I’ve been trying to lose a few pounds since Christmas. Who hasn’t? (If you haven’t because you don’t care, that’s great. If you haven’t because you have a killer metabolism and supermodel genes, we don’t want to hear from you. We love you but we just can’t. You understand.)
So I’ve been on the Christmas/Valentine’s Day/March Madness merry-go round these last few months, gaining and losing like the stock market in ‘29. (And March Madness doesn’t mean I’m eating while watching basketball; it means that it’s March and I’m mad. Because I was supposed to be a willowy waif by March and–spoiler alert–I’m not.) But I decided that just because I marched in like a (chubby) lion doesn’t mean I can’t march out like a lean and leggy lamb.
And so I made my resolution for April: lesser portions, less mindless munching and above all, less sugar.
Actually, less sugar is for wimps. Nobody’s doing less sugar these days; it’s all or nothing. So let’s say no sugar. No sugar for April. Because it’s 2018 and we have Whole30 and Paleo and Oprah whowon’tgoaway and everyone and their skinny dog knows by now that sugar is the Devil. (They should just start putting a pitchfork and horns on each bag sold in stores since we aren’t all terrified enough.) Read more
Last Monday, my son and I drove to the high school to watch my daughter’s first tennis match of the season. She played well and I let her know it; not with any big fanfare, just the occasional “Good hit Meg!” across the quiet court. Tennis fans don’t cheer or whistle, see, they watch–so I was extra careful not to let my enthusiasm get the better of me. From my perch behind the chain-link fence, I voiced just enough encouragement to let her know that I was there and I was proud of her. Truth be told, I was proud of myself. (Restraint doesn’t come natch to me.) Afterward I ran over and hugged her, telling her I couldn’t wait to watch her next match. She smiled without saying anything and asked if she could drive home with her friends. Of course she could! My little champion. A few days later, she came home late from practice and I asked her where she’d been. Head buried in fridge, her voice came out muddled. “Oh, I had a match, I forgot to tell you.” “What? What do you mean you forgot to tell me?” She emerged with a yogurt and looked just past my left shoulder, like she was talking to somebody else. “Yeah…sorry…I…” Read more
So by now you’ve probably hear of Jordan Peterson, author of 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos. He is all over social media and the news outlets and is surprisingly controversial. (I think it’s because he says men and women are different. I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised.) Always a half-step behind, I heard of him just a few weeks ago when my husband sent me a podcast of Peterson discussing his new book. I listened to the podcast and began the book that same day. I started reading and couldn’t stop. I ignored my house, my kids, and my prayers while I gulped down these ideas like the breath of fresh air they are. (Just kidding on the prayers except that no I’m not.)
What is this book about? Um, everything. The title is literal; it’s about how to better live your life or, as Peterson puts it, how to achieve a better state of Being. (“Being” being an active, conscious awareness of yourself and those around you. It’s not as psychobabble as it sounds, promise.) I hesitate to call this a “self-help” book because it transcends that cringe-worthy category, but truthfully, it kind of is. It really is. As in, it really helped me understand some important things about myself–and others–in a new, compelling way. For example: