Wonderful, Wonderful.

I'm not saying I've ever familiarized myself with mind-altering substances (though I've heard some things through friends...), but I have to say, if I were ever to use the word "high" as an adjective, I would thoroughly and liberally apply it to The Lawrence Welk Show.

I survived my entire childhood without experiencing it, but, in my adult life, thanks to my husband, I have now been bathed in its batshitness.

Tonight, we made homemade pizza, and, as with most kitchen collaborations, a proper serenade is in order. Some nights it's Mexicana or  Reggae or Singers & Swing on digital radio; others, as it was this evening, it's Lawrence Welk that entertains us while we promenade between counter, stovetop, and sink. Hmmm...

 

If you decide to tune in, it's on PBS, Saturday nights at 7:00. But, set a timer. You will get hoovered in, and as you marvel at the what the hell? that this is, make sure you don't burn your dinner.

Over the Moon.

I was born of a music-loving family and my parents both came from homes that had a piano as their living room centerpiece. So ours did, too.

When I was really young, I remember my dad sitting down on the bench nearly every night and playing some really raucous boogie woogie. (I mentioned this to him awhile back and he doesn't remember it at all. Which makes me question it. Except I can see him now as if it were yesterday: pounding the keys, lifting out of his seat, spanning from low to high, his hands spastically jumping off the keys. If this isn't a real memory, then what the hell?)

My sister took it up and played beautifully for many years, and even played marimba in our high school's jazz band as a graduation of her skills. I played for a while, too, but lacked the interest or discipline, especially when our living room's picture window invited my attention to the outside world—one that didn't ask me to follow the measures, staffs, and bar lines. Or the dreaded metronome.

While I didn't appreciate the art as an occupation for myself, I was greatly influenced by it in an ancillary way—and, today, I  occasionally surprise friends and acquaintances with my spot-on knowledge of the classics.

Tonight, while watching Jeopardy! (a particularly nerdy thing to do, especially on a Friday night), the entire neighborhood probably heard me shouting: Clair de Lune! Clair de Lune!! Seriously, it's Clair de Lune!!!!! at the Final Jeopardy answerers. And I was right.

Food for Thought.

For practical and cautious reasons, I don't generally talk about my work in this space. I'm making an exception tonight, but since what I'm writing about is both benign and also only loosely tied to my 8-5, I think it will be OK.

As a copywriter, I'm not expected to do much more than write, write, and write some more. All day. Brilliantly, preferred. But a couple of years ago I volunteered to take on the additional responsibility of being the ambassador of health and wellness at my company.

I raised my hand because, having gone through my own healthy transformation, I felt suited to help others reach their goals and also knew that my own success would help prove that change is possible. And the fact that I have managed to stay pretty fit over this time without any unfortunate ricocheting, I'd say I'm still qualified.

As leader of the three-person Bod Squad (yes, I named us), my responsibility is to head up all of our fitness and wellness-related activities, and also provide resources, support, and creative ideas for healthy living. And set an example, which means I occasionally have to pig out in private.

Here I am, demonstrating how to strengthen your core at your desk:

I make it look easy, don't I?

(Incidentally, the benefit of this appointment, in addition to dissuading me from getting fat, is that I know and talk to almost everyone in the company, every day. It makes me feel like a celebrity, which, as you can imagine, I eat up like a hot fudge brownie sundae.)
 
Today, as part of my ongoing efforts, I circulated this infographic from the ever-educating LearnStuff.



You're welcome.

P.S. I just realized that I wrote tonight much like I write for my job. There's a different tone to it than my personal writing, and here it is: that tone. Huh. I guess that's what I get for talking about work.

Subliminal Subterfuge.

Do you ever have those moments when you outperform even your best expectations? To date, you've done "it" (whatever your it is) better than you ever have before. Your fans are throwing roses at you, your agent is fantasizing about making it big, and you are thinking, "Oh, shit. What if I never do this "it" this wonderfully again?"

Am I alone in this feeling? When high praise equals high anxiety? What is it that transforms a great achievement into an altar to apprehension, insecurity, obstruction?

I think in these moments we are worshiping the result, rather than the process.

What do you think?

There's No Fecundity in My Profundity.

Tonight I really wanted to continue my thought arc on the idea of dressing and acting appropriately for my age, what that actually means, and to what degree the opinions and perceptions of other people matter on these matters (heh).

But I am still feeling the effects of the night I spent in Crazytown (population: 2, my parents) where sleep is frowned upon by the residents, evidenced by late night snarling at the moon and early morning crowing at the twinkling of twilight. Had the sandman tried to enter, I'm sure he was frightened off. 

This, combined with a day at work that followed a day not at work while everyone else was, has left me mentally overdrawn. Fees have already begun accumulating in the debit column.

On that note, I bought these fabulous boots while drunk on sleeplessness. They are dreamy, no?

No snakes were harmed in the making of these boots, by the way.
And no dust bunnies were disturbed by the taking of this shot, either.

I've Got a Feeling I Just Can't Shake.

When I first started belly dancing, I just did it for fun. After almost three years, and getting to a point of being not bad, I've become more serious about it. Kind of. I am methodically proficient, but I lack the grace and emotional freedom to get there. Though I believe that with more time, I may.

I discussed this with my instructor once, and she told me that she could see that I wouldn't let go. That she knows that I feel a little silly and that is a big part of my restriction. She is right.

That, and my subconscious is constantly pointing to the clock hands, showing me that there is little time left before I am: TRAGIC.

At 43, I think a lot about this window I have: open, but for a few more inches. The waft of air that drifts between youth and age. Subtle during these years, but more turbulent and frame-rattling as they pass. In other words, I don't want to be that 50-year-old wearing a plaid mini-skirt, over-the-knees, and pigtails who asks, "What?"

So, last night, at the Bellydance Superstars show, I was seated next to a few middle-aged-plus-ten women whom I recognized from chatting around the tables where all the commerce was happening. We talked during intermission and I learned that they are from Battle Creek and that the three of them have their own dance troupe. (Aside: I love that almost every major city in Michigan has a belly dance studio. Or two.) I sized them up, not in an unkind, judgmental way, but in one that took note of everything I feared. And I paused.

I was on pause until dinner tonight when I relayed all of this to Ben. I asked, "Do yo think they are in denial, or they are liberated?" And he said, "If they feel liberated, then they are. And nothing anyone thinks about them can change that."   

Oh.

Thanks, baby.

:)

   

Visions of Pink Wallpaper.

I'm in my sister's childhood bedroom right now (mine was converted to an office about six months after I went to college), sleeping overnight at my parents' after seeing the Bellydance Superstars show in Detroit. (It was awesome.)

Staying here made the most sense from a practical standpoint, but truly at the cost of my sanity. I actually drove around the neighborhood for about 15 minutes before resigning to the inevitable and pulling in the driveway. :sigh:

I love my parents, but man are they a pair.

Goodnight, friends.