Please hold your laughter...the Dickman and I have just completed our second week of P90X. And I'll just be honest...it sucks. But by golly, I'm BRINGING IT!
Why - might you ask - would I put this 53-year-old-pathetically-out-of-shape body through one of the most rigorous workouts known to man? The answer is as simple and old as time: I coveted. Yep, I've never wanted anything more than I wanted the ripped abs our friends Dewey and Susan began sporting after they completed the 90 days of torture. And now I'm paying for my sin. For the past 14 days the only three places on my body that have not caused me to scream in pain are my chin and my ears. Obviously this training program was designed for FIT bodies, and not for someone that has been known to pull a muscle just by waking up. At this point, my only goal by the end of these wretched 90 days is to be able to do ONE pull up. Just one. Which I have not been able to do since 8th grade PE class with Ms. Padgett. But I, along with the Dickman (who actually does ALL the exercises) am BRINGING IT!
In the spirit of full committment, I feel it's only fair that I should post 'before and after' photos of this endeavor. And I will. Just as soon as I get toned up enough to take a decent 'before' shot. Until then, I offer up this short video of the demon Tony Horton, the creator and fitness trainer of the accursed P90X. Tony is not my friend. Beyond the painful contortions and endless exercise instructions he barks at me from the comfort of my very own living room, he is cheesy and annoying. Even so, I. AM. BRINGING. IT. For now.
January 21, 2011
January 20, 2011
BEING FLODiE, BEING MiMi
Almost every week my job as a traveling physical therapist takes me to the small Texas Panhandle town of Memphis. Somehow, my car never fails to turn onto the street made of bricks and drive slowly past the house where my grandmother (who I named Flodie) once lived. I stare hard at the front door and vainly try to bring forth my Jedi mind powers. I mentally will Flodie to step across the threshold and onto the porch. I know it's a lot to ask, but I never quit hoping she will somehow find a way to transport back to earth and step directly into my line of vision. She wouldn't have to say anything...wouldn't even have to know I was near. I could be happy just to sit quietly in my car and watch as she stooped over to water the big clay pot filled with brightly colored geraniums. I would drink in the beauty of her hands as she gracefully held the faded green watering can...glory in the strength of her face as she raised her soft grey eyes to search the horizon for storm clouds. And my heart would sing in remembrance of all the expressions and gestures that made Flodie so special...memories that have blurred and faded with the passage of time. I would look at her now through different eyes, as I have somehow become a grandmother (MiMi), too. I would look at her with eyes that understand more fully the perfect love we shared. And I would whisper on the wind my hope...that Being Flodie settled into her soul and filled her heart to overflowing...just as much as it does Being MiMi. My Daddy...The Visiting Angel
It has been more than a dozen years since my Daddy died. In a sense, it seems like he’s been gone forever; yet, I’ve never really felt that he was very far away. Probably because he comes to visit us from time to time…
He came to see me first, just a few weeks after his funeral. It was in the early hours of the morning, during that sacred time where you subconsciously cling to those last precious moments of sleep, trying to ignore the inevitability of waking up. I was putting up a good fight for more sleep, when I felt my Daddy kiss me ‘good-morning’. I opened my eyes, fully expecting to see his sweet smiling face…and was shockingly disappointed that he wasn’t still there. I couldn’t wait to hop out of bed and call Mom, who turned out to be more than just mildly pissed he hadn’t come to see her first.
A few months later Daddy redeemed himself. Mom had a vivid dream that he came into her bedroom, woke her up…and they danced. They danced and danced and danced all through the night. The next morning when her alarm sounded, she immediately remembered the dream and was filled with a renewed sense of loss…until she looked over at my Daddy’s side of the bed and saw an indention on his pillow,where a weary angel might’ve laid his head after a night of dancing with his bride.
Just three short years after Daddy’s death, my Mom’s 92 year old Mother found her way to heaven. At the small, intimate memorial service, my son and nephews began to sing Amazing Grace in beautiful harmony. Nobody else was singing…until Mom joined in with her strong, sweet alto. After the services I told Mom how it melted my heart to hear her voice blending with her grandsons. She said, “I wasn’t the only one singing. I heard that big bass voice in my ear, and it made me want to sing, too.” My brother and my Daddy are the owners of the big bass voices in our family. My brother had sat quietly beside Mom during the services…and never sang a note. I was sitting directly behind her…and never heard the big bass voice. We all knew for certain that Daddy’s voice was the one that inspired Mom to sing that day.
Two years later, I was in my bedroom getting ready for my son’s wedding. All of a sudden, one of my music boxes (which hadn’t been touched in months) began spontaneously playing. That particular music box had been the last Valentine gift my Dad had given me…a ceramic robin feeding her nest of baby birds. I looked in his direction, and hoped he caught my smile.
That was eight years ago. And there have been many times during these past eight years that I could've used a visit from my Daddy...or even would have begrudgingly forfeited one of my visits to Mom, who misses him more every day.
Just before Christmas, I stopped by to see Mom and to return her journal. She had given it to me so I could copy some of her writings for a special family Christmas gift. I had woken up at 3:00 that morning and unable to return to sleep, had spent an hour or so typing from her journal, surrounding myself with her words, my heart filled to aching with sentiment. Before I had barely walked through her door she announced, “Your Daddy came to see me last night! I was in a room arguing with a smoking preacher (?) and Paul just walked right up to me, pulled me into his arms and hugged me like I’ve never been hugged. He just held onto me forever, and never said a word.” Her eyes misted over (mine had already spilled over) and she said, “It was so real…I can remember exactly how his thick, leathery neck felt under my hands…I can remember how safe I felt pressed against his chest…and I remember telling him, ‘Everybody needs a man that can hug like you'."
I sure do miss that big hairy angel. Hope he visits again, soon.
He came to see me first, just a few weeks after his funeral. It was in the early hours of the morning, during that sacred time where you subconsciously cling to those last precious moments of sleep, trying to ignore the inevitability of waking up. I was putting up a good fight for more sleep, when I felt my Daddy kiss me ‘good-morning’. I opened my eyes, fully expecting to see his sweet smiling face…and was shockingly disappointed that he wasn’t still there. I couldn’t wait to hop out of bed and call Mom, who turned out to be more than just mildly pissed he hadn’t come to see her first.
A few months later Daddy redeemed himself. Mom had a vivid dream that he came into her bedroom, woke her up…and they danced. They danced and danced and danced all through the night. The next morning when her alarm sounded, she immediately remembered the dream and was filled with a renewed sense of loss…until she looked over at my Daddy’s side of the bed and saw an indention on his pillow,where a weary angel might’ve laid his head after a night of dancing with his bride.
Just three short years after Daddy’s death, my Mom’s 92 year old Mother found her way to heaven. At the small, intimate memorial service, my son and nephews began to sing Amazing Grace in beautiful harmony. Nobody else was singing…until Mom joined in with her strong, sweet alto. After the services I told Mom how it melted my heart to hear her voice blending with her grandsons. She said, “I wasn’t the only one singing. I heard that big bass voice in my ear, and it made me want to sing, too.” My brother and my Daddy are the owners of the big bass voices in our family. My brother had sat quietly beside Mom during the services…and never sang a note. I was sitting directly behind her…and never heard the big bass voice. We all knew for certain that Daddy’s voice was the one that inspired Mom to sing that day.
Two years later, I was in my bedroom getting ready for my son’s wedding. All of a sudden, one of my music boxes (which hadn’t been touched in months) began spontaneously playing. That particular music box had been the last Valentine gift my Dad had given me…a ceramic robin feeding her nest of baby birds. I looked in his direction, and hoped he caught my smile.
That was eight years ago. And there have been many times during these past eight years that I could've used a visit from my Daddy...or even would have begrudgingly forfeited one of my visits to Mom, who misses him more every day.
Just before Christmas, I stopped by to see Mom and to return her journal. She had given it to me so I could copy some of her writings for a special family Christmas gift. I had woken up at 3:00 that morning and unable to return to sleep, had spent an hour or so typing from her journal, surrounding myself with her words, my heart filled to aching with sentiment. Before I had barely walked through her door she announced, “Your Daddy came to see me last night! I was in a room arguing with a smoking preacher (?) and Paul just walked right up to me, pulled me into his arms and hugged me like I’ve never been hugged. He just held onto me forever, and never said a word.” Her eyes misted over (mine had already spilled over) and she said, “It was so real…I can remember exactly how his thick, leathery neck felt under my hands…I can remember how safe I felt pressed against his chest…and I remember telling him, ‘Everybody needs a man that can hug like you'."
I sure do miss that big hairy angel. Hope he visits again, soon.
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