Lady Sings the Blues (and smells like BBQ)

They say that 45% of people usually make New Year's Resolutions.  And by "they" I guess I mean the University of Scranton's Journal of Psychology, from which I got my statistics, but at least I didn't make them up this time.  Of those, only 8% have success.  49% have infrequent success and 24% never succeed and fail at their resolution every single year.  (I believe the remaining 19% were too hungover New Year's Day to remember what they resolved to do.  Or maybe they were distracted by cat videos on YouTube.)

Six months ago I made some resolutions.  They were not about weight loss, though that's not necessarily a bad goal if properly motivated.  I just don't believe in starting off my year bathing in a pool of self-loathing like most who resolve to lose weight on that day.  Instead I wanted to approach the topic of body confidence and body love from a resolution angle.  What goal can I set that I have avoided my whole life because of how I felt about my appearance?

Well, you all know I don't like having my picture taken.  Never have - that's no secret.  So one of my goals was to commit to 30 Days of Selfies in order to take back the power of the camera and learn to be more present rather than afraid.  I did it.  I took a photo of myself every day.  I only gave myself one or two shots at the most and I just went with it.  Sometimes I was at the gym.  Sometimes I was on my couch.  Sometimes I forgot until the end of the night and took one on my pillow. Sometimes I had cried all day. Sometimes I even wore a bra and make-up. (Moments saved for special occasions.)  By the end of the 30 days I was entirely sick of photos of myself but they no longer elicited any emotional reaction beyond, "Oh.  There I am again.  That's me."  I felt I had some success.

Speaking of which.

My other resolution had to do with vocal lessons.  I love to sing.  LOVE it.  I have no delusions about fame and fortune with my mediocre talent but it brings me such joy and all the same feel-good endorphins that a workout also gives me. I've always wanted to take vocal lessons but I knew they would almost always end with some kind of performance.  And THAT is what I just couldn't do.  Not only because I wasn't that great but because I was fat.  Not thin enough, not pretty enough, not talented enough, not confident enough, not perfect enough.  Not enough.  So I haven't had a lesson since the last one I took with my junior high choir director.

I have declared this last year since my 39th birthday my Year of Bravery.  I've made concerted efforts to do the things that scared me the most.  I wore a two piece swimsuit in public last Summer.  I had photos taken in my drawers.  There were numerous other personal braveries that I tackled.  But there was still another thing I was afraid of that was within my grasp as the age of 40 rushed at me at breakneck speeds.

After my month of selfies I contacted a vocal coach, Connie Olson, at the recommendation of a friend.  Within a week I had my first meeting with her and she asked me to be a part of the Showcase she has for her students at that very meeting.  I thought she was out of her mind.  I was terrified to sing in front of just her, let alone an audience.  But Connie was adamant and she's hard to refuse.

I took vocal coaching lessons with Connie from mid-February until June and in that time I could tell my confidence was growing.  My singing was stronger, my embarrassment was miniscule and my joy was abundant.  And never when I was with her did I think about not being pretty enough or thin enough to sing.

Until I thought about that performance, that is.  The thought of it still made me nauseated but I was committed.  June came fast.  Too fast. As the date of our performance at Famous Dave's BBQ & Blue's Club approached I started getting more and more nervous but I couldn't back out.  I told too many people.  Jesus, I shared it on Facebook, the most concrete and eternal of all promises.  I had to do it now.

I was nervous about the singing for sure but I was more nervous about how I would look.  I'm just not meant for the stage and I'm fine with that.  Too fine.  God, what in the hell am I going to wear? I found a dress that was curvy and feminine and sexy, I thought, without being too revealing since my kids would be there.  I took a few selfies (yay, me!) and sent them to some friends to get the nod of approval.  I got it.  I know I've gained weight but this dress made me feel good.  See?  Not so bad, right?  *cough*  We'll get back to that in a bit.

Connie asked me to sing three songs instead of the typical one for newbies and I had chosen three songs that I knew like the back of my hand.  Bluesy, jazzy, old school.  Perfect.

About two weeks before the show I found out we lost our sax player to another gig.  I could NOT not have a sax player with my songs.  Panic! Since I happen to know one of the best around I contacted Walter Chancellor Jr. and he was willing to help, thank God.  What an honor to share my first time on a stage with so much talent.

To say I freaked out over the final week or two would be an understatement.  I worried.  I panicked.  I literally made myself ill.  I'm not lying when I tell you my anxiety was through the roof.  Just ask my husband who had to give me daily pep talks or my friends who helped me after my post-rehearsal melt-down.  I was scared shitless.  Shit. Less.

I did come very close to vomiting the morning of the show.  Which would have been a damn shame because it was a Sunday.  And anyone who knows me knows that my family always has bacon on Sundays.  Always.  It's our church.  To vomit up bacon would be a mortal sin in my book. I held it together, though.  Fortunately by the time I started showering and getting ready I started to feel better.  I did my hair, put on my makeup, some heels and that dress.  That damn dress.  Anyway, I felt beautiful, which is a victory in and of itself, and I was as ready as I was going to get.

Throughout the afternoon, over several hours, I got Stuart Smalley type texts from a friend of mine who follows my blog and apparently uses my own advice against me.  I can't tell you how much they meant to me that day.  I was laughing by the last one and that's exactly what I needed. I saved them all.  Here they are:

"You know you look fantastic, right?"
"You also know how much fun you are, right?"
"You also know how smart you are, right?"
"You also know you have fabulous hair, right?"
"You need to take a selfie right now.  Duck lips and all." (I did and sent her one after another prompting)
"I also know you're wearing amazing shoes"
"I like your knees and your toes, too.  They're pretty awesome."

She sent all these texts without telling me she was coming.  When she walked in I was shocked and so very grateful.  My family was also there - my husband, kids, mom, aunt, cousin and baby 2nd-cousin who loved her first trip to a bar.  Fitting it was with me.

 In addition, some of the women I love most in the world were there.  The ones that put up with all my crap.  The ones that listened to me cry when I left the job that I loved.  The ones that support me daily and unconditionally.  I couldn't have asked for more.

I was surrounded by love and friendship and cheers and hugs.  I could do this, right?  RIGHT?

My first song was pretty awful.  I'm not gonna lie.  The tempo was off with the band so I was off and I never actually got it under control.  Was it worthy of American Idol when they make fun of the worst singers around?  No.  But it wasn't my best.  The second song I started to rally.  Much better.  The third song, Queen Latifah's cover of "Baby, Get Lost" from her standards album, The Dana Owens Album, was when I really felt like I did my thing for someone who has never been on a stage in her life.  Having a spectacular sax musician right next to me sho' nuff didn't hurt, either, but that's the video I'm going to share with you shortly.

When I got down from that stage, amid the hooting and hollering of not only my people but others in the crowd, I was all fired up.  Fired up with adrenaline and relief but most of all pride.  God damn it, I did it.  I really did it.  The adrenaline high was so strong I couldn't even eat much of my BBQ ribs after.  Now you know that's some serious excitement.  I was flying high the rest of the night and into the next morning.

When I got in the car to drive home I snapped another selfie of myself (because that's kind of how I roll now).  This is what pride looks like.  And feeling achieved.  And blessed.  And relieved.  And grateful, for myself and everyone else who supported me.  This is what knocking another item off the bucket list looks like.  This is 6 months almost to the day Resolution Success.

This is also "My shoes are starting to hurt my feet"

Now I knew my family took some video on a tiny pocket camcorder and I had enough sense to wait a couple of days to watch it.  I wanted to keep feeling all those feels.  I wanted to not think about how I looked or how I sounded and I wanted to be happy that I. Just. Did. It.  But I knew I was going to have to look eventually because I wanted to share it with you all.  So I looked.

If I had to guess just how negatively those videos would impact me I would never have come close to the full amount of self-loathing I was capable of.  They were bad.  So, so bad.  Not the singing - the singing was just as I described.  But how I looked.  I was devastated.

Now, it's no secret that I have gained weight.  A considerable amount in fact.  You only have to run in to me at Target in my stretchy pants and hoodie to discover that.  But what I saw in that video compared to what I saw in the photos I took of my dress and the selfie I took in the car were light years apart.  Light years.   Maybe it was the poor quality camcorder.  Maybe it was unflattering stage lighting showing every bump and roll. Maybe I was just swelled up like a tick.  Maybe the old myth about the camera adding 10 lbs was true and I had exactly 72.5 cameras on me. 

All I know is that it broke my spirit.  For a couple of days.  I was shocked and embarrassed and mortified that I got up there.  And just in case you think I am over-reacting, my husband did agree that the video was "unflattering" which is about as close to the honest truth as I'm going to get from a smart man who knows how to word things properly for his woman on the edge.

I had a pity party for exactly two days.  Then a friend told me she hid in the back room of her house when her husband's friend, whom they hadn't seen since their wedding, stopped by for a visit.  She hid because of how she looked.

And then I decided enough is e-fucking-nough.

I am fat.  Much fatter than I used to be or that I want to be. And perhaps I don't know how to choose outfits that are flattering under stage lights.  Maybe the video was worse than it looked in person or maybe I do actually look like that and I'm delusional. Maybe this didn't heal me from worrying about how I look.  Whatever.  It doesn't take away from what I did.  And that's what made me the most angry at myself.  I allowed what I DID for myself to be diminished by how I LOOK.  When will that stop?  We let ourselves be made small in the very face of our huge accomplishments because we aren't perfect enough on the outside.  It's got to stop and stop right now. 

My biggest fear was getting up on a stage to do the thing I loved and looking bad or sounding bad.  And the very things I was afraid of happened to some extent.  And no one died.  And no one kicked me off stage.  And no one, aside from myself, even said horrible things to me.  Perhaps I won, not because I have conquered the fear but because I did it in spite of it.  I am not fearless by any means.  But I can call myself brave now.  Lessons are never learned from perfection.  They are learned when, in the face of imperfection, you still act.

So what was my lesson?  I'm glad you asked.  I may have forgotten for a hot minute what I set out to do by performing on a stage.  I got caught up in ego.  I may be a slow ass learner but I'm getting there.  The lesson is this:  What I do for myself and for others and how those things make me feel are the only things that matter in this life.  How I looked while I did them?  That's nothing.  It's not often I get to feel proud of myself and successful and beautiful all at the same time.  I don't ever want to take that gift away from myself again.

I'm reminded of an article that I read recently on HuffPo by Glennon Melton and shared on my Facebook page.  I recommend the read but one thing that struck me was the line, "If you do not feel beautiful then FILL UP, Precious Sister."  Fill up on all the lovely experiences because that's where a beautiful life comes from.  And when I got down from singing I felt pride in what I had achieved in facing my fear.  I felt all the love of those supporting me.  I felt radiant.  To hell with the dress.

I got up on that stage, not because I'm thin enough, pretty enough, talented enough, confident enough, or perfect enough.  But because, god damn it, I FUCKING CAN.

I'm sharing a video with you of that last song.  In the spirit of full disclosure I will tell you that it's not the full body shot that I saw and disliked but it still doesn't exactly match what I see in the mirror.  However, I promised to be vulnerable and open and that means you get to delight in my amateur singing abilities as well as my sailor mouth and pantsless jokes.  Enjoy.

Hey, Forty?  Come at me, bro.

Asshattery and the Anti-Anti-fragile

Dear Asshat at the Gym,

You don't know me. You don't know I once lost 130 lbs. You don't know I was a trainer, spin instructor and kickboxing instructor. You don't know I just came off a couple of weeks of major self-loathing and I'm fighting to stay above water. You don't know that this is a lifelong battle of mine. You also didn't know I was feeling pretty damn good yesterday. I took a pic of myself in only one shot and I didn't hate it. I had a singing lesson that made me not quite as certain I'll be making a fool of myself in 11 days time. I had some wonderful compliments from friends - one in particular who said she still saw my strength. I got my workout in and felt strong and saw that I still had muscle definition in places, though more hidden than before.

You didn't know any of this. You could have paid attention to my form and knowledge and seen that I was not a newbie. You could have also seen I had my headphones in which is the tell-tale sign of "Don't even think about talking to me". But you didn't. Instead you walked up to a "fat girl" at the end of one of her sets and said, "Hey, would you like some inspiration? 6 months ago I weighed 267 lbs. Look at me now. I know you can do this. Keep going."

I let you have your moment. I let you have it because I know logically it was not about me but about your excitement over your accomplishments. And I know you meant well. And that first big weight loss is a drug you want to share with everyone. So I let you have it. And I high-fived you, even.

What I won't let you have is the "good day" I had yesterday. You can't take it away by reminding me that to everyone else I probably look like a fat girl who is just starting. Yesterday was mine.

But I swear to god, you douchebag, if you ever approach me again you will receive a lecture on how you don't know where any one is at in their own fucking journey. And how if you want to say something to someone at the gym it should be, "Hey, nice set" or "You're form is great". Or, here's an idea. MIND YOU OWN GOD DAMN BUSINESS!!

Sincerely,

Cassidy
(The girl who will roundhouse a mother fucker the next time he interrupts her workout.)



I wrote this out to vent.  Actually the first draft had many more expletives than even I am comfortable with posting here, but the intent is the same.  Because this really hurt.  More than it should have.  And I realized it was my pride that was hurt.  And it was shame that I felt in his "inspiration".

Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever approached anyone like this at the height of my weight loss. Did I share it with people if it came up in conversation?  Yes.  Did I tell clients who were struggling and feeling like it could never be done? Yes.  But only after it was already a point of conversation.

The fact is I probably do look like someone who just recently started going to the gym.  And, while I can spot someone who really knows how to lift a mile away, not every one can.  So he didn't know who he was talking to and I can't blame him for that.  Though I may still blame him for his passive-aggressive compliment fishing.  That's my right.

I'm a big proponent of the "Mind Your Own Fucking Business" protocol.  I'm pretty sure that if more people would adhere to this it would solve all the major problems in the word - Politics, Religion, Human Rights.  Just Mind Your Own Business.  Please.

But when it comes to our bodies and what we do with them, I guess that's still everyone's business.   We're all sitting ducks for someone else to tell us how we should move, what we should eat or how we should be forcibly inspired.

No thank you.  Just no.  I get to decide how I'm inspired.  No one else.  That is also my right.  You know what inspires me?  People who stand up for what they believe in.  People who take risks in the name of personal growth even though they are scared shitless to do so.  People who know what their passion is and do what they can to chase it.  People who make a difference to someone else.

I don't give a shit what you've done for your body in the name of weight loss alone.  I never have - not even as a trainer.  What I hoped to give to clients then was a sense of control, of strength and empowerment.  I couldn't change their bodies in just one or two sessions a week.  That's impossible - a good trainer knows the real work takes places outside of those sessions. What I hoped to do was help to change what they believed about themselves in that time.  To show them they could do anything because they were already strong enough. I don't know if I ever accomplished that goal but it was what I set out to do.

Another friend mentioned that maybe this experience was my chance to work on being anti-fragile.  I know this is a popular phrase right now but it's not one that I really embrace.  I guess it really depends on what your definition of being fragile is.  Fragility that allows you to be broken and defeated? I don't want any part of that.

There is a huge part of me that is still fragile.  Fragile enough that some unknowingly insensitive jerk could hurt me at the gym yesterday.  But that fragility inside me is the place where I learn the most about myself.  It's where I feel and think it out.  It's where I continue to develop compassion and strive to never make another person ever feel that way because of my actions or words.  And when I am hurt that little bit of fragility eventually heals over to create a new strength I didn't know I had.

Thank you, Mr. Asshat at the Gym.  Today I am stronger.

Tripping Balls

I'm still alive.


Back in January I promised to start writing about sustainable lifestyle changes for health. I had it all worked out in my head - I was going to talk about nutrition first, since so many were focused on that at the start of the New Year.  Then sustainable activity.  And so on.

Then I was slapped in the face with the reality that keeping up with being a mother, wife, business owner, CEO of my own house all while trying to focus on my own health and fitness while maintaining a blog was, well, unsustainable.  Real life sometimes gets in the way.

I have, of course, thought about many other things I wanted to write about since then but how could I go back and write about them when I promised you something else.  So many funny or emotional topics that I've probably forgotten because I was so focused on doing what I said.  But life is not always so linear.  And frankly, shit happens.

When I can't do what I promised I would do or what I expected I would do I start to have a little anxiety.  I feel pressured to fulfill my duties and I start to have guilt over my lack of perfection.  Jesus, this again?

I was re-watching an interview from Brené Brown (Yes, I am obsessed with her) and this quote of hers hit home. "Perfectionism is not about striving for excellence or healthy striving, which I'm for. It's a cognitive behavioral process, a way of thinking and feeling that says this: If I look perfect, do it perfect, work perfect and live perfect I can avoid or minimize shame, blame and judgment."

I've lived my whole life this way and part of the reason for my blog was to work through all the feelings of inadequacy that lead to my shame and guilt and worthiness issues.  So how ridiculous that I can't write when I feel moved to write because it doesn't fit into the perfect plan I had in mind.  Craziness.

I probably will write about sustainability as it's still my go-to motto for life.  But it may not be the next blog.  I may write about a workout or marriage or my socks.  I don't know.  We'll just have to see how I'm feeling and what I need to share.  Perfect is not going to work when it comes to this blog.  Or me.


So for now I am going to share with you something else I wrote back in November for a friend, though she didn't end up using it on her own blog.  I didn't know what I would do with it as it didn't perfectly fit in with my topic of body confidence.  But you know what?  This is my life on a day to day basis.  And every part of my life factors in to my own being.  All of it.  Even the balls.

Enjoy.








This morning my day started with one son sneaking up on the other, butt first, to fart on him while he was pouring his cereal.  What followed was this conversation:

Oldest: Dude!  Why did you just fart on me??!!
Youngest:  Sorry.  It was an accident.
Oldest:  No it wasn't.
Youngest: Yes it was.
Oldest: No it wasn't.
Youngest: Yes it was.
Oldest: Dude. You don't back your butt up to someone and fart on them.
Youngest:  It's just natural.  Farts come out sometimes.  I can't help it.
Oldest:  What - do you have some kind of heat seeking butt that targets people?
Youngest:  Mmmmmaybe.

And so on.

Mind you it was not even 7am yet and I had only had coffee in my hands for about 5 minutes.

This is my life.  Every day. I'm the sole female in a house with 3 other males.  My husband and 2 sons. It is not for the faint of heart.

I knew life would be changed forever the moment I saw that little turtle on the ultrasound but I never imagined how much.  The first time I changed his poopy diaper I was distraught on how to proceed.  After all, men tell us all the time how even a graze to the old testicles can drop them to their knees, right?  So what in the hell am I supposed to do with these wrinkly crap-covered bits?  I delicately tried to wipe everything away when my husband grabbed a new wipe, violently scrubbed and said, "No.  Like this.  You gotta get up in there."

I've been up in there ever since.  Metaphorically speaking.  My entire life is so directed and influenced by these 6 balls that sometimes I truly believe I have grown a pair myself.  Not metaphorically speaking.

Back when I was in high school I used to say that I got along better with guys.  Most of my friends were guys.  Even after college and I got my first real job in a male-dominated field I was content.  Hanging with guys is so much better, I said.  Hardly any drama, I said.  I could do this forever, I said.

And then - Karma.

Hanging out with your guy friends is totally different than living with these people.  Trust.

First, the preoccupation with their genitalia astounds me.  I could not even begin to count the number of times I've had to say, "It's not a handle" in the last 13 years.  Why?  Why are we holding on to it like it's about to run off?  And I'm talking about toddlers here.  I get why they do it later but it's still not a handle.  Let it go.

I remember one morning I was quietly drinking my coffee and spending a little quality time with Matt Lauer while my preschooler sat on the couch next to me.  Out of the blue he struck up a conversation that I'll never forget.

Youngest:  Mom, how come my penis keeps growing?
Me: It's growing?
Youngest:  Yes.  I think it's 12" long by now.
Me:  It's not 12" long.
Youngest:  I think it is, mom.
Me:  No, it's not.  I promise you.  It is not 12"
Youngest: How long is 12"?
Me: It's a foot long.
Youngest: Like a footlong hotdog?
Me: Um. Yes... It's not 12"
Youngest:  It's got to be 5 or 6" by now at least.
Me: No it's not.
Youngest: 3?
Me: You really don't need to worry about how long it is right now.
Youngest: Ok.
-
-
-
Youngest: Can I have waffles for breakfast?



So there you have it.  This is where the delusions of grandeur and the preoccupation with size starts.  At 4.

I endure daily wrestling matches where one of them inevitably receives a blow to the groin.  Sometimes it's even done on purpose.  These children of mine, bless their little hearts, thought they invented a game called "Ball Slap".  They were crushed to find that it was already a game invented by the Romans (or so I told them) called Sack Tap.  (Saccius Tappius.  Google that shit.)

Curiously enough - when one receives a hard enough blow to the balls they get nauseated and completely lose their appetite.  Who knew?  At least now I know why I've never made it to my fucking goal weight.

Unfortunately, after the nausea and subsequent ice packs I had to witness a conversation between all three of my men regarding all the different names for their parts they could come up with.  These are just a few that I can remember:

eggs & sausage
family jewels
twigs & berries
peas & carrots
seeds & stalks
junk
stuff
store
dick
sack
rod
shank
old one eye

Of course these are not new to me, but...How??  How did this become a thing?  Is it a bonding moment for card carrying testes holders?  For the life of me, I'll never understand it.

"Hold still.  I promise I can make the jump.  No, I won't land on your balls."

"Dude - don't even try to say I'm not in puberty.  I've got hair all over my balls."

"Mom, can you come look at this.  There's something wrong with my balls."

The word balls is so much a part of the vernacular in this house that I have very nearly forgotten the name for my own junk.  I live and breathe testicles.  All. Damn. Day.

I have pretty much covered just about every ball related topic that can be covered with these people.  But there is one that I'm leaving up to my old man.

I had to, sans alcohol mind you, begin my conversation about sex education with my oldest son with the sentences, "No, sex is not all about anal fisting.  And here's why."  Some middle school punk decided to inform an entire captive audience on the school bus that sex was anal fisting.  Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I'd hear my son say those words to me.  Christ, I think I was in my 30's before I knew what that was: 

Me:  So, I was two fisting my drinks last night.
Much younger friend: Yeah, you may not want to say it that way.
Me: Why?
Much younger friend: Have you heard of this new website called Urbandictionary?  Try it.

I covered anal fisting. You're covering masturbation, dad.  Peace out, mother fucker. I'm done.



I love my children.  They are my world.  And I've learned so much about boys in the last 13 years.  I've tended more wounds than I could even count.  I've broken up more fights and played with more trains that I grown woman should have to. (Seriously - trains?  What the fuck is that?  They go around once and I'm bored.)  Blood, guts, boogers, farts, spit, dirt.  This is what's included in the deluxe ball package when you purchase it.  Buyer beware.

Oh!  Package!  That's one, too.

We're in full on puberty now.  Aggression. Growth spurts. Testing of boundaries. Talking back. And the fighting.  God, the fighting. I feel like I live in a home where everyone is involved in a pissing match to prove their manliness, myself included.  I'm gonna win this one if it kills me.  And I'll be damned if I don't raise some good men.

This afternoon one of my boys didn't come home from school.  He wasn't on the bus.  Since he's walked home before without telling me I waited him out for quite awhile.  Still no kid.  I started driving around looking for him.  I searched every possible way home from the school.  The longer I couldn't find him the more panicked I got.  What if something happened to him?  What if someone took him?  My baby!

He finally called home and I got the message to pick him up.  Seems the bus was late getting back from the field trip he was on and then every single 7th grader that didn't have a phone was waiting in line to use the school phone so it took him forever for his turn. (Or so he says.  This could have been an ingenious master plan to finally convince me to buy him his first cell phone.)

I cried.  I'm not going to lie.  For almost a half hour I was terrified something had happened to my little man.  The one that thinks he's so grown up.  The one with hair on his balls.

These boys are still my babies.  They are the center of my universe.  It's almost as if I revolve around them, like they were some kind of giant circular orb type thing.  Something spherical.  And tender.  My family jewel.

I live with 6 balls.  It's my life now.  And I've learned so much about the male species from them.  Guys really are the best.  Except when they're not.  And then I have what's called *cue angels singing* Girls Night.  Where not once do we fart on another human being or talk about what we call our girl parts.

Our Kitty.  Our Vajajay.  Our Cooch.  Our Chocha.  Lady Garden.  Bean.  Beav.  Poonani.  Beefcurtain.  Muff.  Cookie.  Snatch.  Hot Pocket.  Princess Ladybits.



Yep.  Our names are better.

Blue Monday

I meant to get a blog done (finally) and have it ready for you before New Years Day.  Then I meant to have it done a few days later.  And then a day after that.  But well, you know, life.  It just happens.  I've had so many topics I have wanted to write bouncing around in my head that I fear they may now be all jumbled together and vomited from my brain in one big pile of wordy crap.  You're welcome in advance.

I'm actually glad I haven't had time to write until just this moment.  This morning as a sipped my coffee, used my five pointless Candy Crush lives and watched the Today show I learned that it was the most depressing day of the year.  Wow.  Why wasn't I told? Blue Monday they call it.  It's supposed to be the third Monday of January but some asshole somewhere must have got the wrong memo and bumped it up a couple of weeks.  I wasn't even prepared.

Well, that's not true.  Where I live our entire state was enduring a freak out of epic proportions I like to call Coldpocalypse 2014.  With windchills at -40 degrees and colder all the schools were shut down by the governor.  You know this was supposed to be the first day back after a two week winter break, right?  I'm done with togetherness and, frankly, so are my boys.  By 10:00am I was threatening these two adolescents with the punishment of organizing my underwear drawer if they didn't get their shit together and stop beating on each other or screaming.  Today was an Ice Blue Monday.

Why the depression in January?  I think there are a lot of reasons for it.  Long, cold days.  Seasonal depression. The relative slowness and inactivity after the craziness of the holidays.  The lack of something to look forward to.  But I think there is more to it than that.

Let's go back to Christmas Day.  I spent the entire day with my family relaxing, opening presents and enjoying our time together (until it was time for me to make dinner and then it was panic time since every year I forget I do not own double ovens).  It was a wonderful day. And much like last year I woke up the next morning in a bit of a funk.  I was feeling like a sorely needed fruits and vegetables and I was exhausted from the last minute play calls I had to make to even pull off the holiday at all.  But thanks to the daily body gratitude challenge I was participating in on my blog's Facebook page I was able to combat those feelings that I normally have about my body, post-holiday, pretty easily.  Unfortunately, my Facebook friends didn't fare so well. 

On Christmas I saw post after post of well wishes, glad tidings, happiness, family togetherness, great food and celebrations and just overall - JOY.  That all changed the very next day.

Every post I saw was along these lines:

"I need to get back on track."

"God, I'm so fat today."

"I can't believe I ate so much."

"The diet starts now."

"Nothing fits today."

"I feel disgusting."

It made me so sad.  The shift from joy to self-loathing was almost tangible.  I've been working so hard on keeping those kinds of thoughts at bay for myself and there they all were in the form of statuses from all my beautiful friends.

And this is the frame of mind that people are in when they make New Year Resolutions?  This is the feeling they are to be inspired to make change from?  I've already tried to explain why real lasting change will NEVER come from a place of non-acceptance.  I promise you - it won't work.  This is why I started the Body Gratitude Challenge in the first place.  It's normal to want a fresh start each year and to have new goals but I truly believe there is merit to entering the new year with love, gratitude and acceptance as your backbone before you initiate change.

Blue Monday 2014 happens to be the first Monday after New Year's Day.  This is the day that many start their resolutions, often fueled by this aforementioned self-loathing.  They're creating lists of all their "can't haves" and "must dos". Or worse, they are already a few days into their resolution and have already decided they have failed.  Depressing, indeed.

I wish only one thing for you in the new year.  If you must make changes in your lifestyle do so not to make yourself less but because you deserve so much more.  You deserve to be healthy.  You deserve to feel strong.  You deserve to make time for yourself.  You deserve to love yourself.

I made a couple of resolutions that have nothing to do with my weight or fitness level and everything to do with how I feel about my body.  While I have a lot of things I want to do and experience and achieve I wanted to name a couple of very quantifiable things that I could work on.  First, I'm going to continue on my path of taking back the power from the camera.  I feel very comfortable at this point with having my picture taken by a professional but it's the "selfies" and candid photos that scare me and have made me absent from my family's memories.  So, I have vowed to take more photos of myself and even post them "out there" in the interwebs.  In fact, I've committed to taking 30 days of selfies and even posting some of them in an effort to make the camera old hat.  I have some Facebook friends who have agreed to join me in this experiment and together I am hoping we can take some of the emotion out of photo avoidance and perfectionism so we can be more present.

I think selfies, as irritating and ridiculous as they can be, resonate with people. I decided to throw caution to the wind and start fulfilling my goal by posting a pic of me, post-workout, no make-up and tons of swass, right on my Facebook page in a post about sustainability.  Imagine my shock when it became the most viewed thing I've ever put on my page. By A LOT.  People want to see real pictures.  They want to see things they can relate to.  After I recovered from my vulnerability overdose I felt a change.  A shift in where I want to go with this blog.  I've struggled recently with my intentions and direction but I've got it now.  All because I posted a picture of myself in my sweaty clothes.

Did you know that the Word of the Year in 2013 was "selfie"?  It's true.  Because, regardless of what you say, you know you love them.  (Or you are lacking in photo buddies to hold the camera.)  Every one needs to selfie once in awhile.

(source)

A friend of mine suggested that rather than coming up with a New Year's Resolution she was going to pick a word or theme for the year.  I have my theme already.

Sustainability

It's not fancy.  It's not bedazzled.  It's not full of "lose 10 pounds in 5 days" or "blast that belly" promises.  Sustainability is real.  It's relatable.  It's bare faced and full of swass.  Sustainability is where it's at.  It's the word for 2014.  I promise.

I know we are already knee deep in resolutions and I wish I could write everything I'm thinking tonight but I can't so I'm going to divide it up.  I'm going to address the topic of sustainable change in relation to self-worth and body confidence over the next few blogs so you can see what I'm working on and what I'm hoping to achieve.  If it helps you, wonderful!  If not, maybe you'll get some duck lips out of the deal.

For now, I want to wish you a very Happy New Year and I'd like to post an oldie but a goodie.  Whatever changes you want to make in 2014 or whatever goals you hope to achieve, make sure they are in line with this Body Pledge I hope you'll take with me.