Competition

Last year, I wrote about my trip with my cousin Bonnie to my hometown for Mother’s Day weekend (Country Comfort, 5/17/12).   I hadn’t seriously entertained the idea of returning to Mansura for the Cochon de Lait Festival this year until my friend Kelly called a few weeks ago.   I’ve mentioned Kelly before—she’s a classmate and one of my oldest and dearest friends.   Our hometown is small, but we lived at its outskirts, down the winding, roughly horseshoe-shaped Petite Cote Road.   The “‘Tite Cote,” as it was called, was as rural as rural got.  Kelly lived about two miles from me, and today she lives right next door to the house where she grew up.

Over the years, no matter where I’ve been, Kelly has always kept track of me: she knows everyone in town--or if they’ve moved away, where they are and what they’re doing.  “Are you coming?  You have to come!  You have to defend your title.  I’ll get a bunch of people together.  We’ll have fun!”  Kelly is great at organizing—I think she’s been on every class reunion committee we’ve ever had.   The next day, I called her back to let her know I’d made my plans.

Word traveled quickly—the next night, I found myself Skyping with Michelle, another friend, fellow classmate, and ‘tite Cote native.   Michelle, newly divorced, had moved away from Virginia and was living with her dad, two doors down from Kelly’s parents.   Michelle and I have kept in touch sporadically over the years, but haven’t gotten to see much of each other, since we were usually in different parts of the country.   One of my favorite of Michelle’s traits is her outspokenness—like me, but totally unfiltered. 

We plotted our takeover of the Hampton Inn: I would have a room for me and whatever cousin I could wrangle into coming along, and she would have a room where she and Kelly would stay, as close to mine as she could get.  We hoped more friends would follow suit, but regardless, we were all-in.  The Hampton Inn is right across the street from the casino, which is the social hub of the parish: we could ride the shuttle, walk, or crawl back to our rooms when we were ready to go back.  Side note: the casino has done more to develop the parish than anything I can think of--it was built in the early 90s on pasture land.  Bunny and I used to joke that it looked like a space ship had come from Mars and just dropped it there.  Now it looks less foreign, because national brands have sprung up a presence around it.

Last Thursday, Kelly called and instructed me to meet her at the ice bar as soon as I got to the hotel.  I’ve noticed a pattern over the years--everyone meets at the ice bar, then moves to another bar or restaurant, if necessary.  The first time she ever told me to meet her there, I spent a good 30 minutes looking for a place called The Ice Bar.  It doesn’t exist: the meeting place is actually called the Atrium Bar.  Like most people and many things in Louisiana, it goes by another name; the actual bar is made of ice—like a mini skating rink. 

I got to the ice bar after driving hours through torrential rain, then the most pitch-black darkness I could remember seeing.  After you’ve lived away from The Country, you forget how dark it is there: miles and miles of feeling like you’re immersed in a giant vat of tar, except for whatever meager path your car can illuminate for a short distance in front of you.  When Kelly called at one point to find out where I was, she laughed at my complaints of how dark it was: “You in The Country now, girl!”

I got to the ice bar, where none of the usual suspects were to be found.  Finally, I caught sight of them at a table away from the ice bar, but still in easy distance: Kelly, Michelle, Cindy and Joel.  The same crew from my last casino get-together (see I Know Why the Irish Drink, 2/2/12), with Michelle substituted for Greg, who Kelly hadn’t been able to reach.  

Cindy isn’t technically from the ‘Tite Cote, but she had grown up right across the far point of the horseshoe, where it intersected with the highway.  She lives about a mile from where she grew up.  She, Kelly, Michelle and I (plus two other girls) had carpooled to practical nursing school during our junior and senior years of high school.  We graduated from high school in May, and nursing school in June.  Cindy was generally the most serious, most quiet of the bunch, but she was always down for a good time, and she has a wicked sense of humor. 

Joel (pronounced Joe-El) grew up in town.  He’s sort of the male equivalent of Kelly: he keeps tabs on the boys and some of the girls, and he’s on most every reunion planning committee.  Now, he found himself with four women for whom no topic was off-limits.  Most guys might have shrunk from the task, but as I remarked later in the evening, he kept up with everything we threw his way, and threw it right back.  We started with the serious topics—aging or deceased parents, grandchildren, family—and quickly progressed to the light-hearted, boisterous banter that you can fearlessly have with people you’ve known all your life.  We talked and laughed and carried on like we always do when we get together. 

Early on, we discussed the ladies’ beer drinking competition, to be held the next day at the festival.  Joel hadn’t seen my medal, but I won the contest last year, when Bonnie and my step-father, Donald, had dared me to enter.  This was the title I was defending.  Michelle had seen my medal when she asked me about it during our Skype session.

   

Kelly works with a woman named Allison who had won the two consecutive years prior to my victory.  Her cousin, Jeff, had gone to school with us, but wasn’t coming in until Saturday afternoon.  Allison hadn’t competed against me, so she had peppered Kelly with questions all week about my technique, my time, and anything else she could plug into her strategy.   Kelly didn’t know any of the details—I didn’t even know those kinds of details—but at any rate, Allison was undecided about entering.

I mentioned that my sister, Julie, was considering challenging me, but she drinks about as much beer as I do—practically none.  If my cousin Norman came up from New Orleans, though, I was going to try to talk his wife, Lisa, into competing.   I had been talking with Norman for the better part of the week as he decided whether he was going to make the trip. 

One of the beauties of Facebook is that you can keep up with people you rarely see, and get to know people you’ve never met.  I hadn’t seen Norman in at least seven or eight years, but he’s one of my Facebook friends.   I’d never met Lisa, but from getting to know her on Facebook, I knew she drank beer and that she looked to be the competitive type.  If she showed up, my money was on her.  All the talk of the family competition seemed to create great excitement in the group.

The next morning, I met Julie and her family at the parade.   Donald’s daughter, Lisa, had come up for the day.  Another potential competitor!  She demurred, but said she’d do it if Julie would.  Julie was still on the fence, but her husband (Todd) and I were able to swing her over to the competing side.  Now we three sisters would compete.  I knew Norman and his Lisa were on their way, because I’d talked to Norman about an hour earlier.

Toward the end of the parade, they joined us, with their son, Harley, who is a year younger than Trinity.  This was the first time I’d met Harley, too.  Typically, my first questions on meeting a new-to-me family member don’t involve beer drinking competitions, but this was a special occasion.  I explained the contest to Norman and Lisa—two cans, as fast as possible, and boom!  Family competitor number four was on board.

I’d been running into classmates and Facebook friends all morning, which was fun.  Everyone wished me luck.   It had rained a lot the day before, so the humidity was quite high.  As we walked around after the parade, Harley told me I’d have to win.  I told him I didn’t expect to—last year’s win was just a fluke.  He is such a cute kid—much quieter than his dad at that age, and very polite and smart.  Since I wasn’t really serious about the title, he hoped his mom would win.  I love this kid!

Finally, 1:30 p.m. rolled around and we took the stage.  Twelve of us sat down initially, and were joined near the start time by two additional women.  Julie and Sister Lisa sat on left side, and Cousin Lisa and I sat in the middle of the table.  From the crowd, Kelly caught my eye, pointed to one of the newcomers, and mouthed “Allison!” I leaned forward and looked to the right side, where a young woman in a blue shirt was doing the same thing, looking my way.  We waved at each other, then made fighting gestures and laughed.  I told Cousin Lisa it was on!

We got our beers and listened as the rules were explained: drink two beers, one at a time, as fast as possible.  Turn the cans over as you finish each one.  No spitting, no spilling, no excess beer from the turn-over.  Cousin Lisa made a remark about not swallowing, which the MC overheard and repeated.  I loved this cousin, even though I’d just met her!

Before I knew it, we were off.  The beer seemed even colder and more carbonated than I remembered it.  I finished the first one with only one pause, turned it over and started the second.  At this point, my focus was laser-like: I didn’t look around at all—not at the big crowd, with lots of family and friends, and not even to Cousin Lisa, who was right beside me.  For me, there was only one person in the world, on the stage, and I was sitting in her seat.  The second can was much more difficult: much, much more difficult.  I stopped several times, but pressed on, turned my can over and began to stand.  I felt Cousin Lisa doing the same, a fraction of a second before me.

I looked around, and four women—Allison, a young woman near her, Cousin Lisa, and I--were standing.  Slowly, others stood.  The young woman near Allison was disqualified—she’d left a big puddle under one of her cans.  Allison was first, Cousin Lisa was second, and I was third.  Third place!  Yea!  Two of the three placers were Chatelains.  Even bigger yea!  Cousin Lisa and I hugged. 

We stood before the now huge crowd to get our medals and be introduced. When the MC said her last name, Lisa looked confused.  She’s from New Orleans, so she’d only heard the city pronunciation: Chat-a-lane.  In The Country, it’s Shot-Lan.  Harley Shot-lan reached up to the stage to high-five us.  As I came off the stage, he was the first person I saw: “You see, it wasn’t a fluke!”

Michelle, Kelly, Cindy and Joel had all been in the crowd cheering for me.  I ran into Greg, who’d come with his father, sister and daughter.  His daughter goes to school in Tampa, so I’d met her last year when he brought her back to school.  His dad told me that they’d all been rooting for me.  I saw all my family there—cousins, niece, nephew, step-father, brother-in-law—who’d had divided loyalties, perhaps, but were supportive and proud of us all for competing.  I’m having a ggggrrrr moment as I realize that we should have taken a group photo of the four of us: fierce women warriors of the family.

As I was leaving a message for Daddy, Julie said, “Tell him I’ve shamed the family.” We laughed so hard over that!  Norman, Lisa and Harley were going back to the city that night, so we said our good-byes.  Then, we all parted ways to rest up for the evening.  There would be a street dance at seven, and everyone was sweaty and hot and tired. 

As I showered before climbing into bed for a well-deserved nap, I reflected on the day’s events.  I hadn’t won the contest, but I had placed. The family honor was safe.  Even more importantly, though, I’d had all the support I could have asked for—and that’s better than any medal ever hoped to be.   

  

Weathering the Circle of Life

My weekend adventure to The Country was a roller coaster ride of emotions.  First, excitement—the airport in New Orleans has undergone a quasi-mid-60s face lift—it looks a bit like a “Mad Men” set, done on the cheap.  I love mid-century modern furnishings, subpar materials notwithstanding.  Then frustration—torrential rain, really bad drivers who don’t use signals, clearly impaired drivers weaving from side to side, and Baton Rouge traffic.

Finally, I arrived at my father’s house, which was the mid-point in my journey.  By then, the sky had cleared, but I knew it would be awhile before the traffic followed suit.  I visited with him and my step-mother for a while, catching up on the latest news and events, before starting the final leg of the trip. 

As my father walked me out, he gave me some of his usual cautions.  If there’s even the slightest (and by slightest I mean one in a billion chance) potential for a disaster of some kind lurking, he’s sure to point it out.  My mother also veered strongly toward pessimism, so it’s a wonder their kids made it to adulthood without being totally impaired by anxiety.  Usually I just nod and play along, but this time, he said the most obvious thing one could say post-monsoon that it took my breath away.

“Be careful now.  The roads are really wet and it’ll be slippery.”  I think my jaw went slack from sheer astonishment that he’d felt the need to vocalize this statement.

“Dddaaaddd-dddyyy!  I’ve been driving for a really, really long time,” I responded, probably rolling my eyes in the process.  He gave me a shy little grin.

“I know--but you’re still my baby.”  That’s one of the sweetest things he’s ever said to me, even if he was just BSing me to cover his tracks.  I’ve said before that my dad is quite Spock-like: all logic, rare emotion.  My mother was just the opposite—she wore her heart on her sleeve.  I was totally taken aback by this unexpected infusion of tenderness.  I was immediately reminded of the commercial where the dad is giving his daughter the car keys: viewers see a teenager and he sees a little girl.  I’m sure I do the same thing to Joey, I just hadn’t realized it so clearly before. 

Soon enough, I was on the upswing and having fun with my friends from high school.  I’ll write about the fun parts of the weekend in another post, but I do want to take a point from an early part of the discussion we classmates had: how hard it is to lose our parents and to see them getting older.   Some of us had lost at least one parent, but all of us had stories to tell about how our remaining loved ones were slowing down.

Sometimes I feel that I haven’t fully grieved my mother’s loss.   I think it’s because she died so soon (27 days) after Bunny did.  If you asked me most days, I’d say that losing my husband has been so much harder than losing my mother that it’s not even a close call.  Yesterday, though, was different.

My mother and I weren’t always close, but in the past 15 years or so, we had grown closer than we’d ever been.  Even though she couldn’t travel during the last few years of her life, we talked at least weekly, and when she finally learned to Skype, we saw a lot more of each other.   She was always full of wry (or snarky) observations.

In the past, whenever I’d come to  my hometown and attended an event, I’d go to my mother’s house the morning after (usually a Sunday) and fill her in on all the details: who I’d seen, what we’d done, what was said—no piece of information was too small to mention.  She loved to interject tidbits of gossip she’d heard about the various players or places and ask questions to wring even more information from me. 

This year, I saw so many people that I’d have had hours of stories to tell her—we could have revisited the tales for weeks to come.  When I drove up to her house on Sunday morning to visit my step-father (Donald) and my visiting sister (Julie) and her family, I was fairly bursting with stories.  Telling them to Donald would have been largely useless, because he wouldn’t have known many of the people I was talking about.  I had to scale down the stories to the people he knew.  On the plus side, he’d been with me for part of the day, so he had his own observations to share about the people and events.  Julie had been with me for the better part of the day and night, and we’d caught up on-the-fly, so retelling the stories would have been repetitious for her.

The first thing I saw as I drove up to house was my mother’s dog, Honey.  My mother felt as strongly about her pets as I do about mine: they’re like children--absolute members of the family.  Honey is a 13 year old, honey-colored Pomeranian—she looks like a little fox.  Except now, she looks like a lion, because Donald took her to the groomer recently. 

Mama used to have Honey groomed like a lion for the summer: a big mane of hair around her face, buzz-cut body hair, and a poofy tail.  During her last hospitalization, my mother had joked to a neighbor that she wanted to go home--not because she missed Donald, but because she missed Honey.  I thought of that story as I reached down to pet her.  When she’s excited—like when visitors come--she usually runs around in a circle until she gets dizzy, but she wasn’t doing that now.

A bit later, as we sat on the patio catching up, I caught sight of my mother’s humming bird feeder.  Then the squirrel feeders that Donald had built for her.  I hadn’t even gone inside the house yet, and I was surrounded by reminders her.  Going inside was worse—the house is virtually identical to the way it was before she died.

Alone for a minute, Julie and I talked about a conversation with our former neighbor, Michael, whom we’d seen the night before.  Michael was telling one of his co-workers stories about the old days, when his family moved down the road from ours; our parents were freshly divorced.  His family had seven kids altogether, but the three eldest were much older than the rest of us.  The remaining four were either our ages or close enough to them, so we all grew up together.  Football, baseball, basketball—you name the team sport, and we played it, usually in their back yard.  When it was cold or raining, we gathered at our house to play board games indoors.  Michael’s youngest sibling, Lisa, was one of my bridesmaids when I married Bunny.

Eventually, Michael’s account turned to Mama, and how she’d raised the three of us as a single mother until Donald came along.  Everything Michael said was complimentary of her, and very true, but I think it had the same effect on Julie and me—it was a bit of a downer on Mother’s Day Eve.   Still, it’s sweet that he thinks so highly of her, even to this day. 

As I got ready to leave, I went to powder my nose.  In the bathroom, in the middle of the floor, was a shiny penny.  I picked it up and brought it outside to show Julie.

“So?” she said as I presented it with great flourish.

“It’s Mama!  She’s telling me hello!” I said.  Julie gave me her trademark cocked-eyebrow, half-smirking look of skepticism. It’s the same look she gave me when I told her what Daddy said when I was leaving--I told her she was just jealous.

“No, no.  It’s true—she used to tell me about letters to Dear Abby she’d read about pennies from heaven—they’re a sign from the departed.” (See Signs, 2/21/12 for the whole story—which my sister has apparently forgotten.) Then Julie told me her story about her signs from Mama over the weekend.

Shortly after that, we all headed out.  As I backed my car away, I caught sight of Donald and Honey waiving us off.  Now Honey was doing her dizzy-spinning.  Immediately, some primal instinct overtook me and I burst into tears: I missed my mom so much—more than I ever had before.  I didn’t stay sad for long—like on a Florida summer afternoon, this little outburst was just a sudden shower on an otherwise gorgeous day.  The forecast for rain on Mother’s Day was probably pretty high anyway.

Expectations and Adventures

Last night, a friend reminded me that I haven’t posted to my blog in a while.   In truth, as I told her, I’ve been struggling to find a transition from talking about all the firsts involved with the first year of Wideauxhood to more positive postings.  Emotionally, the day-to-day has gotten easier over time, but there are still moments when I feel Bunny’s loss as acutely as ever.  His birthday--April 20^th—was one of those times.

Another was Easter, which I didn’t celebrate at all last year: it was just too soon after his loss to celebrate a holiday that Bunny loved so much.  This year, I planned the usual two days of events for the girls and their parents: egg dying, egg hunting, egg knocking and a big Sunday lunch, complete with deviled eggs.  Without going into the all gory details, things did not go as planned.   At all.  By the end of Easter Sunday, I swore off putting on any more holidays altogether.

It took me awhile to come to this realization, but one of the main reasons I enjoyed holidays so much was because Bunny enjoyed them even more.  Watching him dye eggs was as fascinating as it was entertaining—he and Trinity would spend hours carefully mixing colors and patterns to see who could make the most beautiful eggs.  They were artists at work, happily chatting and borrowing each other’s techniques, each making suggestions to the other on how to improve the eggs.

Likewise, his absolute delight in his Halloween preparations was a sight to behold.   He had to have the right candy, the right decorations and the perfect set-up for everything.  He would practically skip to the door to greet the little monsters and witches and ghosts, and complement each child’s costume as he handed out fistfuls of candy.

This year, when each of our Easter traditions toppled like dominos, it reinforced his absence.  After doing things a certain way for 25+ years, it’s a bit jarring when the procedures are changed chiefly because the one person who enjoyed them most is gone.  Until the end of that weekend, it hadn’t occurred to me that I couldn’t recreate the happiness of years gone by, and that the holidays as I had known them would never again be the same.  Some might say I had unrealistic expectations going in, and maybe I did.  Even so, it hurt to have the point driven home.

On a happier note, in late January I decided to start getting out and doing things.  I’d heard radio ads for a group called Events and Adventures.  It’s a singles group that has at least one event planned every day of the month.  If you like the event or adventure du jour, you sign up in advance.  You show up, meet other singles interested in the same activity, and have a good time.

So far, I’ve gone to more events than adventures: mostly cool restaurants around the area.  I’ve met some nice people and had fun, which is the whole point of the group.  Developing friendships or romances is a bonus.  Adventure-wise, I’ve gone sailing and on a brewery tour and a brew bus, which stopped at four area breweries.  The breweries were geographically spaced apart—Tampa, Dunedin and Clearwater—so there was lots of time to ride on the bus and dance in the aisles as we drank bus beer. 

Tonight’s adventure was something I’d barely heard of, and had certainly never done: stand-up paddle boarding.  It works this way: you kneel on an oversized surf board and use a special paddle to navigate around the body of water.  The body of water in question: The Hillsborough River.  When you get some momentum going, you stand up and paddle from the standing position.  Sounds easy, right?

My success at water activities is hit-or-miss.  Sailing?  Love it!  Waterskiing? Can’t do it to save my life.  Literally.  I’ve tried many, many times.  I went into tonight’s adventure expecting I’d be able to paddle from a kneeling position with no problems.  The trouble, if any, would come in trying to stand up.  I also optimistically expected that I wouldn’t actually end up in the water, but had realistically worn a swim suit top under my tee shirt.   I couldn’t find the suit bottoms, so I wore Burmuda-length jeans (ending just above the knee).  Naturally, I didn’t wear shoes.

We got our pre-instruction, were measured for paddles, and were assigned boards.  We made our way down to the water, got on the boards, and started paddling.  Piece o’ cake!  I was probably one of the older members of this active little group of 12 or so, but I managed to keep up with the head of the pack.  Two of the pack members mustered the nerve to stand, and by then, emboldened by my paddling expertise, I carefully made my way to the crouch as previously instructed. 

In the meantime, the wind had picked up slightly, and my momentum had slowed because of the wind and because of my caution with the first-ever attempt at standing. I didn’t realize how much momentum I’d lost—I was focusing on my standing form.  Soon enough—bam!  I was standing.  Yea!  Just as soon—bam!  I was in the water.  I wasn’t so surprised that I’d ended up in the water, but I was surprised that it tasted salty, and that it was quite a bit warmer than I’d anticipated.  As soon as I came to the surface, I yelled “First!” as I pointed the number 1 sign heavenward.  The people who fell in after me could now say they weren’t the first to have done it.  Bonus: I didn’t lose my sunglasses.

One of the instructors swung around on his board to tell me how to get back on.  Again, not as easy as it looks.  You have to make sure your board is pointed in the right direction, get to the center of the board and grab the opposite side (or as much as you can, because it’s as long--if not longer than--arm’s length.  Then, you have to pull your midsection up onto the board.  In my case, there were two impediments to this procedure—a kind of spikey, rubbery mat on the very part of the board you’re supposed to pull yourself up onto; and the infamous Chatelain boobs.  It’s got to be much easier for the less well-endowed to drag their chests over spikey rubber to get on the board.

Nonetheless, I managed to get my midsection onto the board without too much difficulty.  The second part of the procedure: swing your leg up over the board.  In other words, like mounting a horse who’s floating in the water.  I managed that part of the procedure, despite the soaking wet half-jeans, which probably weighed at least five pounds by that point.  Note to self: wear only swimsuit bottoms next time.

Back on the board, I resumed kneeling paddling and caught up with the group.  The wind was sustained now and it made forward momentum a bit difficult, but going back would be easy.  I decided to give it another try on the easy part of the ride.  We paddled under the bridge—you can see the cars rolling over your head through the grate in the bridge—and paddled a short way on the other side before turning around.

Floating along with the wind to my back, momentum was easier to achieve.  My time had come.  As I got into my crouching stance, one of the instructors told me not to look at my feet.  “Keep your eyes on the horizon.”  I looked to the horizon and saw the beautiful Tampa skyline, which nearly always hypnotizes me, especially when I can see water in conjunction with the buildings.  I quickly rose to standing position and started paddling.

“Yea, me!” I called.  I rocked!  It felt almost like I was flying through the water.  I was elated with my success.  I was happy with my sense of accomplishment.  I may even have done a little excited wiggle or two.  I was back in the river within two minutes.  Crap!  But I had done it—I had done stand-up paddle boarding!  “Yea, me!”

For the moment, I held onto my board like it was a piece of flotsam and I was a Titanic survivor.  I was a bit tired from the first plunge into the river and the paddling up and now down the water.  Plus, I felt even more soaked-through than I had the first time.  On the plus side, though, I still had my sunglasses. Score!

This time, the remount was a bit more difficult.  It took three attempted heaves onto the board and two attempted leg swings before I was back on my board.  For a few seconds, I just stayed prone on the board until I caught my breath, then I knelt and paddled.

When I got to the dock, I found a few women who had never mustered up the courage to attempt a stand-up. Other people drifted in after me—some damp, some dry..  Everyone looked really happy for the experience.  I had exceeded my expectations, so I was thrilled.

Next week: rock wall climbing.

Dancing My Butt Off

I love to renovate things, and I’m pretty good at it.  So toward the fall of last year, I started thinking about how I would begin to renovate my life.  I knew what my first project would be: getting physically fit.  As I told Joey one day, you can only blame the dryer so long.

I’ve never been a skinny girl—even at my very thinnest (senior year of high school), I’ve never worn a single-digit size.  Luckily, I have a large frame, so I can carry a few extra pounds better than my tiny-framed friends can.   I grew up in a state famous for its good food, and in a family that loved to eat.

My step-father and I worked at the same hospital for several years.  Donald used to go to suppers with some of the other guys who worked there.  One day, I overheard one of them having a conversation in the cafeteria.

“Have you ever seen Berlin’s family eat?” he asked.

“No,” came the reply.

“That’s some eatin’ people!” he exclaimed incredulously.

I laughed, as did Donald when I recounted the story to him, but it was true.  My male cousins, particularly, were legendary for the amount of food they could put away.  I’ve had a step-brother and several cousins banned from all-you-can-eat buffets.  Out of a big extended family, my grandmothers and my mother were the only mediocre cooks. 

Still, I managed to maintain a healthy weight throughout my early 20s.  Bunny and I got married when we were 24, and were both fit on our wedding day.  Soon after we got married, though, we both gained a little weight.  Within a few years, we had both gained a lot of weight.  By the time I was in my late 30s, I could only buy clothes from the plus-sized departments, and Bunny had long since graduated to specialty stores.  How did this happen?  We were working long hours and our free time was fairly sedentary.  We both hated—HATED—to exercise.  It’s a familial trait. 

We started a low-fat diet, joined a gym and got a trainer.  For about three months, we trained together, and we both lost some weight.  Bunny dropped out shortly after that—he was tired of low-fat foods and of taking the time away from whatever his hobby at the time was.  I stuck with it a little longer—even though I was starving all the time—until my crazy work schedule made it impossible to be consistent with the trainer.  Plus, the trainer had long since begun to bore me with the lack of variety in my routines.

I hovered at the low end of the plus-size range for a while, until I changed jobs.  Early on in my new position, I periodically went to live in Houston for weeks or months at a time to help the office there with a crushing trial calendar.  One of the attorneys from the New Orleans office—Ros—also camped in Houston.  We were staying at the same apartment complex, and she had just read about the Atkins program: low carb, high protein.  We could eat meat, eggs, butter, cheese, and most salad-type vegetables.  Potatoes, bread, and pasta were forbidden.  We started Atkins together, driving our boss batty whenever we went to a restaurant with him.  

On any other diet I’d tried—and I’d tried them all—I always felt like I was starving to death.  Atkins was an adjustment, because I was suddenly doing without the foods that made me fat in the first place—potatoes, pasta and bread.  But once I got past the first two weeks, it was easy.  The weight started melting off.

Then I got one of the first Wiis that came out, chiefly for exercise.  I loved the Wii, because I could work out in the privacy of my own home.  Every day when I exercised, the cats would gather around to watch.  For some reason, it fascinates them to see me sweating.

During the last two years, I got less religious about exercising.  The thing that initially stopped me cold in my tracks was when I had a cervical spine fusion in April of 2010.  I had to wear neck braces for about six weeks, and by the time I was recovered, Bunny was starting to decline, health-wise.  I spent my spare time going with him to doctor’s appointments or hospitals, or just spending time with him.  

It’s not a good excuse for my not exercising, but those of us who don’t like to exercise don’t need much of an excuse.  Here’s the biggest lie that we tell ourselves: I don’t have the time.  I have friends who are addicted—addicted—to exercise!  If they don’t exercise every single day, they get antsy or out-of-sorts.  One has to swim for an hour.  One lifts weights.  The tri-athletes are the worst—they are like the vegans of exercise.

Other friends work out because they realize it’s a necessary evil.  I seem to know a lot of runners in this category.  Running has never appealed to me, for a variety of reasons.  As the saying goes, if you see me running, you’d better run, too, because something is chasing me.

Anyway, over the past two years, my weight was quietly sneaking upward.  At first, it was because Bunny would bring forbidden foods into the house.  Frosties, cake, ice cream—you name it; if it was unhealthy, he’d eat it.  A lot of it.   On the days when my resolve was strong, I’d stay away from it.  As time wore on, my resolve grew less strong.

I would chide him for bringing the forbidden food de jour into the house, and he’d protest that it was “only a little” and that I shouldn’t eat it if it was so bad.  Ha!  That’s like living with a crack addict and bringing ‘only a little’ crack home and telling her to stay away from it!

Once Bunny was gone, I didn’t have the desire to do much of anything in my spare time, particularly exercise.  By the fall of last year, I realized that I had to make some changes, and getting fit was top of the list.  There’s a relatively new gym about three miles from my house.  We actually joined when it first opened, but never went.  I got online and signed up, then visited on the next Monday.

There are some projects I won’t attempt by myself: auto repair comes to mind.  Getting into shape fell into auto repair territory—I wanted a trainer to help me efficiently get into shape and help me get motivated to keep it up.  Even though there were lots of classes at the gym, I didn’t join any.  There are some things I just don’t like doing in a group.

I was introduced to the personal trainer manager (or, as I like to call him, the personal trainer pimp (he prefers the term godfather)).  He oversees the personal trainers and their clients.  We met for about an hour, and he quizzed me on my health, my goals, and numerous other things.  We decided that my training program would be three times a week, for 25 minutes each time.  I could change trainers any time I wanted, and he encouraged me to change them every once in a while to work with a variety of styles.

He encouraged me to start out with Sarah (not her real name), who was good with people who hadn’t exercised in a while.  On November 1, 2012, I started training.  Sarah seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t exactly a ball of fire; she had less personality and enthusiasm than a damp dish cloth.   By the end of the first month, I was ready to change.  She convinced me to stick with her a little longer.  Every time I mentioned changing, because the pimp—er—godfather--had told me to change, she would give me a sad look, like I was abandoning her. 

Finally, I couldn’t stand her another minute.  I was very discouraged, because I wasn’t seeing the kind of results I’d expected after a month’s time. I was also bored out of my mind with her routines.  I went to see the pimp.  We discussed a number of trainers on the roster, and he described each one’s style to me.  When he got to Corey (which really is his name), he looked a bit doubtful.

“He’s got a different style all together.  He’ll push you hard.”

“Perfect! Sign me up!”

I met Corey Trainer (so as not to confuse him with Corey daughter-in-law) the next day.  I loved him immediately—he was efficient, knowledgeable and no-nonsense.  I could tell that a personality lurked beneath the drill sergeant-like exterior he presented at our first meeting.   

We focused on stretching exercises at the first session.  He told me I needed to stretch every day, no exceptions.  I questioned this requirement to myself, but I’ve since learned that stretching does make a huge difference.  Plus, it’s made me hella flexible! 

He asked about physical limitations.  I told him that, other than hyperextending my neck, the only limitations I had were because of my—ahem—ample bust.  I have what my mother used to call the “Chatelain Boobs.”   I come from a family of well-endowed women.

“Get some good sports bras.  Double or triple them up.  We’re going to be doing a lot of running.”    Hello!  How had the other trainer—a woman, no less—failed to mention this?  When the Chatelain Boobs had gotten in the way during her exercises, we moved to different exercises.

“How much cardio are you doing every week?” he asked. 

“Thirty minutes almost every day,” I answered.  It was true, and probably the only reason I’d lost any weight since November.

“Try doing an hour four times a week.  And you gotta sweat.”

Maybe at our first meeting, he thought he was stuck with some doughy grandmother who would quickly flame out.  I’ll have to ask the next time I see him.  If that was the case, it wasn’t long before he learned differently.

“I love your motivation.  And your focus.  You’re very driven,” he said at our third session, when I was on my third set of lifting a seemingly impossible amount of weight.  I never have forgotten my Lamaze techniques, 31 years on—focus, breathe—deliver an almost 10 pound baby without anesthesia or lift a gazillion pounds of weight.

Corey Trainer challenges me, pushes me, and motivates me.  He makes me feel like he’s actually invested in my outcome. He’s loosened up a lot since our first meeting, and he does have a playful side. Now—shock of all shocks—I actually look forward to going to the gym!  What new torture has he devised for me today? I’ll show him!  Every trip is like an adventure--a big, sweaty adventure. 

Based on his advice, I started dancing (Wii Just Dance 1-4, mostly) for an hour a night rather than 30 minutes.  I started out at four times a week, but love doing it so much that I do it nearly every night.  In fact, if I don’t dance, I start jonesing to do it.  Am I—gasp—addicted to the dance?  I think I am. 

Since November 1^st, I’ve lost a little over 20 pounds.  Most of that has come off since December 17^th, when I started working out with Corey Trainer.  I’ve got tone and definition in places that never had them before (hello, biceps!), even when I was at my lowest weight.   I’ve become one of those freaky exercise addicts, dancing my butt off—literally and figuratively.  Hey, at least it keeps the cats entertained.

Reflections

Tomorrow marks my first anniversary as a WiDeaux.  December was a pretty dismal month for me, but you know that saying “it’s always darkest before the dawn?”  It’s true.  Over the weekend, I had a lot of time for reflection. 

I realized that I’ve gone through an entire year of first occasions, holidays, birthdays—and just days--without Bunny, and I’ve survived.  I’m so grateful for the love and support that I’ve received throughout the past year from my friends and loved ones.  Even the smallest gesture can make all the difference to someone who's having a bad day.

Not that the past year has been easy—it hasn’t been.   There were days when I didn’t want to get out of bed, when I didn’t see how I could face another day without Bunny.   For months after he died, my short-term memory was nonexistent.   I—the person who hates making lists—now make them frequently, just to be on the safe side.   The memories—both good and bad—have ambushed me, unprovoked.  I’ll always miss Bunny, but I’m tired of dwelling on what might have been.  It’s time to focus on and be grateful for what we had, but to leave the past behind.

It’s been a year of contradictions.  I’ve learned that I’m both stronger and weaker than I thought I was.  I’ve seen the best and the worst in people I love.  I’ve made new friends and lost old ones. I’ve felt like half of me was missing but strangely tranquil in my oneness.   I’ve done things I never would have done before last year.  For example, I won the 2012 Ladies’ Beer Drinking Contest at the Cochon de Lait festival, just because my cousin and step-father dared me to enter (see Country Comfort, 5/17/12 for the whole story).

To quote another Elton John song, after an extremely difficult year, I’m Still Standing.  Now that I’ve spent a year surviving, 2013 will be the year I thrive.

Rosalie's Gift to the Anti-Magi

December has been a very emotionally difficult month for me.   Even under normal circumstances, Christmas has never been my happiest time—the dark winter days, the crushes of people everywhere, the incessant, crappy/sappy Christmas music, and the generally increased noise level make me crazy.  I know—I sound like The Grinch.  Maybe that’s why he’s my favorite Christmas cartoon character.

This year, though, in addition to all the above stressors, every single Christmas-related thing I see reminds me that either: 1) my husband is no longer here; 2) my mother is no longer here; or 3) neither my husband nor my mother is here.  Lights?  Bunny loved them.  Angels? My mother collected them.  You see how it goes.  I don’t set out to make these mental connections—they come, unbidden, before I can stop them. 

I’m sure it doesn’t help that the first anniversaries of their deaths are just around the corner.  Even if I’d been able to get past the stockings, there’s no way I could have put up a tree.  I don’t know about your ornaments, but I can tell the story behind every one of mine, and nearly every one of those stories involves my husband or my mother.

So, I’ve stayed away from malls.  On the few trips I’ve made to Walmart and Target in the last month, I’ve left crying like a baby.  Not only do the trappings of Christmas spark these flashbacks, but seeing people shopping with their spouses or mothers, happily arguing about what presents they’re buying, or what they’re cooking, or where they’re going remind me of the suddenly empty spots in my own family.   Then I feel guilty for being such a whiner, because I’m so blessed compared to others, like the families of the shooting victims in Connecticut.  Then I feel sad for the people I feel guilty about.  It’s a vicious, emotionally exhausting cycle.

After these incidents, I retreat back to my Christmas-decoration-free nest to regain my emotional balance.   Celebrating Hanukah rather than Christmas this year was one of the smartest things I ever did.  The cats and I liked Hanukah so much that we’re going to celebrate both holidays from here on out. I still wished Jesus a Happy Birthday when I woke up this morning, and since He’s the “reason for the season,” I’m sure He didn’t mind that my house isn’t decorated with a bunch of glittery, twinkly stuff.   It’s the thought that counts. 

Thinking back, the one place I can truly say I enjoyed December was at my grandparents’ house.  They lived right next door, so we went there every afternoon after school.  My grandmother always had some snack waiting for us, usually hot from the oven.  About two weeks before Christmas, my Great-Great Aunt Renie would bring my grandfather the best coconut cake in the world, and he’d tease us with it for days before he finally cut into it.  Unfortunately, she took the recipe with her to the grave, and I haven’t even been able to come close to it since then, despite years of trying.

One of the very best things for a kid in December, though, was presents.   Every year, my grandparents did something that drove my mother nuts: they let us open presents throughout the month.   That was my grandfather’s doing, and he had a story to rationalize his behavior.  Once upon a time, he had a little sister, Rosalie, who wanted nothing more than a doll for Christmas.  His parents got the doll and were saving it for Christmas, but Rosalie got sick and died suddenly, just before Christmas.  His parents always regretted not giving Rosalie the doll before Christmas.

So, no stockpiles of presents from our grandparents on Christmas Day: we’d opened the majority of them long before.    In my step-father’s family, we opened everything on Christmas Eve, during the annual family get-togethers, but when Bunny and I set up our household, we decided that we’d open presents on Christmas Day.  As compatible as Bunny and I were, there was one area where we always failed spectacularly: gift-giving.  For years, I’d buy him Christmas or birthday gifts, sure that I’d found just the perfect thing, only to be met with his half-hearted attempt at excitement.  For his part, Bunny would sometimes try to get something he thought I’d really like, but other times he didn’t try at all.

For example, one Christmas, I opened my sole gift from him to find a wallet.  Not a fancy designer wallet, either—a plain, black wallet he’d gotten at Brookstone.  I already had a wallet.  I don’t remember what hints I’d dropped that year, but I could have printed them on bricks and chucked them at his head and he still wouldn’t have gotten them.

“It’s…a…wallet.” I said, the picture of underwhelmed.    Even Bunny, a master of BS, couldn’t sell me on how much thought he’d put into this gift.  For years after, the wallet was the bottom of the scale by which all other gifts were measured.   

“Hey,” one of us would say to the other.  “At least it’s better than a wallet.”

Finally, around year 17, I suggested we each stop wasting money on gifts the other wouldn’t appreciate.  He didn’t argue.

“We’re like the Anti-Magi,” he agreed, referring to the O. Henry short story, The Gift of the Magi.    So, from then until last year, we would buy our own gifts, wrap them, and put them under the tree.  On Christmas morning, we were sure to open something that we really wanted.

Suddenly, last October, he announced that he wanted to go back to the old way of gift-giving.   I had a moment of panic, but agreed, because I knew it would likely be his last Christmas.   One of the first things I got him was a St. Peregrine medal.  St. Peregrine is the patron saint of cancer patients, and with Bunny’s newfound embrace of Catholicism, I figured it was a winner.  Not so much—it’s still in its box, undisturbed after he opened it Christmas day.

I scored a victory with the big present, though.  Toward the end of the summer, I’d gotten an iPad. Bunny, figuring apps weren’t that important, got another, less expensive, tablet for himself.  Within a week, he was coveting my iPad.   Soon, he was borrowing it to take with him on days when he had chemo or blood transfusions.   

When he changed up the Christmas rules on me, I knew the perfect gift.   I bought Bunny’s iPad just before Thanksgiving.  Then, with Rosalie’s story in the back of my mind, I promptly gave Bunny his present.   I’d never seen him so happy with any present I’d given him before.  He immediately started downloading apps for all his interests: chess, poker, history, big foot, etc.  I think he used it every waking moment.

Finally, I’d broken the curse of the Anti-Magi!   As things turned out, Bunny entered the hospital for the final time three days after Christmas.   When it became clear that he wasn’t coming out, one of the first thoughts I had was gratitude for my grandfather’s insistence on telling Rosalie’s story.   Her legacy allowed me to make Bunny’s final days a little brighter, and that thought warms me.

As more time passes, I’ll get comfortable with Christmas again.   I’ll be able to decorate without falling to pieces over every single ornament I hang on the tree.   And I’ll be as happy as I can be with the incessant, crappy/sappy Christmas music in the background.

‘Tis the Season

Since early October, most stores have had their Christmas displays up, and it’s been nearly impossible to ignore the fact that there’s A VERY BIG HOLIDAY lurking just around the corner.  A short year ago, I had a husband and a mother, and was planning to spend the holiday with both of them.   Now that I have neither, it’s hard to get excited about Christmas.

Growing up, my mother put up our tree on the day after Thanksgiving every year, or by that Sunday, at latest.  It was a tradition I carried on in our family, and Bunny was more than happy to help.  His specialty was stringing the lights.  More lights than one tree should ever hold.  We’d hang the ornaments on the tree and drape all the stockings (his, mine, JoCo and kids’, and one for each cat) over the china cabinet or the patio door.  Hey, we didn’t have a fireplace in Florida!  My mother was fairly crafty when it came to crocheting and embroidery.  About 20 years ago, she made each of us Christmas stockings, embellished with sequins and embroidered with our names.

Last year, since we were supposed to be going to Louisiana for Christmas, we didn’t haul out the big tree.  Instead, I got a table-top tree and decorated it, just to be festive.  I later added a second table-top tree, this one made of aluminum, because I couldn’t pass it up—it was a miniature version of my maternal grandmother’s huge aluminum tree, so it was nostalgic and quite mid-century modern, which is my décor style.

I tried to get into the holiday spirit this year on the weekend after Thanksgiving.  I opened the storage container that holds the stockings, and the first one I came to was Bunny’s.  I held it in my hands for a few minutes and studied the scene with Santa climbing into a chimney against a blue background.  Santa’s suit is blinged out with red sequins, and “John” is embroidered across the top in dark thread.   I couldn’t keep the thought out of my head: once upon a time, my mother hand-made this stocking for my husband. Crap!  If there was one symbol of my lost loved ones, this stocking had to be the front-runner.  I couldn’t put it away and shut the lid fast enough.

Now I was stuck.  It just felt wrong not to celebrate, but I’d be an emotional wreck with all the reminders around me, glittery and beautiful as they are.  I hit upon the solution relatively quickly: instead of full-blown Christmas, I’d celebrate Chanukuh.    Long before my family celebrated Jesus’ birth, Jesus celebrated Chanukuh.   I’ve never done a full-blown, eight-day celebration of Chanukuh, and it’s certainly a holiday I’d never shared with Bunny or Mama.  No ghosts of Christmas Past when you’re celebrating Chanukuh!

Off to Target I went, picking up a menorah, candles and dreidels.   Then, because I have a near-morbid phobia of open flames, I bought a menorah with blue, candle-shaped light bulbs, too.  I Skyped my friend William to show them off, which sparked a case of menorah-envy in him.  The next day, he went to the same Target and got his own menorah, candles and dreidels.  I told him that two menorahs and accessories selling at the same North Hillsborough/South Pasco County Target within 24 hours would create a skewed sense of demand.

So Saturday at sundown, I will celebrate the first night of Chanukuh with William and my family.   My family will light the menorah and spin dreidels for the first time, and learn how another religion celebrates an important holiday.   We will eat the Cajun all-purpose winter meal: gumbo.  We will be culturally and nutritionally enriched, and we will be happy.   The Christmas trees can come out again next year, when I’ll be ready for them.