was a big bubble in the middle where it rose, and when you ripped it apart, it blew a puff of ammonia gas at you. My mom and aunt were totally repulsed. They were convinced it was boiled in urine. I just wanted another piece.) I found that if someone didn't tell me what a food was, I'd probably eat it. And ask for seconds.
There are stories of me eating a giant gray "meatball" of meat, with weird holes all over it, during dim sum at the Jumbo in Hong Kong. It was so delicious, I had another. Fragrant and warm, it almost fell apart on my tongue. It didn't need any sauce or condiment to enhance the flavor. It was meaty and delicious. And, to this day, my family jokes that I ate either lung or testicle...
Someday, I hope to continue on the List. To spend the night in a tree house. To dig for dinosaur bones. To see the Nile and the Amazon. To take a volunteer vacation and build a school or dig a well in a third world country where I don't speak the language. To live a slightly less strenuous version of Destination Truth or National Geographic. To prove to myself that I am braver than I believe, stronger than I seem, and smarter than I think (to paraphrase Christopher Robin to Pooh Bear).
But for now, my life is marriage and motherhood. And that's okay. In fact, that's how it's supposed to be. My only regrets are that I didn't travel and do more in my comparative youth. That I was too much of a "good girl" who worried about grades and money and parental approval. That I didn't take complete advantage of the years when I should have been a complete dumb ass and taken risks and made mistakes and embraced the whole carpe diem thing.
And, that's a lesson I hope to teach my kids. To take calculated risks, to take advantage of opportunities, to not worry so much about what others (and I) think. To follow their own drummer. Or band. To have a "past" that's not lily white, but would make for some awesome stories to tell their grandkids.
I don't think I have to worry about that with WMB, since he's the one most likely to call me from a satellite phone in Nepal when he's 16 to tell me he's missing curfew because he's hunting down a Yeti in the Himalayas. He's definitely my "wild man". I have no doubt that he'll wander the world live life on his own terms. He's got more of MacGyver's "who cares" genes in him, and I love that. I'll certainly miss him like hell when he's off climbing K2 or digging for Captain Whomever's treasure on a deserted island, but I'll be proud that he's following his own path and his own bliss.
My little Drama Queen, though, is more like me. And I want to know that you don't have to wait until you're grown to have a "List", that she should follow her dreams wherever they may lead all her life. To welcome mistakes and regrets. To live life (at least for a while) out of a backpack and with her passport in hand, if that's what she wants.
And for myself, I'm resolving to live life less safely. To take more risks. Calculated risks. Maybe I don't need to go base jumping, but maybe I'll try bungee jumping one day.
And, to take advantage of every opportunity to eat steamed balls and ammonia bread. And, to take seconds...
Monday, September 26, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Organizing My Clutter Closet
I, like millions of other Gen-X'ers, watched the show Friends through out the nineties. Unlike most, however, I didn't start watching it when I heard all the rave reviews or saw dozens of girls on my college campus suddenly show up with the "Rachel" haircut (and yes, I had the haircut too. But, in my defense, I will go down in history swearing up and down that I had it first. It was given to me at a hair show, and the hair stylist claimed it was the newest thing in Paris. I know now that he was full of crap on so many different levels, but I digress...)
Anyway, I started watching Friends after the bazillionth person called me "Monica". And, yes, this was well before the whole Monica Lewinsky saga, so let's not go there.
I wanted to know who this Monica person was, so I sat down with some friends of my own and watched the show. At first I was all happy and feeling great because I thought people thought I looked like Courtenay Cox (which, by the way, I really, really, really do not). Then, I realized it was because of Monica's little "issue". With cleaning. And organizing. And organizing the cleaning.
And while I lived with YEARS of snickering about being like Monica (complete with yelling at the TV screen that you should never use a Dustbuster to clean the outside of your vacuum--that's what a damp microfiber cloth with anti-bacterial soap is for, for crying out loud!), there is one part of Monica's character that I truly, deeply, and completely identified with.
Her clutter closet.
Remember that closet? The one next to the bathroom? Right next to the big window in the living room? The one that NO ONE was allowed to open. Remember how Chandler (and Rachel, I think) just had to find out what was in it? And, when opened, it was filled with crap? Like, lots and lots and lots of crap?
Yep, that's my guest bedroom closet.
So, now that my sweet munchkins are now the full responsibility of the public school system from 8:30 am until 3:45 pm each week day, I decided to make a list of all the household junk I've been meaning to get around to for, say, the last decade or so. Among the entries on this very long To Do list was "clean out guest bedroom closet".
Such a little sentence for such a huge job.
It's not the piles of outgrown kids' clothes that need to be taken to the consignment shop or Goodwill that's the problem. Or the shelves of children's gifts for the many inevitable birthday parties that either DQ or WMB are invited to all too often. Although these things take up a huge portion of my closet space, they are neatly labelled and fairly well up-to-date, with the dates printed on them for when the shop starts taking winter coats and fleecy clothes, and which gifts are for birthdays and which are for Christmas. It's my two trunks and two hanging racks of old clothes. My old clothes.
I've been dreading this chore since, pretty much, I had kids. You see, in my BC (before children) life, I was a stylish, slender fashionista. I even worked at Nordstrom for several years, spending my paycheck and employee discount on gorgeous shoes, boots, and clothes. I had a great haircut with double-process color (chestnut red with golden highlights), as well as gentle perm to encourage my wild half-Gorgon hair into pre-Raphaelite curls. My makeup was flawless, and touched up often at the cosmetics counters. I was fully waxed, buffed, and polished almost every day. And, I was thin. Very thin. Stylishly thin. Sample size thin. I was constantly told I was a dead ringer for Catherine Zeta Jones.
Now, not so much.
But, I kept so many of these clothes for many years. The sharply cut, shapely suits and designer high heels came in handy for my next job in a law office. I kept the high-maintenance hair and beauty regime. I had a facialist. I got massages. I spoiled myself rotten.
Then, after 9-11, I quit my job and decided to stay home and have kids. A decision I have never, ever regretted. After 9-11, I had a hard look at my life, and decided there was more to do than what I was doing. I wanted to create a stable, safe, loving home for MacGyver and I. I wanted to have mini-me's and baby MacGyvers. I wanted to stay home and surround myself with the warm feelings and smells of home. I dreamt of home cooked meals while babies and toddlers played happily on the floor near my feet. I imagined days spent at the playground and at Mommy-and-Me classes. And, I certainly got that. I've learned to cook fairly well, and I usually enjoy being at home with kids that, while not usually playing happily at my feet, are at least loved and well-cared for as they try to have a slug-fest over a stupid toy from a Happy Meal while under foot.
But, I never quite got over the memories of those days when I had a reason to put on a suit or stilettos. I tucked a good portion of those fun skirts, flirty tops, and cute shoes in a couple of trunks and tried to forget about them. The trunks filled up, over the years, with even more clothes that I had technically out-grown, but I had hopes of fitting into again one day. I started claiming they were my "winter clothes" in summer, and my "summer clothes" in winter, to explain why they were burgeoning out of control and spilling over into every crevasse of the closet. Now, it's gotten to the point that you need to put on protective gear before even opening the closet, since you stand a damn good chance of getting an Issac Mizrahi (and NOT from Target) italian leather pump to the temple if you're not careful. (On a related note--why did I not believe other moms when they told me my feet would grow after each child? Why oh why? I could have saved a bundle of money at Saks Off 5th if I understood that...)
Then, over this past weekend, a post showed up on my Face Book wall from The Mom Challenge (https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/themomchallenge). It challenged me to go into my closet and find three things I've never worn or won't (or shouldn't) wear again and donate them. I quickly went into my dresser and found a pile of Old Navy t-shirts that I bought for this past summer that were stained and misshapen, and I tossed them in the trash. Then I tossed all my socks with holes, or that were about to have a hole. I felt quite proud of myself, and went about my day.
But, the challenge must have sparked something in my subconscious. I kept thinking of my trunks and of the guest bedroom closet. I imagined how good it would feel to clean it up. And to get rid of all those things I stored that seem to laugh and heckle me--"Ha ha--you can't wear me anymore, and even if you could, where would you go? To gymnastics in a DKNY suit? To the PTA meeting in an Ungaro skirt? Face it, you're just a frumpy schlumpadinka who doesn't deserve anything nice to wear until you get your butt to the gym and starve yourself into a size 4 again!"
So, today, after I put the kiddos on the bus, I put my game face on and blasted Bruno Mars' Just the Way You Are on a loop, and pulled those trunks out of the closet.
Three hours later, I had three enormous bags of clothes and another bag of shoes that Goodwill will be inheriting later this week. I purged my trunks of clothes not only from a different life, but from a different century. At some point in the last few months, I realized that even if I ever lost this "baby weight" (can you still call it that, when you're youngest baby is 5 years old?), these clothes would be horribly out of style. Not to mention completely impractical for wearing around small beings who think my sleeve is a napkin and my pants are for wiping their mouths and noses.
So, I decided to get rid of it ALL. There was no point in knowing that I was hanging on to memories that would never again fit my life or my ass. I got rid of clothes that were stained, had holes, or were just plain fugly. Gone are my frumpy mom-clothes, too. The fleecy sweatpants, the stained sweatshirts, the "yoga pants" that never saw the inside of a yoga studio. I figured if I was giving up the physical manifestations of my memories as a "hot girl", I might as well get rid of (or, burn...) the ugly mom-clothes too.
Not only that, but I got my hair cut and highlighted. I may not be a curly red-head with golden highlights, but I've moved well on from "the Rachel" and I have a cute layered cut, long bangs, and golden highlights in my dark brown hair, that bring out my waves without making me look like Medusa's frumpier sister.
So, I'm ready to go out and look for clothes and shoes that fit me and my life now. Not in the past, or in some distant future. Now. And if those clothes or shoes come from Target or the clearance rack of an outlet store, then good for me for being so thrifty and frugal! I vow to only buy things that make me feel pretty "Just The Way [I AM]" (to paraphrase the song). And my old clothes and shoes can go mock someone else in the aisles of the local thrift store. Maybe someone will put an awesome Halloween outfit together with them...
And, just the other day, I was watching the Food Network when Nigella Lawson came on. WMB was watching intently (hey, if it involves knives, he's all into it!) and said "mommy, she's pretty!" I said "yes, she's very pretty". Sweet boy then said "She looks like you. And she cooks yummy like you too."
And, you know what? I'll trade in Catherine for Nigella any day.
Anyway, I started watching Friends after the bazillionth person called me "Monica". And, yes, this was well before the whole Monica Lewinsky saga, so let's not go there.
I wanted to know who this Monica person was, so I sat down with some friends of my own and watched the show. At first I was all happy and feeling great because I thought people thought I looked like Courtenay Cox (which, by the way, I really, really, really do not). Then, I realized it was because of Monica's little "issue". With cleaning. And organizing. And organizing the cleaning.
And while I lived with YEARS of snickering about being like Monica (complete with yelling at the TV screen that you should never use a Dustbuster to clean the outside of your vacuum--that's what a damp microfiber cloth with anti-bacterial soap is for, for crying out loud!), there is one part of Monica's character that I truly, deeply, and completely identified with.
Her clutter closet.
Remember that closet? The one next to the bathroom? Right next to the big window in the living room? The one that NO ONE was allowed to open. Remember how Chandler (and Rachel, I think) just had to find out what was in it? And, when opened, it was filled with crap? Like, lots and lots and lots of crap?
Yep, that's my guest bedroom closet.
So, now that my sweet munchkins are now the full responsibility of the public school system from 8:30 am until 3:45 pm each week day, I decided to make a list of all the household junk I've been meaning to get around to for, say, the last decade or so. Among the entries on this very long To Do list was "clean out guest bedroom closet".
Such a little sentence for such a huge job.
It's not the piles of outgrown kids' clothes that need to be taken to the consignment shop or Goodwill that's the problem. Or the shelves of children's gifts for the many inevitable birthday parties that either DQ or WMB are invited to all too often. Although these things take up a huge portion of my closet space, they are neatly labelled and fairly well up-to-date, with the dates printed on them for when the shop starts taking winter coats and fleecy clothes, and which gifts are for birthdays and which are for Christmas. It's my two trunks and two hanging racks of old clothes. My old clothes.
I've been dreading this chore since, pretty much, I had kids. You see, in my BC (before children) life, I was a stylish, slender fashionista. I even worked at Nordstrom for several years, spending my paycheck and employee discount on gorgeous shoes, boots, and clothes. I had a great haircut with double-process color (chestnut red with golden highlights), as well as gentle perm to encourage my wild half-Gorgon hair into pre-Raphaelite curls. My makeup was flawless, and touched up often at the cosmetics counters. I was fully waxed, buffed, and polished almost every day. And, I was thin. Very thin. Stylishly thin. Sample size thin. I was constantly told I was a dead ringer for Catherine Zeta Jones.
Now, not so much.
But, I kept so many of these clothes for many years. The sharply cut, shapely suits and designer high heels came in handy for my next job in a law office. I kept the high-maintenance hair and beauty regime. I had a facialist. I got massages. I spoiled myself rotten.
Then, after 9-11, I quit my job and decided to stay home and have kids. A decision I have never, ever regretted. After 9-11, I had a hard look at my life, and decided there was more to do than what I was doing. I wanted to create a stable, safe, loving home for MacGyver and I. I wanted to have mini-me's and baby MacGyvers. I wanted to stay home and surround myself with the warm feelings and smells of home. I dreamt of home cooked meals while babies and toddlers played happily on the floor near my feet. I imagined days spent at the playground and at Mommy-and-Me classes. And, I certainly got that. I've learned to cook fairly well, and I usually enjoy being at home with kids that, while not usually playing happily at my feet, are at least loved and well-cared for as they try to have a slug-fest over a stupid toy from a Happy Meal while under foot.
But, I never quite got over the memories of those days when I had a reason to put on a suit or stilettos. I tucked a good portion of those fun skirts, flirty tops, and cute shoes in a couple of trunks and tried to forget about them. The trunks filled up, over the years, with even more clothes that I had technically out-grown, but I had hopes of fitting into again one day. I started claiming they were my "winter clothes" in summer, and my "summer clothes" in winter, to explain why they were burgeoning out of control and spilling over into every crevasse of the closet. Now, it's gotten to the point that you need to put on protective gear before even opening the closet, since you stand a damn good chance of getting an Issac Mizrahi (and NOT from Target) italian leather pump to the temple if you're not careful. (On a related note--why did I not believe other moms when they told me my feet would grow after each child? Why oh why? I could have saved a bundle of money at Saks Off 5th if I understood that...)
Then, over this past weekend, a post showed up on my Face Book wall from The Mom Challenge (https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/themomchallenge). It challenged me to go into my closet and find three things I've never worn or won't (or shouldn't) wear again and donate them. I quickly went into my dresser and found a pile of Old Navy t-shirts that I bought for this past summer that were stained and misshapen, and I tossed them in the trash. Then I tossed all my socks with holes, or that were about to have a hole. I felt quite proud of myself, and went about my day.
But, the challenge must have sparked something in my subconscious. I kept thinking of my trunks and of the guest bedroom closet. I imagined how good it would feel to clean it up. And to get rid of all those things I stored that seem to laugh and heckle me--"Ha ha--you can't wear me anymore, and even if you could, where would you go? To gymnastics in a DKNY suit? To the PTA meeting in an Ungaro skirt? Face it, you're just a frumpy schlumpadinka who doesn't deserve anything nice to wear until you get your butt to the gym and starve yourself into a size 4 again!"
So, today, after I put the kiddos on the bus, I put my game face on and blasted Bruno Mars' Just the Way You Are on a loop, and pulled those trunks out of the closet.
Three hours later, I had three enormous bags of clothes and another bag of shoes that Goodwill will be inheriting later this week. I purged my trunks of clothes not only from a different life, but from a different century. At some point in the last few months, I realized that even if I ever lost this "baby weight" (can you still call it that, when you're youngest baby is 5 years old?), these clothes would be horribly out of style. Not to mention completely impractical for wearing around small beings who think my sleeve is a napkin and my pants are for wiping their mouths and noses.
So, I decided to get rid of it ALL. There was no point in knowing that I was hanging on to memories that would never again fit my life or my ass. I got rid of clothes that were stained, had holes, or were just plain fugly. Gone are my frumpy mom-clothes, too. The fleecy sweatpants, the stained sweatshirts, the "yoga pants" that never saw the inside of a yoga studio. I figured if I was giving up the physical manifestations of my memories as a "hot girl", I might as well get rid of (or, burn...) the ugly mom-clothes too.
Not only that, but I got my hair cut and highlighted. I may not be a curly red-head with golden highlights, but I've moved well on from "the Rachel" and I have a cute layered cut, long bangs, and golden highlights in my dark brown hair, that bring out my waves without making me look like Medusa's frumpier sister.
So, I'm ready to go out and look for clothes and shoes that fit me and my life now. Not in the past, or in some distant future. Now. And if those clothes or shoes come from Target or the clearance rack of an outlet store, then good for me for being so thrifty and frugal! I vow to only buy things that make me feel pretty "Just The Way [I AM]" (to paraphrase the song). And my old clothes and shoes can go mock someone else in the aisles of the local thrift store. Maybe someone will put an awesome Halloween outfit together with them...
And, just the other day, I was watching the Food Network when Nigella Lawson came on. WMB was watching intently (hey, if it involves knives, he's all into it!) and said "mommy, she's pretty!" I said "yes, she's very pretty". Sweet boy then said "She looks like you. And she cooks yummy like you too."
And, you know what? I'll trade in Catherine for Nigella any day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)