For as spacey as I feel sometimes lately, I have to say, I am pretty darn proud of myself for becoming so resourceful and adaptable as a new mom.
This weekend, while Luis finished his second-to-last semester before he graduates with his MBA this December, Maya and I flew to NJ for a dear friend’s bridal shower.
From her first flight at six weeks, we knew Maya was a good traveler. And even now, she is truly a wonderful little travel companion — sleeping most of the flights and chatting and smiling at everyone on the plane — such a little ham! [Note: I hope it continues as we travel to El Salvador this Friday …]
Anyway … we had an amazing time with my family and when we got to Newark at the ungodly hour of 5 AM yesterday (having been up since 3 AM), Maya needed to be changed.
This comes with the territory of parenthood; no sweat.
It probably comes as little surprise that my favorite “Little Miss” book was “Little Miss Chatterbox” as a kid.
I grew up being called “Mouth” and have a tendency to speak before thinking. As a result, all too often, I’ve put my foot (or left leg) in my mouth.
As you can imagine, I’ve found solace in the blogging community — where I have had free reign to say whatever comes to mind (for the most part).
One could argue blogging is a self-indulgent activity: putting your thoughts and feelings out there for the world to see.
But the truth is, I didn’t begin blogging to cultivate an audience. Rather, in the beginning, I used blogotherapy as a personal outlet — a one-way street (which, I should note, goes against absolutely everything I know today about how successful social media strategies work). Continue reading “The Last Word”→
This past week I had two quasi-uncomfortable situations at the gym. I realized I’m not just a gym rat but perhaps an (unintentional) gym hog, too.
Backing up, the check-in people at the front all know me by name and so do most of the trainers. They see me so often that last spring, the owner actually asked me, while laughing, if I ever skipped a day — that I was “like clockwork.”
I kind of felt pathetic having the owner think I was there too much.
I’ve said before here that I’m a creature of habit, that I flourish in routines, within the boundaries of structure. I used to go at 5:30 a.m. when it opened until this fall and winter, when I took to after-work sessions.
And because I got there among the first (few) pre-dawn exercisers, I had full range of machines. So I always used the same Precor elliptical with arms: the one closest to the cubbies and magazine rack, and strategically close to the water fountain and the paper towel/cleaning dispensers.
Anyway, I didn’t initially pick it for any of those reasons (though it does scream of OCD behavior). The machine was just always available that early in the morning, so it became a habitual thing for me. Continue reading “Gym Rat = Gym “Hog”?!”→
I’m learning through therapy that I struggle with the notion of “delayed gratification.”
As an anxious person, I like things here and now and done yesterday, not tomorrow.
So naturally, given my anxious hardwiring, it’s not always easy for me to, as Dr. G. says, “override immediate gratification” in favor of delayed gratification.
I can do it for some things that focus on the greater good (journaling diligently, exercising, studying, etc) but not for everything (my less-than-stellar spending habits).
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a compulsive person. For me it’s never been about drugs or alcohol or gambling or promiscuity or anything that could do me bodily harm, but I am compulsive in my thoughts. Food and shopping tend to be two ways my compulsion manifests itself. (Talking incessantly (or thinking) is another).
A recent conversation with a loved one has me pondering if perhaps I’ve become immune to what I’m experiencing … as in, maybe because I’m living it, I don’t see glimpses into just how obsessive I still am? And that perhaps blogging is only adding to my OCD relationship with food and exercise?
Some days I think this is truly helping me. I can sift through my thoughts and share my opinions here; it’s a “safe place” because I write and you read and then we create a dialogue.
But then someone says something that makes me second guess myself. Like a friend, or a loved one — voicing concern that maybe blogging is just another mechanism for my obsessivness: instead of talking about food and exercise … I’m writing about it.