To Paraphrase

I had a really hard time with Perspective last week.  A really, really tough time.  Despite my effort to retain a healthy positive outlook, I fell victim to other’s perspectives and the collective weight of their significance took it’s toll on my spirit.  To paraphrase; Peeps talkin’ smack totally bummed me out.  

I’m once again discovering that some things in life are not about effort, hard work, will or intention. Surprise surprise, life isn’t fair.  It’s sad to say that my chosen method of sustained learning such novel concepts is by repeating ineffective methodologies and actions until the point of pure exhaustion and self-imposed misery.  To paraphrase;  I like to beat my head against the wall.  

Perspective is a compendium of personal learnings that grows with years of experience, a collection of trial and error, the literal sum of our parts.  Every action and interaction in our lives help develop how we react, internalize, emote and respond to situations.  Cognitive psychology 101.  To paraphrase:  I learned some stuff in 4 decades on the planet.  

Last week was a barrage of many external perspectives pecking away at my psyche.  Rejection, criticism, resentment, spite. Ick. Normally I deal with this in a moderately mature way so that it doesn’t affect me so deeply.  Normally I soak in the information, process, analyze, hypothesize, clean, organize and draw one of two conclusions:  #1;  ‘Huh. Wow.  Okay, that was useful, I’ll learn from that’ or #2;  ‘Pfft, bullshit!’ and move on.  Normally.  But last week, I was convinced I was somehow responsible for all those individual perspectives and I should do everything in my power to bring them more in-line with my own Perspective.  To paraphrase:  I was right and they needed to know they were wrong.  

Ever try to change someone’s perspective?  I’m not talking an over-a-beer-Mac-vs-PC kinda discussion, I mean someone’s hard-wired, entrenched belief; their ‘core’; the pure essence of how they function.  Well, let me save you some time: It can never be changed.  Ever. The pure irony is we humans are conditioned to repeatedly try to convince another to see the world through our own lens.  We all do it!  All the time!   The best you can do with another’s perspective is challenge it, shake it, throw a scrap or two of new information at it’s feet and hope it will nibble and ponder.  To paraphrase:  Even if you’re right, they don’t care.  

So after all my worry, analysis, lost sleep, teeth grinding, frustration, writing, rewriting, reflection and general wasted energy, I came right back to the start, my own brow-beaten, sad lookin’ Perspective.  What my lonely Perspective needed was her buddy Empowerment to point out a new view.  Ah, Empowerment is such an awesome friend; the first to tell you how able you are to take on the world, to succeed, to never take ‘NO’ for an answer!  But Wow! Does Empowerment ever scare easily.  At the first sign of trouble, good ol’ Empowerment started to sweat, and panic and next thing you know it, poor Perspective was thrown right under the bus while Empowerment fled the scene and hid.  

For days Empowerment stayed hidden; not a peep, not a sound, wide-eyed and pensive in the dark I suspect.  It’s most likely she was scared to be found and didn’t want to face the hard work required to back up all the smack she was talking.  But eventually, tired of hiding, hungry and missing companionship, Empowerment was enticed out of hiding with chocolate, a sappy chick flick and copious amounts of wine.  Before I knew it, Empowerment was back on the job, standing right next to Perspective.  To paraphrase:  Feck ‘em.  You can’t keep a good woman down.  

Splish Splash

I recently decided that in order to tackle the stubborn squishy bits that have acquired more real estate on my body, I needed do something about my workout ‘routine’.  I use the “ “ because I’m pretty sure an effective workout routine doesn’t include a cardio portion, a ‘final spin’ portion a ‘sort-the-toys-so-I-can-locate-my-mat’ portion and a ‘Now-I’m-too-damn-tired-to-lift-these-stupid-weights’ portion.  Since The Monkey was born, I’ve been clawing out workout time late at night in a cobbled home gym and, for the most part, winning the battle against the squishy bits.  Then I turned 40.  

So The Monkey and I have a trial membership at the-fresh-out-of-the-wrapper Canada Games Centre (CGC to the cool kids).  The CGC is, Halifax’s newest community facility and our version of the Vancouver Olympic Stadium.  Okay, it’s nothing like that.  But still, a really cool spot.  An AWESOME running track, well appointed fitness room, and the big attraction, two huge pools, complete with scary swirly and steep water slides.  That’s right, wet, splashy fun.

It’s a thrill to be out of my teeny tiny little Mom gym.  For all it’s convenience, I really was treating it like a correspondence course; always distracted with something that needed to be done IMMEDIATELY (like organizing my closet in order of colour or snaking a drain).  I’ve discovered thinking about working out doesn’t give you the desired results as actually working out.  

But one of the greatest perks about Mom’s gym was the dress code, or lack thereof.  I could wear a hat, bandana, old painting shirts, mismatched socks, yoga pants covered in dog slobber, or just a sports bra if I wanted to, damn it. (obviously, there are no mirrors at Mom’s gym). 

You ever have one of those moments where you think you’re so cool and hip, only to be faced with the cold, naked truth?  That’s me at the CGC.  I am not cool. I’m a middle-aged chick who huffs and puffs around the track in unflattering, mis-matched non-Lululemon clothes, with a plume of dog hair trailing behind her.  My face goes fourteen shades of purple from the extreme exertion of dragging my ‘independently flowing’ ass around the track.  But, 'So what!' I say.  I have an iPod, which essentially means I tune out the real world, plug in and instantaneously transform into a tall slender drop dead sexy 25 year old singing sensation performing a duet with John, or David or Ray.  So meh.  I can get over being non-hip.  

But there’s a pool, remember?  A pool. Good god, There.Is.A.Pool.

Let me just state that squishy bits and bikinis don’t belong together.  Ever.  I’m convinced the Oxford Dictionary added ‘Muffin Top‘ after a trip to the CGC pool. But it’s not us  middle-aged women, it’s the tweens and teens!  The next generation really is in a serious health crisis, particularly when very petite young girls have zero muscle tone and an excessive waistband.  Too little material stretched waaaay too far.

After witnessing the parade of eensy-weensies on the pool deck I decided; a) any amount of money spent to join the CGC is money invested in The Monkey’s physical education and b) my ‘mom’ bathing suit was overkill; pretty much the burka of bathing suits.  

So, no more sad tankini; after all, it did have enough room to house my boobs around my waist and shorts about as appealing as two garbage bags strapped to my thighs. So, tenuously, I dug out the slightly more risque bikini top and bottom with cute matching covering surf shorts.  Surely this look would say; “Hey!  I’m 40, a mom and yes, I’m not perfect, but look! I still got a lil’ sumpin going on!”  Age appropriate, but still flirty enough to show I was still cool, still hip.  

I should’ve explained my plan to The Monkey.

A plan is only great if executed well, an ensemble only as good as its collective parts.  Imagine me today sashaying into the pool with the sad ol’ saggy tankini top, NO bikini bottoms and the low rise surf shorts with warn out underwear waistband peeking over the top. Note to self: Don’t let The Monkey pack the gymbag.  

Now if you’ll excuse me, Mom’s gym is calling.