Tuesday, November 21, 2006

The Guilted Age

In the immortal words of Barbra and Barry: And we have nothing to be guilt of...

Then why do I feel so guilty when I do something for myself?
Tonight I went to the gym and ran turkey-related errands instead of doing the dinner, return emails, bath, return emails, bedtime, return emails thing.
First of all, let me say, what a treat!

Wait: Our love could climb any mountain, near or far, we are and we'll never let it end. I had to. It's stuck in my head now.

That hour and half felt so good—and you know, I felt guilty about the fact that it felt good. I also felt guilty about not working (on my mag site www.thefamilygroove.com—awesome though round the clock) or hanging with the fam or teaching my child something or teaching my man something (hehe) or, I dunno, doing something routine-related. But tonight at 6:15, there I was treadmilling it up. Me—alone. And hey, was that me making multiple stops at various stores, pulling into a spot, opening the driver's side door, closing the driver's side door, pressing the lock button and walking away from the car? What? No wrestling with Britax straps and a bulky, but cute Baby Gap coat? No clumsy, momentum-induced hook of my purse onto my shoulder as I balance my 21 month old?

I felt like a teenager who just got her license—yup, just out tooling around on her own. Why, I got a coffee just 'cause I could do it sans baby. Yes, that bit of stolen time— music loud, arms free—was a refreshing shot of me-ness. And you know what, I like me. I miss me.

And as I write this, I am over the guilt. In fact, that song is out of my head and has been replaced by George Michael's "Freedom." Equally as good, but now much more suiting of my outlook.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Yo Yo Mama

Okay, so I can't believe I am going to admit to this, but I really think Nicole Richie looked good until very recently. Not so much in that picture of her running on th beach, but in clothes she looked pretty good. Is that sick of me or what?

I always blog about what I am eating or not eating. When I eat pasty white crap, I look like pasty white crap. When I eat clean, high water content food, I am clean, flushed and light, mentally, physically and emotionally. I suppose the same can be said of what I consume in other ways, too. As of late because I am working all the time and momming all the time (insert other semi-poor excuses here), so when I do get a hot minute to myself, I shovel in an US Magazine or binge one of those Access Entertainment Hollywood Red Carpet Fabulous Life of Celebrity Kids shows—you know, the ones that beacon the official decline of Western Civilization. Good lord—and I love them. I love them. Watching them feels dirty and wrong and just yuckers and I can't get enough—ergo, Nicole Richie looks pretty good, Posh Spice was kinda right about Kate losing more weight for her wedding photos, Ashlee Simpson looks amazing and all sorts of other vain, inane thoughts swirl around in my head, informing my perception of the world.

Here's the pattern: I think these twisted sister thoughts and then feel so bad about my loser actions—think I-just-ate-the-whole-bag-of-cookies kind of remorse. Then I go back onto my diet of mind and aesthetic enhancers (which at this point is relative at best), such as Discovery channel shows on Pluto, the NY Times and shunning my mom's attempts to gossip with me—lame, but not reprehensible.

A couple of weeks ago when I was on the wagon, I stumbled onto an episode of Charlie Rose (if that black background doesn't straighten you out, nothing will) on which he was interviewing Jane Fonda and Gloria Steinem. You can imagine how proud I was of myself—akin to one week of no white flour, sugar or salt—and that was still a TV show. I'm working up to getting back into reading. It's like going vegan—which I am contemplating getting back into, but that's a whole other post— you have to work into it.

And so the yo you dieting continues. Back and forth. Up and down. On and off. Either way, you are what you eat.