How Much Lotion Does a Woman Need?

Alternatively: Wear the Damn Lipstick

First of all, I’m hoping people see the play of Tolstoy’s “How Much Land Does a Man.

Need?”

I recently discovered the term “de-influencing,” the idea of people encouraging others to live with less. In our materialistic society, this stuck with me. As much as I try not to get bogged down by “stuff,” especially in our tiny house, we are bogged down by stuff. Every few months, I sort through various sections of my house, looking for things we no longer use that I can donate. I love the feeling of dropping off bags of clothes or other various items at our local resale shops and donation centers.

De-influencing struck a chord. I buy things to try them, then refuse to get rid of them because I spent money on them. This is especially true with beauty products. Reels demonstrating the latest eye cream, wrinkle reducer, primer, or hair serum almost always convince me to purchase them eventually, especially if there’s a sale.

Over February break, I looked through the bathroom to inventory my stash. I had six different face lotions and five different eye creams. In the shower, I had four other face scrubs. Why do I need so many? The hoarding didn’t stop in the bathroom. I found a dozen water bottles in the pantry, demonstrating a time capsule of a decade of water bottle trends: Nalgene, Hydroflask, Yeti, and the Stanley Cup. (I am currently using the Owala and cannot oversell it!) We have squeeze-top water bottles that we bring to the gym or practice. We have water bottles designed to fit in the bike holder. I have dresses and skirts that I love but never wear because I’ve grown accustomed to wearing clothing with pockets and don’t want to wear these older pieces and worry all day that I’ve left my phone or my keys in a place where they will be misplaced. I sorted through my giant Caboodle, realizing that pairing down my products allows me to toss my beloved organizer.

While my house looks neat and orderly, we are full of stuff. I noticed this around Lent. So, even though I have not given up anything for Lent in four decades, I decided to give up superfluous spending for forty days just to see if I could. It started challenging- who knew how much your mind could focus on sales? I am a case study in marketing strategies. I unsubscribed from all promotional emails. When I went to CVS for a prescription, I skipped my usual detour up the cosmetics aisle to see if anything was on sale. I do not need to add to it when trying to lessen the abundance of lipsticks and eyeshadows cluttering my bathroom. I also went through my large Caboodle makeup organizer, discarding anything I hadn’t used in a year, even the expensive products I kept saving for a rare night out. I need to realize that, at this stage of life, I have no important events to save a fancy lipstick or perfume for; I just need to wear the four-year-old Urban Decay lipstick I just threw away.

I didn’t realize how much I was a marketer’s dream until I actively tried to reset my brain. One of my favorite old bands rereleased baseball t-shirts from their hit nineties album. I am a sucker for a baseball T-shirt! They were selling the shirts via Amazon, throwing free shipping into the deal! I quickly added a baseball shirt to my cart but caught myself while checking out. Did I need this? How much would I wear it? Was it different from the countless band T-shirts I try to rotate and wear enough to justify keeping?

Much like anything, the more you do it, the more it becomes a habit. I now delete and unsubscribe to marketing emails without opening them. As a result, I’m receiving fewer and fewer emails. On my last trip to Target, I did not spend extra time exploring the endcaps for clearance finds. When relaxing, I played word games on my phone rather than searching Amazon, Target, and other discount sites. It did seem weird not to have packages arrive almost daily, but I quickly adjusted.

This experience taught me that I am not only okay with less “stuff,” but the shift was more than I expected. I consider myself pretty good with money and was shocked by how much mindless spending I was guilty of. I appreciate not digging through my closet or drawers to get the items I love and wear most frequently. I like looking at our living room bookshelf, with fewer books and board games crammed into every space. These few weeks have helped me grow and understand the power “stuff” has over us. I’ve enjoyed the relief from removing items that no longer serve us.

How Our Favorite Musician Convinced Our Son to Aspire to Play Professional Baseball

A few weeks ago, we went to see Stephen Kellogg’s “Stand Up and Sit Down” show, in which he combines stand-up and musical performances. You are missing out if you have never attended a Stephen Kellogg show; his lyrics are profound, and he seems genuinely lovely. Michael put it best when he said, “He seems like someone you would invite to sit around the fire and drink White Claws with you and Dad.” (We are now White Claw people because our middle-aged stomachs no longer tolerate good craft beers.)
That night was our fifth Stephen Kellogg show. We made a night of it, visiting a local brewery for beer and BBQ before the show. When we arrived, we were overjoyed to see chairs; we would not need to stand all night! At the show’s beginning, SK assured us, “I’ll have you back on your couches, watching Netflix and scrolling your phones before you know it.” His shows begin with a montage of clips, one from a TED Talk he delivered years ago describing his desire to pursue music. During the talk, he quoted The Office: “It’s better to be at the bottom of a ladder you want to climb than at the top of a ladder you don’t.” I could see Michael, who referred to SK as the “lovesick guy with a guitar,” sitting up a little straighter and paying attention.

As always, the show was terrific. Mike and I noted that he played a few of our favorite songs, including “Thanksgiving,” harder than usual. On the ride home, we talked to Michael about the show. Michael, who had made fun of SK’s lyrics about love, is coming around. A few things have changed his mind, including an observation a few weeks earlier:
While driving home from Thanksgiving weekend in Maine, we stopped for gas. Two cars were clearly doing the split custody child hand-off in the corner of the parking lot. Michael has friends whose parents are divorced and is familiar with “at my dad’s” or “at my mom’s,” but this was the first time he witnessed the switch in real life. He sat, speechless. “Are you glad you have parents who still go to Smoochville?” I asked, referring to Michael’s teasing when Mike and I kissed. Michael was affected by witnessing this interaction, mentioning it a few times over the next few days.
This brings us back to the latest show we attended. SK talked about success and family at length. I could see Michael absorbing his words. SK’s words about success and following dreams struck a chord with Michael.
We’ve talked to Michael about high school for the past few months. His district offers several career paths. While Michael’s top dream is to replace Bryce Harper on the Phillies, he is also realistically interested in business. He’s currently taking a business elective and is enjoying every aspect of it. He talks about starting his own business or working in marketing or promotion for a company, preferably in a sports-related field.
I am a teacher. In seventh grade, I knew I wanted to spend my days surrounded by words. I (usually) love my job and cannot imagine doing anything else. I am also aware that if I did not marry an engineer, I would not have enough money to pay for the equipment and lessons that allow Michael to follow his aspirations. After twenty years of teaching, I know I make less money than an engineer fresh out of college.
Mike is an engineer. When he was unsure what he wanted to study, he spoke to a family friend, a bachelor who had all sorts of free time and “toys” (a plane, sports car, etc.). Mike decided on a major based on the projected earnings. He doesn’t dislike his job, but he is not always passionate about it.
While we chose our selected careers for different reasons, both offer stability and safety. We know what our days look like, when we will be working, what our days will look like, how much we will earn, etc. We have spreadsheets mapping out our retirement goals. We plan vacations based on visiting new baseball stadiums each summer. We selected fulfilling but safe pathways and are forever in awe of people who, like Stephen Kellogg, pursued his passions.
So here lies the dilemma as a parent: how much do we support an unrealistic dream? Yes, Michael is a talented player. He’s passionate, hardworking, and blessed with a build that supports hitting dingers. He studies stats and players, genuinely appreciating the art of playing baseball. He joined cross country to get faster, hoping he could progress from leading his team in doubles to leading his team in triples and home runs. At thirteen, he is hitting with the exit velocity of a sixteen-year-old. Do we encourage Michael to take the safe route and focus on business? Or do we encourage him to pursue his dream of being a homerun hitter for the Phillies, knowing the odds are not in his favor?
On the ride home from the show and throughout the rest of the evening, Michael continued to digest the words of the “lovesick guy with a guitar.”
“Did you hear what he said about the ladder?”
“Do you think I can play for a D1 school?”
“Do you think I could play for a collegiate team, even for a summer?”

He’s a talented player in a sea of gifted players. And right now, he’s a talented player who will give his all for the chance to make it to the show… while working on a degree in management or marketing. And, yes, Stephen Kellogg does appear to be someone we’d love to invite over to sit around the fire and drink White Claws; he’s also the person who convinced my son not to play it safe. He convinced Michael to pursue his dreams and climb the ladder he wants to climb. While we try to be realistic, we also entertain his conversations regarding selecting a walk-up song. He is completely confident about this, too. (His choice? Butter, by A Tribe Called Quest, a decision that also brings much pride.)

I Dunno. Looks Like She May Have Just Had A Baby

Four days before learning I was pregnant. 164

Besides the loneliness, no byproduct of Covid has been as common as the extra pounds gained during quarantine, the “Covid 19,” as my husband jokingly calls his. I have struggled to find a healthy balance with food and exercise throughout most of my adult life. I’m either counting every calorie and morsel of food or eating like I have just been voted off of the Survivor Island. Through the years, I have kept three benchmarks of weight: my wedding weight (which came from eating no more than 1400 calories daily and taking two fitness classes daily), my pre-pregnancy weight, and, currently, my marathon weight (which came from running twenty-five miles weekly).
In any picture of me in my adult life, I can tell you what I weighed when the picture was taken. I can tell you whether I was in a healthy, unhealthy, or between phase. Why is it that a person who is usually so sensible wastes brain storage on such useless knowledge?

When news came that we would be returning to in-person learning, my first concern was my coworkers seeing me ten pounds heavier than I left them. When I made a move to a new school, one I had taught at years earlier, before I became pregnant, I was terrified of returning to the building twenty-five pounds heavier than I left it. My fears regarding returning to the real world after quarantine and injuries are based on people noticing my weight gain.
I am currently up thirteen pounds from my marathon weight.
I nursed a knee back to health.
Two spots on the bone of my right foot were reshaped.
My Achilles tendon was patched and reconnected.
I spent six weeks on the couch with my foot in a cast, allowing healing to take place.
I survived the physical healing and the mental stress that comes from pain, isolation, and feeling useless.
Yet I return to work worried about seeing coworkers who remembered me a thin(ner).

Presenting to teachers and Facebook executives 172

After six weeks of recovery, I returned to school to meet my students, eager to Get to know them and settle into routines after two school years of upheaval. Very few students asked me about my injury. I overheard two students inquiring about me.
“Why was she out of school?” one asked.
“I dunno. Looks like she might have just had a baby,” pondered the other.
Maybe they’ve just come to assume that every woman out of work for an extended period is on maternity leave. Perhaps they believed that my soft tummy was indicative of someone who had recently given birth instead of someone who had been nursing an injury. Regardless of the assumption, my heart stopped. Joke’s on them; I’m too old to have a baby, but they didn’t know that.

Last weekend- same amount as I weighed at eight months pregnant

Why do we do this to ourselves?
Why do we attach so much of our self-worth to the size of our pants?
Why do I include any current weights in my memories? How does that make memory better or worse?
How do I end the cycle and realize I am so much more than my weight or my pace?

Look at Me Go!

If Banjo could discuss our current relationship

It’s been eight weeks since I had surgery to fix two bone spurs and a torn Achilles tendon. It feels like it was years ago and a blink at the same time. It’s been eight weeks of books, bad TV, and sitting around. Getting injured during a pandemic means more time by myself than I’ve ever spent. It’s reassuring that I can do so but makes me fearful to return to work and real life. Because I’ve always been awkward in social situations and tend to avoid them, the pandemic and the injury were not terrible for me.

Two weeks ago, I was cleared to begin putting weight on my foot. After six weeks on crutches, this was a huge step! While I was afraid of overdoing it and causing more damage, my foot is kind enough to let me know exactly when it is done, almost like flipping a switch.
Eager to get back to normal, I’ve been doing my exercises every day. Since I’ve been fighting this injury for seven months, I’m familiar with which moves increase strength and flexibility. While being unable to run, I focused on yoga, earning my 200-hour yoga certification. Resuming physical therapy is strange and humbling.

My body can do some things as nothing happens but flat out refuses to do something I never considered difficult. For example, I couldn’t step on my tiptoes. After a few days, I could stand on tiptoes using both feet, but my right foot refused to lift independently.

This week, I attempted a twenty-minute yoga session via the Peloton app. Downward dog, considered a resting pose, made my legs burn. It felt good to stretch. Banjo was disappointed that I laid my mat in his prime morning sunbeam, disrupting peak napping.

Through this entire process, Mike has been patient and amazing. He took care of Michael, me, and the house. He took Michael to practice baseball a few times a week, walked Banjo, and took care of every household chore. As I’m starting to get stronger, our exchange has become a mantra, “Look at me go!” followed by “Look at you go!”

I can stumble to the kitchen to get my own Cheerios.
“Look at me go!”
“Look at you go!”
I can get upstairs to bed on my feet instead of crawling.
“Look at me go!”
“Look at you go!”
I can walk around the block.
“Look at me go!”
“Look at you go!”

I have big plans as I continue to recover. They begin small, such as walking Banjo. I’m going to complete the virtual Boston Marathon, even if I had to walk it solo as I did for the NYC Marathon. I contacted Rhode Races to get my comp code for volunteering at the Newport Marathon. I will be signing up for next year’s Narragansett Half-Marathon.

Be prepared for many more cries of, “Look at me go!”

Jingles and Signs

I admitted that these past few weeks have been challenging in terms of emotional well-being. Six weeks sitting on my butt is not helpful to someone who stays busy to keep mind and body from getting bored.

If you’re not following Awesomely Luuvie on social media, you need to stop everything and do so right now. She frequently discusses mental health. Her quote about keeping busy as an avoidance technique resonates with me. She understands why I feel like I cannot just sit, which is what I’ve done for the past six weeks.

I have been trying to keep my mind as occupied as possible, reading books and watching so much television. This week, I had the meltdown that has been brewing. While I’ve been watching mindless movies, The Starling came through after a rom-com finished. I got sucked in, resulting in sobs. Between these sobs, I realized that I had not yet received the sign from my mom I usually get whenever I’m having a rough time. This made me feel even more alone.

When Michael came home from school, he was doing something he never does. He was singing commercial jingles. All afternoon, he sang the jingles to Nestle Crunch and a few other products. When Mike asked him why he was doing it, Michael explained that he “just felt like it.” It hit me that my mom used to do this all the time. She’d often do so in public, which embarrassed me to no end. I called my sister, who agreed, “I can hear her saying ‘you wanted a sign. Here’s your sign, asshole.'”

I went to bed assuming that I had my small, passive-aggressive sign that my mom was not going to make me sit on the couch recovering for eight weeks by myself. The following morning, while scrolling Facebook, I noticed something in the background of a post by a local consignment shop. It was a ceramic Christmas tree like the one my mom had when I was growing up. I’ve looked for one for years, able to find one similar, but not exactly like the one of my youth. I immediately called the story, gushing about how much finding this means to me. The owner listened, explaining that she enjoyed this part of the job, and she would put the tree aside until my husband could pick it up that evening. When I called Mike to tell him, he offered to pick it up at lunch.

Eleven years after losing my mom, it does not get easier. I wonder what her relationship with Michael would be like. When I was pregnant, I called her every afternoon to update what he had been doing in my tummy during the day. When he was an infant, she would be perfectly content staying on the phone listening to Michael drink his bottles. Eleven years later, wondering remains between reminders that she will look out for me when I need her.

Badass Brave Mom (?)

Last month, I had my final wisdom tooth removed. The procedure also included a bone graph and an abutment. During the consultation, the oral surgeon offered me the option of getting knocked out, but I chose to not only remain awake but only to receive Novocaine so I could drive myself back and forth. That afternoon, while trying my best to get through the discomfort, I explained to Mike that doing this made me feel pretty badass.

This part of the quarantine seems more challenging than the original round. Liam has no interest in going for walks. When cases were declining, he was able to play baseball and tennis. His school is trying its best to remain in-person, but positive cases in his class have him quarantining, which removes the routine he needs to thrive.

He’s done with this but trying his best. He’s putting so much pressure on himself to get perfect grades. In trying to wrap my finger around why this is his new obsession, it reminds me of my go-to method of dealing with stress: cleaning. Both are ways of controlling our environment. Despite always telling him that we want him to try his best, he has been putting so much pressure on himself, asking multiple times if we are disappointed if he earns below an “A.” I keep reminding him that his goal for this year is to get through it.

In the meantime, I feel like I am barely treading water. My knee is progressing, but I keep having moments of overdoing it and not doing enough. When I can practice yoga and go for two-mile walks a few times a week, it feels almost fine. Being up five to eight pounds- a result of not running juxtaposed with being on a soft-food diet while my mouth heals- is not helping my knee. After weeks of ten to twelve-hour days, I’ve made myself back away from school and search for a sense of balance between home and work.
The afternoon of my appointment with the oral surgeon, Liam brought me a small Post-It note. AS he handed it to me, he explained, “I know I’m not supposed to say it, but I think you are.”
This is the note he gave me:

When I feel like I’m failing at everything, I think about the fact that Liam believes I’m doing okay. When Liam feels like he is failing, I remind him that our current goal is to get through. I may not feel like a “Bad Ass Brave Mom.” I’ve been up since 2:30 am. I couldn’t tell you the last time that I did my hair. I never made it to the grocery store last week, which led to us eating chicken nuggets, ramen, and cereal more times than I would normally admit. But we finally finished The Good Place, I ran for the first time in ten weeks, and I played catch with Liam every afternoon this week. To Liam, that is pretty badass.