Last Wednesday evening I called my parents as I do most nights, but I wasn't able to reach them. I didn't think much of it until I caught the tail end of a news report about possible tornadoes in their area. I started to worry. I called again. I called their cell phones. I lost my temper with the children. I called some more. I turned off the television.
Just before I slipped into hardcore panic, I remembered something: this was my parents, they have been making everything okay for me for 35 years and so they would be just fine.
When I was pregnant with Big E, my obstetrician sent me for a thyroid ultrasound. As I lay on a table looking not at happy, gray-black pictures of my growing baby but at ominous heat-sensitive images of large nodules in my neck, the technician pondered aloud, "I wonder how they treat cancer when you're pregnant?"
Over and over, my husband tried to comfort me, to tell me that the ultrasound tech was wrong and that everything would be alright. Then and now, I loved him in a way my words cannot do justice and I cherished his support and efforts to cheer and console me; yet, I knew that he was human and so I argued that he, like me, had no way of knowing how things would turn out. He had never banished the monsters from my closet, so I wasn't able to stop shopping for my casket until my parents came and took us out for pancakes and told me that they just knew everything would be fine. As always, they were right.
The tornado, it turns out, bypassed my parents' town but devastated the entire area around them. They called later that night after driving through the wreckage until they could find cellular service. They came up the next day to babysit and enjoy our electricity and running water, as the storm had spared their property but left them in the dark ages. While here, they pored over news reports and exclaimed over YouTube videos of buildings demolished along the route my father had driven home under black skies and pounding hail just minutes before the twister hit. Everything was okay as always, but it almost wasn't.
The next night Big E asked me a lot of questions about tornadoes and how it was possible that they could happen in Massachusetts, and I tried to be matter of fact, pointing out the unlikelihood of another big tornado when the last major tornado in the state had been over 50 years ago. She kept asking and I knew she wanted to hear without equivocation that it would be okay, but I know I am human and so instead I hugged her and told her I loved her and pointed out that we have both a basement and the weather channel.
When she was still awake and teary at 10:00 p.m., I got into bed with her, kissed her forehead, stroked her hair and watched her drift into sleep as I whispered over and over, "Everything will be okay. I promise."
Today when I went to pick her up at Daisy Scouts the woman next to me turned and asked whether this was the last meeting of the year. When I told her yes, she laughed and loudly sighed, "Thank God!" Because I felt the exact same way but worried too much about Daisy-decorum to admit it so publicly, I liked her right away. I noticed that she looked maybe a year or two older than me, that she had pretty skin, a cute haircut and an enviably white t-shirt. Then I noticed that she had a bandage on her wrist covering two catheters that appeared to pierce her veins.
I tried to think of an innocuous explanation but came up short, and then another mother scurried over and asked her how she was in a way that told me the answer was not good. The woman told her about her first week of chemo and its side effects and the arrangements she'd made to be sure her daughter was cared for during the treatments. It all sounded very new and very scary and like one of my worst nightmares.
I wondered if just before her diagnosis anyone had told her that everything would be alright, and I wondered if before she started her treatment she had promised her Daisy Scout it would all turn out just fine. And I really, really hoped for both of them that everything really would be okay.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Eat: Watermelon and Feta Salad
When I was Big E's age I earned honors from the Good Eater club at my school every week. Clearly this was before childhood obesity was a concern, because I earned this accolade by choking down all of my American Chop Suey, canned pears in a paper cup, waxed beans or whatever else was slopped on my plate in the cafeteria line. I didn't enjoy the food and some days I would struggle mightily to clean my plate, but I was highly motivated by the little paper apple, fresh from the mimeograph, that was my reward and so I made it work.
My husband and especially my daughters lack this ability to soldier through a meal. If they aren't fans of a particular food, no amount of insisting, coercion or pleading makes any difference; as a result, I don't bother making a lot of my favorites because there seems no sense in preparing a dish that only I will eat. This salad is the one exception to that. I am the only one in the house who eats it, but I love it so much that not only do I make it but I actually spent my precious alone time between leaving work and volunteering in Big E's class today going to the store for ingredients and assembling this salad.
It's so easy that you don't really need a recipe, but here it is in all its summery, sweet-salty glory:
Watermelon and Feta Salad
1/2 watermelon, cut into bite-sized chunks
1/2 cup of crumbled feta
2 handfuls of baby arugula
fresh ground black pepper (to taste)
In a large bowl, toss together the watermelon and feta. Season with pepper, then toss in the argula. Allow it to sit for at least 30 minutes before serving, so the flavors can mingle.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Play: Their mother's gardens
"I notice that it is only when my mother is working in her flowers that she is radiant, almost to the point of being invisible except as Creator: hand and eye. She is involved in work her soul must have. Ordering the universe in the image of her personal conception of Beauty.
Her face, as she prepares the Art that is her gift, is a legacy of respect she leaves to me, for all that illuminates and cherishes life. She had handed down respect for the possibilities - and the will to grasp them."
When I read that essay as a senior in college, I found the subject matter as tedious as the microscopic type and tissue-thin pages of the Norton Anthology in which it appeared. Sure, I was all for women expressing their creativity, especially oppressed minorities, but gardening, to my mind, fell strictly in the realm of ladies like my grandmother and was thus irrelevant to young, vital, important me.
When I was young, my grandmother grew lush flower gardens that lined her driveway. She spent many hours teaching me the names of her plants and hoped that they would someday be useful. When I was in high school an applying to college she would wistfully suggest that after spending all those early years learning the difference between a pansy and a petunia I might want to become a florist. I nodded politely, but not encouragingly, at the suggestion which seemed at the time an incredibly frivolous way to spend a life.
Years later, when I was just starting out in teaching at a school where most of my colleagues were on the opposite end of their careers, I used to spend my lunch break listening to the older ladies talking about weeding dahlias and pruning roses. One of them explained to me that though her rose bushes were a lot of work, she thought they were an important tool in demonstrating to her children, high school age at the time, the beauty of nature. Back then, this struck me as unnecessary. Everyone knows what a rose looks like, how is seeing one in the front yard going to be any different from seeing one wrapped in cellophane and tossed in a bucket at the supermarket?
You know where this is going. With becoming a mother and a homeowner, I have also become a gardener. My beds are nothing compared to my grandmother's and I've never pruned a rose bush. I am certainly not a radiant gardener like Walker's mother, but then nor do people come from miles around to admire my work as they did hers. Really, I'm still not great at planning out a garden, often realizing after a thing takes root that a may not have picked the best spot for it. Also, dirt grosses me out and worms occasionally make me gag.
Still, I feel compelled to open up the earth and embellish it with a living thing that I will then nourish and nurture and endeavor to help in fulfilling its promise to be beautiful. And though I doubt that they'll grow up to be florists or landscape architects, I want my girls to be a part of that.
I'll likely never be able to teach them what a dahlia is as I have no idea myself, but there are some more important things I hope I might pass on:
I'll likely never be able to teach them what a dahlia is as I have no idea myself, but there are some more important things I hope I might pass on:
You may never own a home with an indoor pool like that classmate whose birthday party Big E attended a while back, but you can always plant a few of those rose bushes that grow on the dunes and imagine yourself beachside.
Though last night's dinner came from a takeout menu, that needn't be your only source.
A little dirt never hurt anybody. . . but you really must wash up before dinner.
And, most important of all, even when you have no confidence in your ability to propagate a lawn, throw out some seed and you just might end up with a lush, verdant patch of loveliness like I did.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Work: Those days that sting
When Big E was a baby she attended the teen parent daycare in the school where I taught at the time. Every morning I would file into a classroom turned nursery with the teen moms, all of us toting backpacks and babies, and I would hand over my firstborn to a daycare staff that I knew had decades of experience and the patience and kind nature to not only spend the day on the floor playing with babies but to build trusting relationships with the high school-aged mothers, as well.
I knew that I'd be down to feed my daughter her applesauce at lunchtime, and that if I didn't run into her and the other babies riding their big red buggy through the corridors, a student or co-worker would and I'd get a full report. Still, every morning of those first months of working motherhood when I'd hear her Separation Anxiety-fueled cry as I walked up the stairs to my classroom I would marvel in horrified fascination that as my heart figuratively broke, I could literally feel the smart of each stab of her gasping cry.
I would arrive at my classroom, usually late and with a class's worth of freshmen sitting cross-legged on the floor waiting for me, and I would suffer through the visceral sting brought on by those cries. I was too wounded to absorb a student's heavy sigh or exaggerated eye roll as easily I would have in my pre-baby days, and everything felt so much harder than I'd calculated it would.
Time has helped to lessen the frequency of those days that sting, and this year's part-time schedule has helped even more. But still, there are occasionally those days and yesterday was one.
On Wednesday night my husband attended Little E's Pre-K teacher conference and found that her teachers were not noting the progress in her fine motor skills that we and her occupational therapist had seen. He also learned that through a series of miscommunications on both ends, we had not registered her for a slot in the class we'd planned for her to be in next year and so our only option would be for her to repeat this year's curriculum, during which, I suspected, she would continue sit quietly and be overlooked. After I got all crazy on the phone with my husband, I tried be less crazy on the phone with the center director. She spoke in sympathetic tones and promised to look into the registration situation, but I got off the phone feeling no better and found myself lying awake at 2 a.m. berating myself for warehousing my child in a place that was convenient for me but not all that great for her.
I went into work feeling as if I'd betrayed my daughter by sending her off that morning to the place that had angered me to tears the night before. Little E knew nothing of this and she is pretty much okay with the daycare, but lately I suffer even the smallest slight to her like a slash at my weakest point and so I got to work rubbed raw, too severely abraded to weather a snide comment, stray giggle or nagging e-mail. But just as I cannot come home from a bad day, curl up in a ball on the floor and tell the children, "Work sucked today. Now leave me alone," I really cannot explain the trouble with corporate childcare or the crippling guilt of working motherhood to a roomful of 16-year-olds. I had to play through the pain, but I knew I was hobbled.
There are countless women who manage this balance with more children I have and more important and time-consuming careers than mine. It seems, though, that no matter how I try to make it work, both sides of my equation are somehow diminished. Yesterday I tended to my wounds by shopping and drinking frappuccinos with Little E, fabulous parenting if ever there was. But I also fought on, setting up visits at two other childcare programs for next week.
Flawed as I may be at work and at home, I can only keep trying to get it right.
I knew that I'd be down to feed my daughter her applesauce at lunchtime, and that if I didn't run into her and the other babies riding their big red buggy through the corridors, a student or co-worker would and I'd get a full report. Still, every morning of those first months of working motherhood when I'd hear her Separation Anxiety-fueled cry as I walked up the stairs to my classroom I would marvel in horrified fascination that as my heart figuratively broke, I could literally feel the smart of each stab of her gasping cry.
I would arrive at my classroom, usually late and with a class's worth of freshmen sitting cross-legged on the floor waiting for me, and I would suffer through the visceral sting brought on by those cries. I was too wounded to absorb a student's heavy sigh or exaggerated eye roll as easily I would have in my pre-baby days, and everything felt so much harder than I'd calculated it would.
Time has helped to lessen the frequency of those days that sting, and this year's part-time schedule has helped even more. But still, there are occasionally those days and yesterday was one.
On Wednesday night my husband attended Little E's Pre-K teacher conference and found that her teachers were not noting the progress in her fine motor skills that we and her occupational therapist had seen. He also learned that through a series of miscommunications on both ends, we had not registered her for a slot in the class we'd planned for her to be in next year and so our only option would be for her to repeat this year's curriculum, during which, I suspected, she would continue sit quietly and be overlooked. After I got all crazy on the phone with my husband, I tried be less crazy on the phone with the center director. She spoke in sympathetic tones and promised to look into the registration situation, but I got off the phone feeling no better and found myself lying awake at 2 a.m. berating myself for warehousing my child in a place that was convenient for me but not all that great for her.
I went into work feeling as if I'd betrayed my daughter by sending her off that morning to the place that had angered me to tears the night before. Little E knew nothing of this and she is pretty much okay with the daycare, but lately I suffer even the smallest slight to her like a slash at my weakest point and so I got to work rubbed raw, too severely abraded to weather a snide comment, stray giggle or nagging e-mail. But just as I cannot come home from a bad day, curl up in a ball on the floor and tell the children, "Work sucked today. Now leave me alone," I really cannot explain the trouble with corporate childcare or the crippling guilt of working motherhood to a roomful of 16-year-olds. I had to play through the pain, but I knew I was hobbled.
There are countless women who manage this balance with more children I have and more important and time-consuming careers than mine. It seems, though, that no matter how I try to make it work, both sides of my equation are somehow diminished. Yesterday I tended to my wounds by shopping and drinking frappuccinos with Little E, fabulous parenting if ever there was. But I also fought on, setting up visits at two other childcare programs for next week.
Flawed as I may be at work and at home, I can only keep trying to get it right.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Dream: At the end of days, I shall eat Fritos
I was browsing CVS on Friday night when I overheard the cashiers talking about the eminent Rapture. I looked down at the deodorant in my hand and wondered whether I should be wasting time on my underarms when the world was about to end. I'm not religious, but from my limited knowledge of the Rapture I guessed that I'd be in for a whole lot of hellfire, so I got the deodorant.
Though I fret at least weekly that I'll meet some tragic end that will leave my daughters motherless and my husband and family bereft, I was a little apathetic about the impending end times. If everyone in the world goes at the same time, no one misses out on anything, right? Still, I wondered if I should spend my Saturday any differently, just in case.
Of course, I couldn't actually deviate from the general routine because that would arouse the suspicions of children, whom I would hope to keep in the dark about the whole situation at least until fire began to rain from the sky (and even then I'd probably try to explain it away until the earth actually opened up and swallowed us). So, I spent my Saturday as I always do, with swim lessons and soccer, but kept a mental list of the subtle alterations I'd have made had I actually believed that I was spending my last day on Earth. Here's what I came up with:
Unleash my inner crazy mom. In my years of teaching, I've dealt with the occasional hysterical parent and heard tell of scores more. I have always sworn that I would not be one of these crazy over-reacters, and I have mostly managed to avoid it. (Well, except for this one incident in the lobby of Little E's daycare after she'd been bitten one too many times.) If I were confident that the world would end within 24 hours, I would love to share my unvarnished critique of the teenage swim instructor of the group next to Little E's. Since she's not actually my child's teacher I've held back, but on the day that the world ends it would feel great to point out to that while it's annoying that she shows up late each week, causing my child's instructor to take on extra students, it's plain disgusting that last night's mascara is streaming down her face into the pool where my child is currently forced to blow bubbles. I'd also point at that a hickey so large and, um, fresh-looking is kind of horrifying, especially in juxtaposition with the innocent preschoolers forced to rest their heads against her defiled neck as they attempt a back float.
Because I was pretty sure we'd live to see another lesson, I watched in fascination as she turned green and struggled not to vomit into the pool where my child was dog paddling but kept my mouth shut.
Eat Fritos. Just as it was the highlight to my own childhood YMCA trips, a visit to the snack machine is always the grand finale to my kids' morning at the Y. They love the Fritos and Cheese Puffs that come out of that machine so much more than anything I could ever make them, more than the same snacks, even, if they came from a source that didn't involve scrounging change and punching in codes. Each week they make their selections and I abstain. . .until we get into the car and, I demand they share. When I was in high school, I couldn't bring myself to eat in front of boys. It was as if I thought they might believe that I survived on Diet Coke, oyster crackers and coolness alone. Perhaps this is the message I hope to send the YMCA desk clerk. I don't know. But I do know that if the world was at its end, I'd buy my own bag of Fritos and savor every salty, crunch bite.
Because I was dubious about the supposed Rapture, I waited until I got home and then gorged absently on handfuls of reduced-fat wheat thins as I ranted to my husband about the hungover swim teacher.
Stop off for Botox. I have a face that people tend to misconstrue. I hear a lot of Cheer up. It can't be that bad! and Oh dear, is everything okay?. In response, I've learned to say, "No, that's just how my face looks," which generally shuts down the conversation. It's true, though; I am usually reasonably cheerful and without problems that require concern from acquaintances and co-workers, but I don't always look that way. My brow tends to furrow without my prompting and this has caused a crease between my eyebrows that apparently makes me look angry or upset. I try to be conscious about relaxing my facial muscles and thinking serene thoughts, but who wants to worry about this in the face of Armageddon? In this scenario, my concerns over the long term side effects of injecting toxins and the cost of repeated treatments would be nullified and I could face my end with a brow as serenely unlined as a Real Housewife's. It would be the silver lining to an otherwise crappy day.
Because I knew I'd likely wake up on Sunday, I concentrated on lifting and spreading my eyebrows so as to smooth my crease naturally.
Have word with the soccer parents. Every Saturday my husband gamely tries to teach a squad of first and second graders how to juggle a soccer ball, patiently explains the proper part of the foot to use for a short pass (the inside) and for a long kick (the laces), and gently shows them, over and over, the appropriate form for a throw-in. Week after week he kindly reminds them of the importance of fun and sportsmanship and not celebrating every goal as if you've just won the World Cup. Each week he brings a stopwatch to ensure that every child gets exactly the same amount of playing time. Every Saturday I sit and watch all of this, and I listen to those children's parents on the sideline as they scrutinize the equality of the playing time, act falsely modest about the abundance of talent they see in their children, and, on a recent Saturday, deliberate over which island nation's shopkeepers were more "disrespectful" of them --Jamaica or the Dominican Republic (ultimately, a draw). The one thing I never hear, in keeping with their Upstairs, Downstairs world view, is a "thank you" when they all walk away with their lawn chairs as my husband runs around gathering orange cones and soccer balls. Even at the end of the world, I probably wouldn't tell them exactly what I think about this (too embarrassing for Big E), but I would happily prompt them with a little What do you say?.
Naturally, as soon as I added this to my list one of the fathers piped up and thanked my husband. In fact, he said it twice to make sure he was heard.
I'm pretty sure he was just tying up loose ends in the face of the Apocalypse.
Though I fret at least weekly that I'll meet some tragic end that will leave my daughters motherless and my husband and family bereft, I was a little apathetic about the impending end times. If everyone in the world goes at the same time, no one misses out on anything, right? Still, I wondered if I should spend my Saturday any differently, just in case.
Of course, I couldn't actually deviate from the general routine because that would arouse the suspicions of children, whom I would hope to keep in the dark about the whole situation at least until fire began to rain from the sky (and even then I'd probably try to explain it away until the earth actually opened up and swallowed us). So, I spent my Saturday as I always do, with swim lessons and soccer, but kept a mental list of the subtle alterations I'd have made had I actually believed that I was spending my last day on Earth. Here's what I came up with:
Unleash my inner crazy mom. In my years of teaching, I've dealt with the occasional hysterical parent and heard tell of scores more. I have always sworn that I would not be one of these crazy over-reacters, and I have mostly managed to avoid it. (Well, except for this one incident in the lobby of Little E's daycare after she'd been bitten one too many times.) If I were confident that the world would end within 24 hours, I would love to share my unvarnished critique of the teenage swim instructor of the group next to Little E's. Since she's not actually my child's teacher I've held back, but on the day that the world ends it would feel great to point out to that while it's annoying that she shows up late each week, causing my child's instructor to take on extra students, it's plain disgusting that last night's mascara is streaming down her face into the pool where my child is currently forced to blow bubbles. I'd also point at that a hickey so large and, um, fresh-looking is kind of horrifying, especially in juxtaposition with the innocent preschoolers forced to rest their heads against her defiled neck as they attempt a back float.
Because I was pretty sure we'd live to see another lesson, I watched in fascination as she turned green and struggled not to vomit into the pool where my child was dog paddling but kept my mouth shut.
Eat Fritos. Just as it was the highlight to my own childhood YMCA trips, a visit to the snack machine is always the grand finale to my kids' morning at the Y. They love the Fritos and Cheese Puffs that come out of that machine so much more than anything I could ever make them, more than the same snacks, even, if they came from a source that didn't involve scrounging change and punching in codes. Each week they make their selections and I abstain. . .until we get into the car and, I demand they share. When I was in high school, I couldn't bring myself to eat in front of boys. It was as if I thought they might believe that I survived on Diet Coke, oyster crackers and coolness alone. Perhaps this is the message I hope to send the YMCA desk clerk. I don't know. But I do know that if the world was at its end, I'd buy my own bag of Fritos and savor every salty, crunch bite.
Because I was dubious about the supposed Rapture, I waited until I got home and then gorged absently on handfuls of reduced-fat wheat thins as I ranted to my husband about the hungover swim teacher.
Stop off for Botox. I have a face that people tend to misconstrue. I hear a lot of Cheer up. It can't be that bad! and Oh dear, is everything okay?. In response, I've learned to say, "No, that's just how my face looks," which generally shuts down the conversation. It's true, though; I am usually reasonably cheerful and without problems that require concern from acquaintances and co-workers, but I don't always look that way. My brow tends to furrow without my prompting and this has caused a crease between my eyebrows that apparently makes me look angry or upset. I try to be conscious about relaxing my facial muscles and thinking serene thoughts, but who wants to worry about this in the face of Armageddon? In this scenario, my concerns over the long term side effects of injecting toxins and the cost of repeated treatments would be nullified and I could face my end with a brow as serenely unlined as a Real Housewife's. It would be the silver lining to an otherwise crappy day.
Because I knew I'd likely wake up on Sunday, I concentrated on lifting and spreading my eyebrows so as to smooth my crease naturally.
Have word with the soccer parents. Every Saturday my husband gamely tries to teach a squad of first and second graders how to juggle a soccer ball, patiently explains the proper part of the foot to use for a short pass (the inside) and for a long kick (the laces), and gently shows them, over and over, the appropriate form for a throw-in. Week after week he kindly reminds them of the importance of fun and sportsmanship and not celebrating every goal as if you've just won the World Cup. Each week he brings a stopwatch to ensure that every child gets exactly the same amount of playing time. Every Saturday I sit and watch all of this, and I listen to those children's parents on the sideline as they scrutinize the equality of the playing time, act falsely modest about the abundance of talent they see in their children, and, on a recent Saturday, deliberate over which island nation's shopkeepers were more "disrespectful" of them --Jamaica or the Dominican Republic (ultimately, a draw). The one thing I never hear, in keeping with their Upstairs, Downstairs world view, is a "thank you" when they all walk away with their lawn chairs as my husband runs around gathering orange cones and soccer balls. Even at the end of the world, I probably wouldn't tell them exactly what I think about this (too embarrassing for Big E), but I would happily prompt them with a little What do you say?.
Naturally, as soon as I added this to my list one of the fathers piped up and thanked my husband. In fact, he said it twice to make sure he was heard.
I'm pretty sure he was just tying up loose ends in the face of the Apocalypse.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Eat: Tarragon and Bacon Scallops on Crispy Polenta Cakes
- 1 tube of pre-cooked polenta (I used one flavored with garlic and basil.)
- 1 tablespoon of olive oil
Preheat the oven to 350.
Slice the polenta into half-inch thick rounds.
Heat the olive oil in a non-stick pan over medium-high heat.
Brown the cakes in the olive oil. This took me about three minutes per side.
Place the cakes on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and bake for about 20 minutes, about the time it will take you to prepare the scallops.
Tarragon and Bacon Scallops
- 2 slices of thick cut bacon, cut into 1 inch bits (Kitchen scissors work well for this.)
- 10 sea scallops
- 2 tablespoons of unsalted butter
- juice of one lemon
- 1/4 cup of white wine
- 1 tablespoon chopped fresh tarragon
- Salt and pepper
Pat the scallops dry and season them with salt and pepper.
Cook the bacon until it is crispy but not overdone. Remove it to a paper towel-lined plate.
Add the butter to the pan with the bacon grease and melt it over medium heat.
Sear the scallops over medium-high heat for about 2 1/2 minutes a side.
Remove the scallops from the heat, slice them in half lengthwise, put them on a plate and cover them.
Add the wine and lemon juice to the pan and bring to a simmer as you gently scrape up any bits of bacon and scallops that remain stuck to the pan.
Once the wine and lemon juice mixture has reduced by about half, add two tablespoons of water and allow that to reduce a bit.
Return the bacon and the scallops (and any juices they've released on the plate) to the pan and add the tarragon. Stir together, allowing all of the components to heat up and mingle together.
Season with salt and pepper to taste, and then serve over polenta cakes.
This served two adults with left overs and some for the kids to try.
Quick Baby Arugula Salad
Combine two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar, one tablespoon of olive oil and salt and pepper to taste in the bottom of a medium salad bowl. Whisk it all together, add a bowlful of baby arugula, and toss to coat.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Play: On embracing spandex
Recently I've realized that a superhero's powers may be less about the cape and more about the tights.
It all started about a month ago when I decided to upgrade my gym wardrobe from the utilitarian running shorts I've been wearing for years to a pair of lightweight spandex that hit just below the knee. They were incredibly comfortable but proved too low-rise for vigorous exercise. Hoping to justify my purchase, I took to wearing them around the house.
I also spent a lot of time twisting around to survey my rearview in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, a view which, though that mirror has proven overly optimistic in the past, was actually encouraging. I goaded my husband into confirming this for me on an almost daily basis, and after a couple weeks I had the courage to take the show on the road. I wore the shorts to Little E's swim lesson at the Y and it was a revelation; they were as comfortable as sweatpants but rather than making me look as if I'd given up on life, they made me look as if I might break into a purposeful sprint at any moment.
Then my husband did something wonderful. For Mother's Day, he bought me a pair of spandex shorts even more glorious than the original. Not only did they feel great and make me look like I do 10Ks in my sleep, they were the most comfortable thing I've ever run in. It was like jogging naked but without the inevitable jiggle and chafing. With two pairs my lycra-loving pleasure was doubled. I slid on spandex and running sneakers for the grocery store, Daisy Scout pick-up, the sidelines of both youth and adult soccer games, a stop at a local farm stand; if I wasn't paid to be there, I was in spandex.
I wore my spandex shorts and polyester track jacket so often that week that they came to feel like a uniform --not in the bad way like the humiliating striped top and visor I wore in high school as a McDonald's counter girl but in the good way, like Wonder Woman's badass boots or Superman's pec-enhancing unitard. It was probably this association that suggested to me at the shorts were in some way imbued with super powers. Before the week was out I had decided that I needed to train for a triathlon. Never mind that I despise bike riding and never mastered rotary breathing, I picked an event, penciled it into next year's calendar and started researching training programs.
Yesterday afternoon I set out for a run, planning to stretch my mileage to five from my normal three because I'll surely need a strong run to offset my bike and swim times and because I just knew that my shorts were up to the added challenge. About two miles in it started to rain, but my shorts, magic as they are, were unfazed. I soldiered on through the rain, which quickly became a torrent, even when a mass of passing cyclists forced me into a deep puddle on the dirt shoulder. I even kept a brave face as they insultingly echoed the warning "Walker!" through their ranks, despite a spandex-fueled pace that should have categorized me at least a jogger.
As I neared mile four, I was attempting maintain my pace and wringing out my spandex-free shirt amidst the angry splattering of massive raindrops when my husband pulled up and offered me a ride. I jumped in gratefully but was awash in guilt before we even pulled away. I'd failed to live up the shorts. Their powers, it turned out, were only as strong as the will of their wearer.
Despite yesterday's disappointment, I love the spandex too much to stop trying to live up to them. I just hope that someone will do me this one kindness: should next summer pass without me competing in that triathlon, please tell me --gently-- that it's time to hang up my shorts. Without the powers, the tights are so much more sad than super.
.
It all started about a month ago when I decided to upgrade my gym wardrobe from the utilitarian running shorts I've been wearing for years to a pair of lightweight spandex that hit just below the knee. They were incredibly comfortable but proved too low-rise for vigorous exercise. Hoping to justify my purchase, I took to wearing them around the house.
I also spent a lot of time twisting around to survey my rearview in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, a view which, though that mirror has proven overly optimistic in the past, was actually encouraging. I goaded my husband into confirming this for me on an almost daily basis, and after a couple weeks I had the courage to take the show on the road. I wore the shorts to Little E's swim lesson at the Y and it was a revelation; they were as comfortable as sweatpants but rather than making me look as if I'd given up on life, they made me look as if I might break into a purposeful sprint at any moment.
Then my husband did something wonderful. For Mother's Day, he bought me a pair of spandex shorts even more glorious than the original. Not only did they feel great and make me look like I do 10Ks in my sleep, they were the most comfortable thing I've ever run in. It was like jogging naked but without the inevitable jiggle and chafing. With two pairs my lycra-loving pleasure was doubled. I slid on spandex and running sneakers for the grocery store, Daisy Scout pick-up, the sidelines of both youth and adult soccer games, a stop at a local farm stand; if I wasn't paid to be there, I was in spandex.
I wore my spandex shorts and polyester track jacket so often that week that they came to feel like a uniform --not in the bad way like the humiliating striped top and visor I wore in high school as a McDonald's counter girl but in the good way, like Wonder Woman's badass boots or Superman's pec-enhancing unitard. It was probably this association that suggested to me at the shorts were in some way imbued with super powers. Before the week was out I had decided that I needed to train for a triathlon. Never mind that I despise bike riding and never mastered rotary breathing, I picked an event, penciled it into next year's calendar and started researching training programs.
Yesterday afternoon I set out for a run, planning to stretch my mileage to five from my normal three because I'll surely need a strong run to offset my bike and swim times and because I just knew that my shorts were up to the added challenge. About two miles in it started to rain, but my shorts, magic as they are, were unfazed. I soldiered on through the rain, which quickly became a torrent, even when a mass of passing cyclists forced me into a deep puddle on the dirt shoulder. I even kept a brave face as they insultingly echoed the warning "Walker!" through their ranks, despite a spandex-fueled pace that should have categorized me at least a jogger.
As I neared mile four, I was attempting maintain my pace and wringing out my spandex-free shirt amidst the angry splattering of massive raindrops when my husband pulled up and offered me a ride. I jumped in gratefully but was awash in guilt before we even pulled away. I'd failed to live up the shorts. Their powers, it turned out, were only as strong as the will of their wearer.
Despite yesterday's disappointment, I love the spandex too much to stop trying to live up to them. I just hope that someone will do me this one kindness: should next summer pass without me competing in that triathlon, please tell me --gently-- that it's time to hang up my shorts. Without the powers, the tights are so much more sad than super.
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