Tag: self-esteem

introspection self-esteem

Making Friends With My Body

Making Friends With My Body

Usually, I reserve Fridays for recipes, but recently a realization that I can’t shake took root in my brain.  I keep coming back to it, running my fingers over it, examining it from all sides. It’s definitely worth exploring. I know you’ll give me a pass for not talking about food for one week. I’m pulling back the curtain a little bit, exposing a little bit of vulnerability.  We can talk all things munch-able next week.

Last week, I went out with my friend M, for coffee.  I met M at the gym almost a year ago after sweating beside her in numerous Zumba classes. I’m really enjoying our friendship. It’s a challenge making friends as an adult. There have been numerous articles about making friends in adulthood, everything from “How-to’s” and “Why is this so hard?”.  And of course, there are separate articles for us mother’s out there, including chatter about the pitfalls of trying to break into pre-established mommy circles.  Hello, Odd Mom Out, much? Yeah. Totally that.

SN: I love Jill Kargman and would “lurve” to have gay bagels and wine with her.

With M, however, it’s been really organic and fluid. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know her.  She and I have both been MIA from the gym for the past three months — me, because I’ve been laid up recuperating from surgery and her because she recently had a baby.  We finally finagled a time to meet and after catching one another up on summer activities, talk turned to getting back to the gym. Even though we are both educated, smart, well-rounded women, we still have these hang ups about ourselves, our bodies and how they should look. Even though we know that our lives and the well-being of our families doesn’t depend on whether or not we can fit into a certain size dress or what have you, we still want to fit into it. We also know that as moms, “9 months on, 9 months off”.  We know all of the mantras, the positive self-talk affirmations, the body loving language that we need to incorporate into our daily lives.  We know all of these things, but we still want our bodies to look a certain way.

It was an honest conversation about self-esteem or lack there-of,  and body images, both positive and negative. I shared with her the aforementioned realization that has burrowed in my brain ever since I started back to the gym.  See, about ten days ago, I got myself together to resume working out. My clothes, despite my best efforts to eat well, aren’t fitting as well as they did three months ago.  I’d like to say that normally, it’s no big deal, but considering how hard I had worked to get into the best possible shape I could prior to surgery, it was definitely a blow to the self-esteem.  Sure, I was reckless when it came to snacking and so forth.  I even tried to tell myself that it was no big deal and that I would be lifting weights and pounding pavement sooner rather than later. I even told myself that I shouldn’t even worry about it until like, December.  I gave myself, or at least tried to give myself, loopholes and ways out of worrying about my expanding waistline.

I know that your caloric intake can’t exceed your output if you expect to keep your buns in last years shorts.  I know that and yet, I was still bent out shape when last years shorts didn’t make up over this years buns.  I need to get out of my own head about it, though, but for every time I tell myself to stop worrying about it, I find another two or three clothing items that go into time-out until further notice.

So, what is it the grand realization that I had? Well, it occurred to me that I expect a lot out of my body. I expect it to perform well when I’m exercising. I expect it to “look good” when I dress it up. I expect it to support me when I’m carrying out my day-to-day activities. I expect it to do the most, 100% of the time, 110% of the time, 24 hrs a day,  365 days of the year, and yet, what I’ve realized is. . .*drumroll, please*

I talk shit about my body ALL. THE.  TIME.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wrinkle my nose because my tee-shirt is clinging to my stomach or my zipper is gaping at the top of my waistband or whatever body-image problem I create.

I try on some clothes in a department store and twist up my face when it doesn’t look like it did in the catalog.

I see someone else who is toner, taller, fitter, slimmer, stronger,  and think, “Gah! Why doesn’t my body do those things? Why isn’t my body toner, taller, fitter, slimmer, stronger?”.

I talk SO. MUCH.  SHIT. about my body.

I realized if my body were a person, if my body were a friend,  and  if I talked that much shit about my friends that way, I wouldn’t have any friends.

I expect so much of something that gives me so much and yet I don’t treat it well. I don’t respect it.

Sure, I eat well. I get enough sleep.  I wear sunscreen. I wash my face before bed and make sure my satin bonnet covers my hair.  I do the “right things”.

In terms of kindness, though? I’m not particularly kind.

If I’m perfectly honest, there are times when I don’t like my body. I can admit that I have poor body image and struggle with self-esteem, but those are bags best left unpacked for another day.   I know that you can love something, but on occasion,  not like what it does. You can love someone and sometimes not like what they do.  I say that to the kids all of the time, “I love you, I just don’t like how you’re behaving, right now.” I know all of these things, but I don’t apply that same line of thinking to my body.  I don’t treat my body the way I would treat a partner, a friend, or a child. I need to love my body, even if I don’t like how it’s behaving at the moment.  Better yet, I need to love my body, full stop.

I need to get out of my own head. I need to stop acting as though my value is dependent on whether or not I can get into some skinny jeans, because it’s not.  It’s just not.

I also think that I don’t want for the bulk of my morning or a significant portion of my day spent working out in pursuit of a goal that, at the end of the day really isn’t that important.

workout, body, self-esteem, body-image, i love my body, strong, fit, fit chick, exercise, working on my fitness

#truth

I want to be fit. I want to be healthy. I want to live a long life. I need to make the appropriate choices with respect to diet and exercise in order to do that, but I’ve got to get out of my own head about having to have a flat stomach or ripped arms or whatever it is.

My body is amazing. I’ve walked across graduation stages. I’ve run races and led fitness exercises. I’ve lifted boxes when I’ve moved.  I’ve carried groceries and children, a bridal bouquet and a watermelon. I carried a watermelon.   I’ve done so much and relied on my body for all of those things. I’ve never really thanked it for any of it.  I’ve just asked it to do more, and be better, and be stronger without appreciating what it’s already done so far.

I wouldn’t want anyone to treat me that way — to constantly demand, demand, demand and then talk shit about me behind my back.

I wouldn’t dream of doing that to someone else, someone that I consider a friend and yet here we are.

So, when I shared all of this with M, the whole, “I talk shit about my body” line,  she kind of looked at me, blinked and then burst out laughing. There’s truth in humor, and she got it.  She’s been in the same position in trying to achieve a goal and to hear me articulate it like that, it was like, “Wow.  What are really doing with ourselves?” And don’t even get me started on the potential impact our own negative self-talk can have on our daughters.

This morning,  this was in my Pinterest feed:

self-esteem, body image, i love my body

read. repeat.

 

So there it is. 

If I can successfully navigate the gauntlet of making friends in adulthood, there is no reason I can’t be a better friend — no, just a friend period — to my body.  I’m ready to get started.

How are you kind to yourself? Tell me all about it in the comments!

Did you get the “I carried a watermelon” reference without clicking on the link?

Yes? *high five*, BFF!

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IN: introspection self-esteem ON: August 7, 2015 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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hair

Respect the Hair

Let me tell you a story.

V and I were in Target about a week ago. I passed two women who were doing their shopping. One of the women had on this really smart outfit — black turtleneck, herringbone shorts with black tights and little black booties.  She looked super cute; her outfit was just so. I told her as much as we passed in the aisle.  She thanked me and resumed talking with her friend. As perused the shelves for my product, I heard the friend remarking that V’s hair looked like the child of one of their friends.

“What a cutie!” the friend said as she scooted her cart closer to ours. “Doesn’t her hair look just like [_____]’s? Can I just touch it?”

And as the words were coming out of her mouth, her hand was moving steadily forward towards V’s head.  I shifted myself between her and V, saying firmly and clearly, “I would rather you didn’t.”

The speed with which she recoiled and the look that crossed her face — a combination of  incredulity and indignance — you would have thought I dropped an f-bomb right there in among the paper products.

“Oh!” she said.  “Oh!” she said again and whatever modicum of general politeness and decorum that had just passed between us evaporated.

Because I told her not touch my daughter’s hair.

V’s to young to understand it now, but M and C know as well as I do.  Our hair is an extension of our body. I wouldn’t let some random person stroke my cheek, pat my buns, or rub my tummy (someone almost lost a finger doing that when I was pregnant).  I am certainly not going to let someone touch my hair. This is a lesson that I share with my girls and continue to share with them because it is a situation that, sadly, is not a one time thing. What is most disheartening to me is the conclusion that the girls have reached: If my hair wasn’t like this, then people wouldn’t want to touch it.   If my hair was straight, then people wouldn’t want to touch it.

Not long before this incident at Target, my mother had a similar occurrence with someone in her exercise class.  The woman asked to touch my mother’s hair.  When my mother plainly said no, the woman asked, “Why not?”.  Now, my mother can throw an eyebrow better than The Rock, which is exactly what she did as she very succinctly told this woman, “Because. I. Said. No.”

We all know that the hair struggle is real. All over the internet, social media, magazines and television, we see and hear women talking about how to wrangle, manage, and tame their locks. This blog is no exception.  The natural hair movement has steadily grown over the last few years, with particular emphasis placed on how to style one’s hair, the best products to use and the ways in which to encourage health and growth. When it comes to loving one’s hair and having others respect your hair,  it seems that those topics don’t get the same amount of attention.

As mothers, caregivers, sister-friends and such, we do our part to foster self-esteem and self-love in our curly cuties.  The pervasiveness of unrealistic standards of beauty serves to undermine the strong foundations we wish to cultivate.  How can one grow to love and respect a hair type that has been made to be considered “less than” and “distinctly other”?

Respect is at the core of this issue.  If we can’t respect our own hair, we can’t expect others to do so.  Even when we do embrace and love our hair, we must actively demonstrate that respect so others will follow suit.  There must be strong role models, who appreciate themselves and encourage others to do so.  There must be resources that promote, uplift and positively reflect what is seen in the mirror. There must be tools given to help our curly cuties navigate situations where they can be made to feel secure and confident in who they are as opposed to “distinctly other”.

I’ve read that when you let other people’s negative words effect you, you are giving away your power. I’ve been guilty of this. I’ve seen it happen to my children.  I want to provide them with tools — arrows in their quiver and at the ready — so that they can respond to whatever anyone says with respect for themselves and their hair, their power fully in their possession. It’s not about creating an air of superiority, nor is it about going H.A.M on someone who just doesn’t get it.  As much as I chafe under the idea that I have to teach someone else how to treat me, thereby teaching them how to treat others, it must be done in order to create and environment whereby natural hair, curly hair, relaxed hair, and all hair types in between are no longer viewed as  novel, but as normal.

Yesterday, as part of a news segment on the Today Show, I learned that a study commissioned by Dove determined that “girls, as young as 5, are six times more likely to have an aversion to their hair if it’s curly. And they’re nine times more likely to believe that if they had straighter hair they would be happier and have more friends.”*

This particular nugget of information was part of a larger discussion of Dove’s new campaign to help girls love their curls.  In addition to Dove’s findings, Nikki Walton from www.CurlyNikki.com was featured.  Walton, a licensed psychotherapist, author, professional blogger and naturalista, weighed in on the issue, pointing out that the lack of self-esteem for one’s hair has been and continues to be an issue in the community.  Citing the aforementioned unrealistic standard of beauty, as well as the psychological root that often hinders personal growth, Walton’s message was clear: If these feelings weren’t really an issue, there wouldn’t be a need for campaigns such as Dove’s.

Listening to the examples given was touching, but I challenge you to watch this commercial and not experience all manner of feels.

http://youtu.be/ou7CyPtkpng

I was good until the big musical reveal to the girls.  Throat got a little tight.  Got a little verklempt.  Can you imagine how different a conversation this would be if something like this had been made 10 years ago? 20 years ago? We might be having this conversation at all.

Last week, I talked about each one, teach one, with respect to having the girls learn how to do their own hair.  Respect of one’s hair must be included in that lesson as well. . . maybe a few shaolin moves for those who get too close.

*Dove, “New Campaign Aims to Help Girls Love Their Curls“.  www.todayshow.com. 20, January,2015.
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IN: hair ON: January 21, 2015 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Be My Guest: Meet Shawri King-Casey

I am so fortunate to have talented curl-friends who take time out of their busy schedules to pen thoughtful, touching posts about their personal experiences being natural and raising little curly girlies of their own.  Please enjoy this post by Shawri King-Casey, who reminds us that our children are always paying attention, even when we don’t realize, reminding us that every moment is a teachable moment.

SUPERNATURAL

The head-scarf clad, older brown woman eyed my daughter wistfully as she fingered Miss G’s long, silky braids that grazed the waistband of G’s bright pink tutu.   The woman sighed and clucked thoughtfully.

“Beautiful. Just beautiful. You are so lucky,” she purred. “Your daughter’s got good hair. You got pretty hair, too. You got Indian in your family?”

I visibly winced and said firmly, “All hair is good hair. If it’s growing out of her scalp, it’s good hair.”

She shook her head violently and shot me a side eye. Her words were both accusatory and resentful.

“You know what I mean.”

What she meant, of course, was that my daughter’s multiracial hair is more wavy than curly. Not kinky. What she meant was that her hair moved in the wind, grew down and not out and resembled more the coifs of my husband’s ancestors, rather than mine.

I instinctively shielded my daughter’s head with my hands, turned G away from the conversation and looked into her questioning eyes.

“C’mon G. Tell the nice lady goodbye and let’s go.” I said through gritted teeth.

I remember walking away from this sister in the grocery parking lot, with my then four year old daughter, G in tow and my newborn daughter slung across my hip, asleep.

G, unaware of the context behind the terse exchange I had with the woman who looked very much like me, said, “Mama, you’re squeezing my hand too hard. It hurts.” I hadn’t realized until that very moment that my jaw was clenched and my grip had tightened with her small hand inside. “Oh sweetie, Mama’s sorry. I didn’t realize I was squeezing your hand.”

G blinked and cocked her head to the side, “Mama, what did that lady say to make you upset?”

What did the lady say really? I mean, she certainly wasn’t the first to admire the mass of silky golden-brown waves my eldest daughter possessed. It was almost curiously magnetic, the way people would reach out to touch her hair or finger her curls as they admired their spring and luster. I had to admit G’s hair was basically a watered down version of my own coils and I couldn’t really decipher the mixed emotions I felt when people complimented her hair. First, I suppose I felt ridiculous for even accepting praise for it, as if the credit were mine to receive. G’s hair was a genetic cocktail of 46 chromosomes from me and her father and along with those luscious waves came near-sightedness, crooked teeth and flat feet. My sister’s hair is very much like G’s and I also very painfully remember how people would ooh and ahh over my sister’s silky mane and say nothing about my spirally poof of a ponytail.

And that, in all honesty, was the flash point triggered by that older woman’s comment.

I was very well aware of this underlying desire to deem kinky, coily and highly textured hair as “bad,” and anything that was the anti-thesis of that was considered, “good.” I want my children to love their hair, because it was the hair God gave them – that I gave them, that their dad gave them. It wasn’t “good” in the sense that it was any better than anyone else’s simply because it lacked elements most considered a barrier to styling and maintenance. It wasn’t “good” because it would bend with the slightest wind. It was “good” because it was shiny – its sheen a tribute to my insistence on balanced nutrition and proper hygiene. It was “good” because I kept it brushed and braided, free of dust and lint. It was “good” because it was clean and conditioned well and regularly trimmed. But mostly, it was “good” because it was uniquely hers.

I want my daughters to associate positivity with their hair not because it is a particular texture, but because it does what hair is supposed to do – frame their face, keep their heads warm and provide an enhancement to their natural beauty. However, I want them to celebrate the versatility of textured hair in its full spectrum, from the slightest wave to the tightest z. I don’t want my girls feeling their texture is any more or less superior to anyone else. I don’t want them thinking it is necessary to satisfy the curious tactile onlooker who is mesmerized by the twists and turns their hair makes naturally. I want them to embrace all the wonderful things they can do with their hair, from wearing it stick straight to braids with beads and fro’ed out. Their hair can be manipulated into popular styles from all of the cultures and racial categories they inhabit.

It is healthy.

It is strong.

It is their crown.

It is better than good, not because of the genetic incident of its appearance, but because it’s theirs.

There are no medal winners for hair texture in this world and those of us who would compare hair-types 2a to 4z need more than a proverbial hot comb to straighten our mental kinks out. Because it’s not what’s on our head that’s important.

It’s what’s in it.

  Culinary whiz.  Wordsmith.  Super Mom.  These are just a few of the many words that could be used to describe Shawri. Not only is she a dynamic attorney generalist with thirteen years of experience both in the public and private sectors,  she’s a fierce naturalista you should know!

 

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IN: ON: August 4, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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hair

Be My Guest: Meet Maya Smart

With the social media buzz that I’ve been working on to get everyone excited about “Maggie Sinclair, Will You Please Fix Your Hair?!“, my own blog has not gotten the attention that it deserves.  It’s challenging to keep all the plates spinning, but it’s good to know you’ve got people who step up to help when called upon.

A few weeks ago, I reached out to several of my blogger friends, asking them to share some of their natural hair experiences with you! The response I got was wonderfully encouraging and across the board enthusiastic.

This week, I want to introduce you to Maya Payne Smart.  Maya is as genuine as it gets.  A self described “globetrotting writer who enjoys food trucks, toddler art and college basketball”, Maya is a renaissance woman who, along with her husband, is raising a curly girlie of her own, while simultaneously offering insight, reviews, opinions and amusement on her blog. I asked Maya to unpack for my readers how her experience being a naturalista influences how she chooses to care for her own daughters’ hair. Her thoughtful, moving letter to her three year old daughter Zora speaks volumes.

Dear Zora,

This is how you learn to love your hair in a world that requires such lessons.  First, you remember who gave you that glorious head of curls–your parents, your ancestors, your Creator.  Then, you care for it like a treasured inheritance.

Loving your hair, like loving your family, your days, your life, requires two things: reverence and effort.  To truly love your hair, you must hold it in high regard and you must behave like you do. As you behold it in a mirror or touch its willful strands, you must pause to consider what it does for you and to define what it means to you.  Then you must treat it accordingly.

You’re not yet three years old, so this whole discussion may be a bit premature, but not by much.  Your hair is cornrowed into a side ponytail today. You wear it that way because I’m calling the styles and long ago adopted a no heat, no chemicals, no fake hair policy for us both.

There’s no peer pressure for you to wear it any other way yet. Most of your friends rock afro puffs, box braids and two-strand twists.  But you can look to their mothers’ relaxed and pressed styles for a preview of what’s to come.  There comes a day when many moms of daughters with hair like yours reach for hot combs, flat irons and chemicals to “tame” kinky tresses.  And when they do, I expect you’ll notice the difference and have some questions for me.  Mommy, why doesn’t my hair blow in the wind?  Why can’t I run my fingers through it?  Why does it get curlier when wet and frizzier in the sun?

The decision to straighten or not is a personal one, albeit one loaded with social, cultural and economic significance for black people. From the moment slaveholders shaved off the elaborate hairstyles of their African captives, hairstyles have mirrored our rocky rise from anonymous chattel to distinctive humanity.  To this day, hair is impossibly tangled up in issues of black identity and social acceptability.  Just look at the debate raging over the U.S. military’s new grooming guidelines, which are biased against black hair that tends to grow out, not down.*

I want to raise you to love your hair in its natural state so that dying it, relaxing it or not will truly be a choice for you.  Some women say that they straighten their hair for fashion or convenience, but many are deluding themselves.  They are crushing the natural texture of their hair because they were taught to hate kinky hair or never learned how to love or take care of it.  They are relaxing, weaving and wigging their hair because in the twisted skin-shade, hair-texture hierarchies of American history, straight hair sometimes affords economic and social advantage**.

I am committed to teaching you this to fortify you against the crazy you will undoubtedly encounter.  Soon you’ll observe women who don’t swim or work out because they want to keep their hairstyles intact.  You’ll see some who will chemically process their hair to the point of baldness rather than embrace their God-given hair texture. You’ll notice others who would rather sport expensive wigs and weaves than take the time and do the research to nurture their own locks.

As you get older, others will look upon your natural hair and start jumping to conclusions about your class, your potential, your politics.  I know because these same people see my afro puff and label me “militant” and worse. (Note: The labels say more about them than about me. Like Whitman, I contain multitudes.)

Avoid their prejudice and make sure your natural hair love is never reduced to straightened-hair hate.  Not every naturalista is empowered and not every relaxer is rooted in shame.

When you are old enough to choose your own hairstyles, may they reflect great self-awareness, self-confidence and vision.  Always remember who gave you that head of hair–your parents, your ancestors, your Creator.  Then care for it like the inheritance it is.

Love,

Mom

maya-head-shotMaya Payne Smart writes to inspire women to live happy, meaningful, powerful lives.Of course, hair has everything to do with this.  Check out Maya’s advice, reviews, interviews and musings at MayaSmart.com.

 

 

 

 

* http://www.nytimes.com/2014/05/01/opinion/when-black-hair-is-against-the-rules.html?_r=0
**http://mayasmart.com/hair-story/
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IN: hair ON: July 10, 2014 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Sorry, Not Sorry.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with a friend of mine about how we have replaced the phrase “Excuse me,” with the phrase “I’m Sorry”. It seems that in our day to day doings, whenever we’ve needed to catch someone’s attention, perhaps interrupt two people having a conversation, or possibly just trying to get out of someone’s way, we’ve been saying “I’m sorry,” as opposed to “excuse me” or “pardon me”. Somehow, for reasons that she and I were both unable to put our finger on, we’ve been diminishing ourselves. Taking it one step further, I realized that I have actually been folding in on myself as I say, “I’m sorry”, especially when doing to that awkward stranger dance the ensues when you’re trying to get out of someone’s way.

“Seriously,” I began explaining it to her. “At the gym, the ingress and egress to the ladies locker room is series of short turns like you’d find queuing up for the movies or something. Instead of ropes, though, there are walls, so you can’t see if someone is coming around the corner. No matter if you’re coming in or going out, in all likelihood, you’re going to collide with someone.”

In these instances, laden with my gym bag, moving at a good clip to get a swim lane or a spot in Zumba, I’ve plowed into some women, some my age, most of them elderly. My subconscious started directing my body to take up less space as these instances increased. I would step into the entrance of the locker room, and if by chance was met with someone coming out, my shoulders would round in, my head would dip down, and my hands would seek each other out. I’d cough out an “I’m sorry” as I made my way past. If I was on my way out and someone way motoring in, the same thing happened. Why was I doing that? What was I sorry for? I’m trying to exercise just like everyone else. I didn’t knock anyone down in a race to a locker.

My friend suggested that as Black women living in the south, we feel the need to apologize for our existence, whether we believe we should or not. That’s a loaded statement right there, and one that I don’t have the time or space to expand upon. Suffice it to say; race is not the issue. Being overly gracious is the issue. The truth is, being excessively deferential is not the same thing as being polite.

The more we talked about it, the more we resolved to break ourselves of the habit. The next time I went to the gym, I slowed my pace as I approached the locker room. I stood up straight, squared my shoulders, adjusted my gym bag and walked in. Sure enough, someone was coming out. I looked her in the eye and said, “Excuse me,” then entered the locker room proper.

Earlier this week, I came across a Huffington Post article entitled “Pantene ‘Not Sorry’ Video Tells Women to Stop Apologizing So Much”. Through a series of short vignettes, the hair care company implores women to stop saying sorry for things that they shouldn’t. I watched the video and thought, “This is exactly what we had been talking about!” It should come as no surprise that women apologize more than men. What is surprising is the reasons why women do it. The article went on further to cite a March 2014 blog post written by Ani Vrabel, who said,

“At some point, I began using “sorry” as a synonym for “excuse me.” It came to mean, “I didn’t see you there and you startled me!” and “I have a question” and “I’m carrying so many things that I’m taking up more space on the subway than usual.” It rarely meant, “I made a poor decision or did something wrong and it impacted you negatively. I recognize this and feel bad about it and would like to make things better between us.”

Further on in the article, Karyn Polewaczyk’s piece from Jezebel suggested ”women over-apologize because they feel “undeserving.” Women preface their request and statements with self deprecating phrases like “I’m sorry,” “I hate to be a pain, “ and “This may sound foolish,” because they don’t feel like what they have to say is important. Many times, women feel that in order to be better received, that must sugar coat what they have to say. Think about the myriad of examples in the media depicting a man and a woman asking for a raise or making a suggestion or firing someone. If a man does it, he’s confident whereas if a woman says it, she’s a bitch. And we wonder why we’re apologizing.

Now, no one started a slow clap for me as I walked in the locker room that day. (Well, I did just in my head, but no one else heard it). Still, it was the beginning of a much-needed change. I started putting it into practice, not just at the gym, but also in areas where I’d apologize for no valid reason. Instead of telling the clerk at Chipotle, “Sorry, can I have fajita vegetables” after I told her and she forgot, I just said, “Excuse me, could you please add the fajitas?” When I made the clerk at Gap help me scour the store AND call the last store I had been to in hopes of finding my lost handbag (don’t worry, we found it), I didn’t say, “Sorry for being such a crazy person! Sorry for taking up your time!” I said, “Thank you very much for your help. I really appreciate it.”

By breaking this habit, I’ve empowered myself. I’ve challenged myself to speak freely. I was giving away my power by leading off statements with “Sorry” and now; I’ve taken it back and then some.

 

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IN: ON: June 25, 2014 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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The Summer Time Cometh

I saw this quote the other day that was talking about how summer bodies are made in the winter.  I rolled that around for a few minutes while I finished my Sea Salt and Caramel Gelato bar. My synapses made the connection and I realized that summer is right around the corner, despite the continued presence of these winter storms.  When the snow melts, when the sun comes out and the temperatures start to rise, I don’t want to be among those lamenting that last bowl of ice cream.

I was looking at my news feed on Instagram the other day and saw where my girl, The Mocha Peach, re-posted a 90-Day swimsuit challenge.  My curiosity was piqued. Truth be told, I’ve been feeling pretty okay about how I’ve handled the winter eating marathon that is Thanksgiving through Christmas.  I haven’t gone completely off the rails, although some days do require an extra glass of wine or one or two more cookies for dessert.  And even though I have a table for one on Pancake Saturday, I keep save my short stack for Saturday only.

So, why would I be interested in a 90-Day swimsuit challenge? Look, I want to feel and look good in my suit just like everyone else.  I’m working out very regularly. I’m trying to eat realistically. For me that means, portion control and maybe cutting back on some favorite items.  Cutting back, not cutting out, because that’s a sure way to find yourself scavenging in your own pantry at 10:30 at night for some kind of something to satisfy whatever craving you’ve been having all day. But I digress. . .

I want to feel like “Yes, I put in the work. I did what was in my power to do and I’m going to wear this bathing suit!”  AND — there’s more — more importantly, I’m not going to worry about it beyond making sure I’ve got the top on right-side up.  True story: last time I wore a bikini, I had the triangle top on upside down the whole time. #yolo.

Like most people with most things, I’m trying to get the results I want without having to do a whole lot to get there.  So, I visited Val at Fabulous Chick Gets Fit, and Marcy at Will Run 4 Beer, and Jess at Operation Skinny Jeans to see how to make this happen.  Were they going to recommend a certain meal plan? Was it going to be something like “Squat Your Way Into Your Bathing Suit”? Was it going to be a Couch to 5K type of program?

I couldn’t have been more wrong.  Guess how the 90 day swimsuit challenge works?

Work your ass off for the 90 days leading up to summer to look amazing in your swimsuit of choice.

Work your ass off.  Literally.  And you know what? I laughed out loud because *head slap* that’s what you’re supposed to do get swimsuit ready.

So, after I read a few more entries on their respective pages, confirming my belief in how down to earth these chicks were, I accepted their challenge.  You all know that I’m already up in the gym as part of my routine.  I’m not sure how much more I can do, but I am going to re-evaluate what I am doing to kick up the intensity for the 90 days.  It may include some push-aways from the table.  I’ve already given up wine for Lent (suprise!) and I’ve found a way to help me get over the boredom  hump when I’m at the gym.

Like most folks, I come prepared with my iPad, iPod, iTouch, iDistraction of choice to help me slog it out and burn some calories.  Usually, there’s some show that I can fire up on the iPad and focus on plot points rather than the burning in my legs as I climb to no where on the stairmaster.  I get my fix of current events from online news outlets when I’m pedaling on the elliptical.  When I’m on the treadmill or when I’m swimming laps, however, I can’t use those devices to help divert my attention from the task at hand.  Thankfully, I can listen to music.  I get kind of amped up when I’m hitting my stride and a beat-bumping jam comes through the headphones.

When I’m really trying to push through the wall on my workout, I dial up a groove that gets me moving. And then. . .I pretend I’m in the opening credits of an action movie.

Here’s an example. Two days ago, I was on the treadmill, working through Week 3, Day 2 of the couch to 5k program.  Let’s pause for a second and celebrate that I’m actually running again!  I’ve got the treadmill moving at a decent clip (6.3 mph, no incline, if you must know) and I’m feeling like I’m ready to dial it down.  Part of my brain is urging me to continue at this pace for another two minutes.  Right when I’m about to give a handful of reasons why that won’t happen, N.E.R.D’s She Wants to Move comes on.  That bass line drops, my pace picks up and suddenly, I’m imagining myself in the opening montage of an action flick starring me as an undercover assassin going through her training regimen as she preps for her next assignment.

Yup, I’ve got a very vivid imagination. Whatever keeps you pushing through to the end, right?

While the song is playing, my arms are pumping and my feet are pounding. I’m dodging bullets, I’m in a high speed car chase leaving smoke and tire marks in my wake. You ever see that montage in The Transporter when Jason Statham’s character infiltrates the drug dealer’s compound and takes out all the henchmen with like a tablecloth, a wall scone and his bare hands?  Let me refresh your memory:

Look, it could be a long 90 days. . .you gotta make it work for you.

What do you do to build your summer body and how do you stay motivated?

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IN: ON: March 18, 2014 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Mindful Exercise

I work-out five days a week.  I try to vary my routine, but I am a creature of habit. I have a limited amount of time to put in some work to get some desired results.  I was describing my gym routine to a friend the other day and was struck by the (IMO) enormity of what I do.

Every morning, I start with the five-minute plank exercise:

Well, it’s more like a four-minute plank, because I skip the alternating ankle raise.  I’m working my way up to that.  After those sweat producing four minutes,  I move onto some ab work, specifically this:

I’m behind a few days, but I’m doing it. As for seeing results, well, we all know that I have a sweet tooth.  I can feel the muscles toughening up, but all that sweet, sweet lovin’ has encased them in a protective layer that is seemingly impenetrable.  So, I head to the gym.

Monday/Wednesday/Friday

I start with 30 minutes on the treadmill.  I fired up that Couch to 5K app on my iPad and have begun to pound the treadmill again.  It’s been easily 18 months since I last ran, owing to the tendon tear, surgery and so forth.  I had been given the go ahead by my doc to run and do whatever exercise I felt comfortable doing. I always saw the best results with running.  I always hated doing it, but felt invigorated afterward.  I felt like I had worked hard for those 40 minutes and 3.1 miles.  Going into it this time, however, I was afraid that I would fall flat on my face.  See, although my extensor tendon is repaired, my gait is not completely corrected.  I don’t walk heel-toe on my left leg the way I do on my right.  I toe-heel, which is troubling. I trip and stumble over flat ground if I’m not consciously thinking about raising my feet to walk.  Trying to keep that in mind while running seemd near impossible and a guaranteed way for me to chewing up the sidewalk.  Still, I wanted to get over my fear of falling and figured the sooner I laced up, the better.  Once I got it out of the way (because I’m convinced, it’s bound to happen), then I could just run and not think about anything else.

I’m about two weeks into this running program and I’m feeling pretty good. I haven’t fallen (yet). My running style has altered a bit in that my hands are palm down, hovering over the treadmill rails in case I feel myself losing my balance.  I consciously remind myself to lift my feet, so I’ve got this 1000 yard stare going on as I chant, “Lift! Lift! Lift!” to myself with every stride. And then sometimes, I lip sync along to whatever song comes through the earbuds.  It makes for an interesting tableau.

Once I’ve finished my 3o minutes on the treadmill, I head over to the weights.  I’m trying to be more purposeful with what I lift and which muscle groups I target.  I remember reading an article about “gym hacks” and how to be efficient with your exercises.  Do I want lighter weight and more reps or heavier weight with fewer reps? Do I lift until tired or lift until tired plus one?  Should I stand in front of the mirror to check my posture or to watch the muscles expand and contract? There is quite a bit of thought going on here and I haven’t even picked up the dumbbell yet.  Ultimately, I end up doing the same routine: triceps dips using my own weight. Then, using 10-15 lbs, I follow up with  shoulder shrugs, bicep curls, overhead press, chest press, and fly. I do about 50 squats and finish up with the stair-climber for about 25 minutes.

For some, this is probably a whole lot of nothing, but for me, this is a good bit of work.  I feel challenged in my exercises and I feel accomplished when I’m finished.

Tuesday/Thursday

Swim days! I started taking swimming lessons over a year ago.  I wanted to M and C to be on swim team at the pool last summer and I figured if I took lessons, it might motivate them to take lessons, too.  Well, I took the lessons and they were mightily unimpressed.  It didn’t bother me, though, because I was able to add something different to my routine.

Swimming requires quite a bit of thinking, which I was entirely unprepared for.  Prior to my lessons, I would get in the pool, start moving and be ready to just let the water take me to it’s shadowy depths about half-way down the lane.  Turns out, I was expending way too much energy on my strokes, I was kicking with my feet, and I was waiting to long between breaths.  All of this I found out during my first lesson.  Three things that are easily corrected took way too much brainpower for me to manage in addition to “don’t drown”.  If I remembered to kick with my legs, then I was waiting four or five counts between breaths. I remembered to breathe on “three”, then I was making big scooping motions with my arms instead of letting them slice out and back into the water.  But, here I am close to a year later, swimming thirty laps twice a week and I haven’t sunk yet!

Recently, I started incorporating the backstroke into my drills, which provided me with another set of instructions to remember.  The arm motions require that your thumb comes out of the water first, while your pinkie finger leads your arm back into the water. And you have to kick, and suck your belly button into your spine so that your hips point to the ceiling, but don’t forget to keep your chin pointed up, too, so that your head is in the water to eliminate drag and when your arms re-enters the water, bend it quickly so that you push the water away from you thereby propelling you down the lane, but watch out for the lane line because you’re hand will smack against it splashing water up your nose, so you have to do use forceful exhalation and. . .you know what. . .

I’m just going to stop moving and float for a bit.

After my workouts, I do my best to make good food choices and not eat up all the calories that I just burned off. A fast metabolism was not one of the goodies I got from the genetic mixing bowl.  I’m not doing this to drop five pounds or run around without Spanx or what have you. I’m at an age where I have to work this hard to maintain this level of health. I suppose it should be said that I don’t have any desire or inclination to eliminate white flour, sugar, or processed foods from my diet.  I cut what I can where I can.  More recently, we’ve decided to cut out red meat (au revoir, steak frites! je te manque!), switch to turkey bacon/sausage, and I’m even giving up coffee during the week.  Yes, I’m drinking  a cup of tea right now.  I know. . .who is this person?

There is so much to think about when it comes to your health. It goes beyond what your are eating, how much you are eating and where it came from. When you think about going to the gym, you have to think about not only what you’re going to do, but how you plan to do it.  Are you using the handrails or are you hands free on the elliptical in order t challenge your sense of balance and target your core? Are your knees over your toes? Are your feet shoulder width apart? Are you wearing running shoes for running and cross trainers for Zumba and Boot Camp? Is your belly button pulled into your spine? Have you wiped down the equipment when you’ve finished?

More importantly, are you still breathing?

Oh yeah, I knew I had forgotten to do something!

 

 

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IN: ON: February 25, 2014 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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