More Than

It feels like such a small life. This one I’m living.

I want my impact to be bigger. I want to be Ellen. I want to be known by one name and have the power to change people’s lives. I wanna write people huge checks and promote their goodness, launch their businesses, know I’m making a difference.

But me? I can’t do that. I can only do those things on a microscopic basis. I mean, realistically, I’m barely making enough money to support me right now so my contributions to anyone else are insignificant. Launch someone's business? Ha! Every endorsement I make causes no more ripple than a pebble in the ocean. And though I’ve helped many start-ups over the years, by the nature of my work and the nature of human beings, it’s almost guaranteed my contribution won’t be remembered. At most, upon my death, I’ll be mourned by a handful of people and I won’t have made a significant contribution to any one of their lives.

Or
not...

We do this, you know. We decide certain people are important and others are not. It’s a status thing. We have a pseudo caste system here. Our celebrities – I just mentioned Ellen – well, they are certainly ‘more than.’ The same goes for our professional or Olympic athletes. Anyone who has amassed wealth, even by inheritance, is so much more important than the rest of us. We listen to them. What they have to say is somehow relevant and important. We pay attention. We buy magazines to keep up with them and watch shows about them. We follow their social feeds and try their You Tube tutorials.

But when we, in our relatively tiny lives, have a moment of greatness - say, a graduation or a significant anniversary or a wedding toast –  and we walk up to the mic and give our thanks... well, do we say “Kim Kardashian really paved the way for me?" Isn’t it (outside of the obligatory and trite dropping of peace-leaders' names. Ghandi is always good for that, or MLK Jr., or Mandela if you are particularly worldly) - isn’t it always “my 5^th grade teacher” or “my grandmother” or “my little league coach” that we give credit to? If it ever is someone of a certain level - a ‘more than’ - isn’t it only when they’ve stepped out of their lane and taken the time to be present?

Maybe we don’t really need an "Ellen" so much. Maybe we need "us" much more. If I got the chance to stand on that podium, I’d thank God for every forgotten person in my life that are not actually forgotten, but might think they are. If I were receiving an award for philanthropy maybe, or a Pulitzer, or perhaps for just spending 50+ years on this planet without burning the whole thing down, I’d thank so many people. I’d thank the waiter in Caneel Bay when I was on my honeymoon at 19 years old who made me feel grown and smart and crazy savvy at choosing really good wines despite my age. I’d thank the garbage collector, Ray, who always slowed down to wave at baby Dia and made her Mondays the best day of the week. I’d thank the nurses who have always been the best of my healthcare who took time and listened. I’d thank the friends that have served as teachers or cautionary tales or insightful gurus. I’d thank the gardeners and the highway workers, the truckers and the cashiers, the aerobics instructors and soccer coaches, the babysitters and dog groomers. I'd tell my physical therapist that he made all the difference and is the reason I run. I'd thank every volunteer that ever gave up a day of their lives simply because they have kindness in their hearts. These people aren’t living little lives. Without them, where would we all be?  

I’m lucky enough to be reminded regularly of how much an often thankless job can mean to us. I thank God every single week for Juana and Maria who make me feel so loved and cared for. Every night after they’ve cleaned my home, I climb into fresh, clean sheets feeling beyond grateful and content. I'm cocooned in happiness. It’s a comfort I wouldn’t have without them and it may seem silly and perhaps frivolous, but for a person with my past – with my particular trials and tribulations –this is a kind of heaven. This is not something I take for granted.  

So as I think about the many people that make my life ‘more than,’ and despite how much I love Ellen and her grand gestures, I now feel blessed in realizing that I have been lifted up by so many walking angels. I have been given gifts far more than any celebrity could ever furnish. And while I may be a forgotten person too and may never have an opportunity to give the people in my life the magnificent gifts they deserve, somewhere someone is remembering me and is grateful too. 

And that makes all the difference.

The Gallery of My Life

I walk through this gallery of my life. My hand reaches out. My fingers tenderly glance over each photo, each memory. I’m here to reflect on the joy in my life – this was my assignment. “Go into your mind’s eye and take stock of your greatest moments of joy. Whatever they may be.”

I see the first time I held Dia. A girl! A girl! I couldn’t believe it, nor could I reconcile why that fact made me so happy, but here she was. And she was perfect and she was whole and so was my love for her.

I see the night before she was born when Tim, speaking for a stuffed moose as if it were a puppet, had Cheyanne and I in stitches with laughter so uncontrollable that I'm quite sure it was what brought on my labor.

Oh - and there's a good one! A similar night – the formal night on our Alaskan cruise - where Tim commandeered a plush chicken and a towel that was craft-fully folded into a frog. With his quick wit and tremendous silliness, he rendered us all useless and in need of a new coat of mascara before we could proceed to our fancy dinner.

I laugh out loud as I see the day Cheyanne brought the first real belly laugh out of Dia. Dancing and singing "Ain't No Other Man" like a crazed lunatic while Dia, just 3 months old, laughed louder and longer until we were afraid she’d start crying or lose her breath.

I see the night in New Orleans when Cheyanne came back to the hotel room with a Huge Ass Beer she'd purchased on Bourbon Street and, without hesitation, the photo op shenanigans ensued. 

There is the time in the Chimney Rock house with its ridiculously large kitchen. Tim, Chey and three ridiculously large stuffed animals and I had a dance party to "Upside Down (Boy You Turn Me)," dancing and spinning the animals upside down and back again and managed - somehow - to make it through the entire song on our feet despite the giggles that weakened our knees and tendered our bellies.

And as if I'm watching a video play, I can see me dancing with an infant Tim in the living room of my first house. I can see the smile in my heart and can feel the start of the deep crinkles that would impress the corners of my eyes from that moment on.

I see one of the moments those wrinkles deepened. Peeking down from my pile of homework, I see a wee Cheyanne sitting at my feet, cheerfully drawing circles around the three holes in my binder papers and delicately singing "bop, bop, bop" with each circle. 

Oh and there's the time I took her to school with me! Sitting carefully in the back row so as not to disturb the other students with my child, she busted out in innocent childhood laughter as my social psychology prof displayed a film of kangaroos fighting. The entire class went silent and then, almost in unison, began to laugh along with her. The prof's only comment as he laughed along: "That was the correct response to what we just witnessed. The rest of you are far too serious." 

The gallery continues through parties and Thanksgivings, through every single Christmas we've ever had, through Must See TV nights and Fridays out to dinner. There are Momma days and Hotel Nights. There is the day at the Dunes and a hundred more at the beach. There is the fireworks display where the cardboard from the blown rockets rained down on us and the Fourth of July where Tim, as a toddler, exclaimed "Ooooo! A gween one! Oooooo! Another gween one!" (and I have never viewed fireworks the same since). The walls are covered with photos of picnics and Easter egg hunts, roller coasters and theme park rides and the crown moulding is a ticker tape of shared inside jokes and obscure lines from movies.

It is a wonderful display - all these memories - and it's difficult to pry myself away. Tearfully, with a bittersweet tap, I place a tender kiss on each one before I return to the world outside.

As I exit my gallery, I begin to assess. I can easily think of a million times I've smiled, been proud, loved or was loved. I think of my friends and all the people who have been angels on earth to me. I look back on a life of incredible luck and beautiful souls who have crossed my path at the exact right moments. I love so many and am grateful for even more. When I started out meandering through my gallery, I thought I'd see the time I actually scored a goal in soccer. I thought I'd see the moment I finally got that title that deemed me legitimate in my career. I thought I'd see the sweet words or a tender moment with a lover. I thought I'd see one of the baseball games or concerts that I've attended. I thought I'd see me independent of anyone else. Instead, all the pictures had my children in them because that was the assignment. I was to view my greatest joys. After all - in my life - there has been no greater.

I don't know why I'm compelled to share this. I have no sweeping conclusion or lesson to share. I guess I just wanted to thank God and make it public. I know I am so blessed. I love to laugh more than anything else and these three have kept that a constant in my life. So ... thank you.

"I can't say what I might believe, but if God made you he's in love with me." 

Five for Fighting

30 Minutes of Wonderful

"Steel Magnolias." One of my favorites. It's been my treasure box of quotes, quips and memories since the first time I saw it. It's one of two films that I can't turn off if it's airing. I had seen it probably 20 or more times by 2006.

And then Dia was born. And I couldn't watch it again.

At first all was well. But as Dia's fevers kept recurring and her blood sugar bounced around and we knew something was wrong but had no idea what, it started getting too real. The movie, I mean. Life was getting too real too, but I'm a genius at adopting a false sense of security, so in between bouts - when she seemed so healthy and normal - I could convince myself it was as it appeared on the outside. Carry on, carry on. But don't watch dramas, don't listen to sad songs... just keep it cheery and carry on.

But the fevers didn't stop. The pain didn't stop. The weight loss or at least the absence of growth didn't stop. The dark circles under her eyes didn't stop. Every 28 days like clockwork - plus the occasional just-for-fun flares triggered by too much activity, stress or fatigue - it didn't stop.

Finally we got a diagnosis. The good news was there was a treatment. It wouldn't cure her, but it would prevent the flare ups. It took years before we finally seemed to have the dosage high enough to keep the bouts at a minimum. During that time we saw so many specialists, she had so many tests, she went through so much pain, lost and gained back so much weight, spent months of her life in bed and still we would carry on.

Well meaning friends would comment on how well she looked. They'd see how she'd grown or how healthy her complexion was. They'd comment on how happy a child she is - how tremendous - how unique. I treasured those comments and I stored them in my heart for hope and to feed that glorious sense of security. All would be well. Forever.

But you know how, in the movie, Shelby is fine most of the time? And how, in the movie, she doesn't pass until she's fully grown, married and with a child of her own? And how, the fact that she got all the way to adulthood means little to M'lynn because she still suffered the loss of her child? And how M'lynn knew all along that Shelby had to be careful; she was different; there were limits to what she could do?

Yeah. A mom of a child with a long-term prognosis of a potential early departure from this life is a tough role to play. I struggle with it much more than it looks on the outside. Much more than I even give myself credit for. And I haven't found the playbook for how to handle it yet and, if I did, I wouldn't read it. It would make it too real.

Not too long ago, though, I finally mustered the courage to watch the movie again - this time with Dia. And though I sobbed much more violently than ever before, I heard a message spoken by Shelby but delivered, somehow, through Dia: "I would rather have 30 minutes of wonderful, than a lifetime of nothing special."

I realized, whether subconsciously or intentionally, I am doing exactly that for her. I'm giving her 30 minutes of wonderful in every instance I can. I throw crazy parties transforming my living room into Mount Olympus or a fairyland or Tatooine or a comic strip - not to impress the guests, but to give my imaginative girl her vision of the world for a day. We travel. I've hopped the pond more times in the last 4 years than I have in my entire life. I spend money on ridiculously elaborate backyard tree house-decks and Michelin rated restaurants and over-sized stuffed animals while I drive around in a 13 year old car, forego mani/pedis and wear clothes that are so outdated they are verging on 'vintage.'

More importantly, though, I give her time now. My time, I mean. It took a few years of having none of it to give her - of trying to drive my career, of thinking (erroneously) that my title and a good salary was my version of wonderful - to realize that I was missing the very thing I was trying to save. Thankfully, a beach house and a wonderful man and the support of my little family got me back to the place I belonged and since August, 2018 I've been right here.

Now I never miss a Super Monday or a Hotel Night or a Momma Day - these silly traditions that Dia invented where we watch Super Girl, or cuddle together on my bed with 'room service' and pretend we're traveling, or spend the day - just the two of us - at the beach, or shopping, or at the movies. I never miss a performance; I can be called to hear what she just learned at school and I can give - and get - all the hours of wonderful that this life inherently provides.

It's still scary to be a M'lynn, though. I'm not gonna lie. But it's not bad, I suppose, to cherish every day. I'm going to give her every 30 minutes of wonderful this life can offer her so that when that day comes... if that day comes ... when her body gives out, we can remember and rest in knowing that this life of hers was made up of 30 minutes of wonderful every single day.

One Errant Comment

Dia didn't want to go to her theater practice tonight. She gave all kinds of excuses: 1) she was getting picked up early anyway; or 2) she just didn't see the point; or 3) it was "just" school theater...

I made her go, but she was sullen and angry at me.

Then she didn't want to submit her audition tapes for two potential parts in an upcoming TV series. She was overwhelmed at the idea of memorizing all the lines. She was overwhelmed at the amount of time these parts could potentially take. She was overwhelmed at how much they could change her life. She was convinced she wouldn't get the parts anyway, so why bother.

And this isn't like her at all.

She could do this stuff in her sleep. She lives to act. She lights up more on a set or up on stage than anywhere else in her world. Her dream is to be an award-winning screenwriter and director and maybe act on the side. Plus, I've never seen my child so driven as I have when she's on set. She's focused, she's interested, she pushes through everything and anything. For God's sake -- one (very) early morning, as we were driving to set a few years ago, she got sick in the car and in between wretches she insisted that we keep going. She collected herself in the Studio parking lot (thank God I'd brought a change of clothes for her) and then, running to get to set on time, she fell in"New York City" on the sidewalk that was still under construction. She tore open her knee but picked herself up explaining that she could not be late and kept on heading for her location. The cheers of the set builders trailed after her: "Way to go!" "That girl's gonna be a star!"

So why, all of a sudden, does she feel so gloomy about it?

I had to find out, so I poked the bear. Sometimes getting your kid super mad at you is a good thing. It's like getting an adult drunk. They blurt out the truth after a bit of annoying prodding.

And the culprit? One errant comment.

Apparently, at the last theater practice one of the teachers got frustrated with the group for not being off-book yet, or not knowing the lyrics, or just generally fooling around when they should have been quiet and focused. Said teacher blurted out (something to the effect of) "The only people who know their stuff is Joe and Marcus." which Dia translated to "Dia's acting is terrible." and "Dia sucks."

You see, she flubbed her monologue earlier during practice. She had it down at home - but, for whatever reason, she lost the whole train of it during practice. She was already angry at herself, embarrassed and frustrated and then, because the teacher specifically said that there were only two in the class that were any good, Dia figured the rest out. She's pretty good at math and this particular 1 + 1 equaled "You are terrible," in her equation.

Making matters far worse is the fact that she adores this teacher. She wants to do nothing but please her and prove herself worthy. Saying that she wasn't one of the 'good ones' crushed her. And it bled into the rest of her life.

When I look back on my life, I can clearly pick out those errant comments that changed my course. One similar one stands out, in fact.

I, too, had theatrical dreams. I thought being an actress sounded fine, but my dad made sure to let me know that I most assuredly did not have the drive for that. I, like Dia with her teacher, loved my dad and wanted nothing but to please him, so I accepted that at face value. "OK, I thought... I'm not very driven." I so absorbed that message that it wasn't until last year that I realized, "Wait... I am nothing if not driven. I raised 2 kids by myself, working 3 jobs at a time while attending school full-time and worked myself up from being a whatever-paid-the-bills to the COO of a data analytics firm. So, yeah, Dad, you might have misread that one a bit..."

Yet my whole life I've deemed myself a "Type X" - not quite the bottom of the ambitious barrel but way below Type A. And while I am rather laid back and more calm than not, I reflected recently that those attributes have nothing to do with drive. I may not be keen on drama nor clamor up the corporate ladder in a frenzied state, but drive I have in spades. I wonder how differently my life would have been had that comment not ever been uttered. Oh, I wouldn't have been an actress, I don't think, but maybe I would have just done it - whatever "it" was - because I wouldn't have thought I couldn't do it before I started. Instead, I sat in an identity of "Definitely Not Driven." I wouldn't be successful at anything that took a lot of drive, so what was the point of going for it?

Now, if I'm going to be honest, I'm sure I've said 3000 errant comments to my kids, my friends and my family members. I can tell you with no uncertain terms that I am feeling rather sorry about that right now. Things said in anger, or to plant kids solidly on logical and practical ground might be better kept to ourselves. I think we all should do a bit more shutting up.

For me now? I'm gonna at least make sure my kid knows she's one hell of an actress and can do anything she puts her mind to!

-kec

Soaring Love

It was so green today. All this rain does wonders for the landscape. The desert mountains go from brown and gray to shades of green so lush they rival the hills of Ireland. I try to memorize it all while I'm walking - to take in the hues and the plushness, the aliveness of it all. Ah, but my memory has never been very photographic and so today I decided to stop for a moment and take a photo.

I paused above our wash. It reminded me of Yosemite's rushing creeks and the sound of the water running through the wash put me back there. I smiled at the memory of a New Year's holiday spent with my family, all of us together in one magnificent place. I smiled at the beauty and perfection of nature in those woods. And I smiled at my own neighborhood, so clean and newborn.

I raised my camera and tried to capture what only the naked eye can truly behold.

Without so much of a glance at the end product, knowing it would merely be a reminder of the beauty I took in on this day, I pocketed my phone and walked up the hill toward home. A butterfly flew around me. Delighted, I  remembered being told that butterflies represent the souls of those gone before you, yet remaining with you still.

A few more steps later another butterfly flew around me, then another and another. I saw in them my dad, my Aunt Brenda and Erin encouraging me and letting me know I was loved. I was filled with inexplicable joy and comfort. Looking over my shoulder I saw four more flitting toward me. As they flew over my head I saw Roger and Stella, still holding hands, still in love. I saw Carmen smiling and Hooner singing. Smiling more broadly than my face allowed, I continued up the hill. More! Still more! Butterflies flew around me and past me, leading my way. I saw my grandfather and grandmother, my Uncle Bob and Aunt Bev, my cousin John. Dozens of butterflies flew around me, above me and beside me. I raised my arms to the skies and tilted my face to the sun and knew in that moment all the souls gone before me were with me still.

Dishwashers and Giant Pigs

It happened again.

Once more I found the dishwasher poached.

It's a frequent thing. Instead of emptying it, she takes just one dish out - a mug usually - and then closes it back up leaving the remaining clean dishes for me, I presume, to finish up.

Today, just as I have on so many other days, I went to add my dirty dish to its rightful place, found that its relatives were all clean and waiting to be put back (minus the one lucky one that had already been plucked out) and immediately felt frustrated and taken for granted.

But today, unlike other days, I slammed that dishwasher closed and vowed not to do it this time. "No! If she won't, I won't! No sir! I'll leave them there all day and the dirty dishes can pile up in the sink until either she empties the dishwasher or they all get confused on which ones are dirty and which ones are clean and get rewashed or first-washed, depending. Yes! That's just what I'll do! I will prevail! I'll show her! If she doesn't care, I won't care."

But that fleeting, pouty-teenager tantrum was quickly followed by a sticky, more-human thought: "Why would I do that? Why double down on the bad? Or, more accurately, why make something bad that never was bad to begin with?"

Now, at the risk of throwing my mom under the bus for being messy or imperfect, and definitely at the risk of exposing me and my anal tendencies (and fully being cognitive of the fact that most of you will side with Mom on this one), what I'm here to discuss isn't which side of the dishwasher we should lean. No, I'd like to talk about that fleeting, pouty-teenager thought. That "Oh, I'm not being treated the way I want to be treated so I'll just treat them like they're treating me" thought. That presumption that it was ever even about me! That audacious certainty that I am being treated in any way at all. As if her every move, every thought, every motivation has something to do with me. I mean, let's face it - she probably was just tired and needed a mug and, though there were plenty of mugs in the cabinet, she just grabbed it out of there because it was closer. I don't know that she didn't have every intention of emptying the dishwasher after that first cup of coffee. I don't know that that's not her intention every single time and I just get to it faster because of my aforementioned tendencies. I don't really know her motivation. And that's my point.


Yesterday at the Gentle Barn, a fellow volunteer came up to me and told me to get back to my job, which basically was cleaning up turkey shit in the breezeway. Apparently, and tragically, someone had stepped in said turkey shit and it was all because I had not done my job. In real life? I guarantee there hasn't been a person to visit the Gentle Barn that hasn't stepped in some sort of animal shit at some point. Face it, you are not going home without shit on your shoes. But that's an aside. The thing is, that her perception was that I was just standing over by a fence, holding a broom, chatting up a guest and looking at a big pig digging in the dirt with his nose rather than doing my assigned job. It was simple - I was goofing off.

But you see, I was doing a job. Maybe not my assigned job, but a more important one at the time. I was helping to prevent a bunch of people from getting run over by a very large pig with very poor eyesight, who is surprisingly nimble and whom, I suspect, actually gets a kick out of watching the seas part for him as he rambles around the barnyard. Realistically, had I not been there, I'm sure everything would have been fine. The upper barnyard manager is very adept and had things under control, as did the pig's docent, but by being at point (ahead of the pig) I had been able to divert the crowd a little more efficiently and saved at least one person from being pushed aside by an enormous animal.




Obviously, I was going to return to my original duties and didn't need this child telling me where I should be. It really rankled me. I didn't like her treating me as if she were the boss of me. I didn't like being accused of not doing a good job - especially me of all people (refer to the tendencies I admit to above). I didn't like her assumptions. I was pissed. And I glared back at her and said something useless in a tone that wasn't very kind. And I felt justified in doing so.

Well, that is until that fleeting, pouty-teenager tantrum was not quite as quickly followed by a stickier, more-human thought: "But from her perspective, I was goofing off." At the point the volunteer berated me, I was not being useful at all. I really was, as she saw it, just standing there. All was well and calm. And I will say that, as a Gentle Barn guest-turned volunteer, I deeply appreciate the importance of the breezeway job. So she was right ... at least from her perspective.

Eventually I realized she probably now thinks me to be a lazy, entitled volunteer that gives a mean stink eye when being redirected. That's so far off the mark, but it's true to her because she thinks it's about her. Her perception is her reality. She thinks the whole interaction took place with no back story and all she was doing was trying to keep things clean for the guests.

And so it is done. Not that I was going to be her BFF, nor was she my future adopted daughter, but the chances are that we will never have a particularly civil relationship now.

Had either of us taken the time to hear the others' backstory, the whole thing wouldn't have been negative. But, I mean, really - who has time for that? And I'm not being sarcastic. Ain't nobody got time for that. My message here isn't about that level of love.

My message is that we don't simply assume things. No, we are certain of things. And in that certainty, if what we receive is negative, we are certain to give that negativity right back. Maybe in spades. She hurt my feelings? I'll hurt hers. Worse if I can. She'll see how it feels.

And that's how everything starts. We see hate. We give hate. They hit. We hit back. They start it. We finish it (until they finish what we thought we finished and start it again).

But the thing is, we don't take the time to consider that maybe it never had to escalate in the first place. Maybe it never was about "me." Maybe there was no first strike at all.

So maybe next time I'm to be at the Gentle Barn I'll poach a mug from the dishwasher, stick some fresh flowers in it, grab a box of vegan chocolates and offer a peace offering. Or maybe I'll just stay at whatever station I'm assigned to no matter what. Or maybe, and more likely, I'll just tread this earth with a little more respect for the fact that it is not, in fact, revolving around me.

- kec

Is This Thing On?

 "We're going live in 3.... 2 ..... 1"

(Thump thump) "Is this thing on?"

...

"Thanks. Thank you! Great to be here. Really."

It's been 2 years. Two.Years. My last blog post was post-Trumpocalypse and - whoa - has a lot changed since then, huh? So, how you doin'?

Me? I waiver between 1) utter despair, constant dread and dreams of a life in Canada married to Justin Trudeau leading our country to Be Best and 2) a boot camp level of Extreme Self-Improvement. I've been studying Zen Buddhism, meditating, keeping a gratitude journal and being my personal version of "best." I've also been focusing a bit more on my physical state, working out again and trying to be mindful of what I put in my body. I'd like to think that all the self-improvement is inspired by the ol' "if you can't beat 'em, lead 'em" attitude, but the fact is that the current administration has turned life into a bit of a drinking game for me. I needed to find a healthier escape than 3 gin and tonics before breakfast and all that consumption caused me to grow very, very fat (for me anyway). 

The ultimate goal is to have the body of Rachel Brosnahan, but I am fairly certain that I'd have to rearrange internal organs and remove a few ribs to accomplish that. Also I hate pain. I don't like to 'feel the burn;' I hate to be sore the next day; and I really don't like to put effort into things in general. I also love carbs. And wine. And cocktails. And appetizers. And dessert. Also cheese and crackers. Plus, I am nothing short of genius at inventing 3 to 4 thousand different reasons not to work out. Leading the pack are my conflicting responsibilities, of course: work, laundry, cooking, cleaning, Driving Miss Dia, eating, watching TV, staring out the window at a lizard and, of course, who has the time it'll take afterward to shower, dress and deal with hair and make-up?

There are days when my willpower does prevail, however. Today, in fact, was one. I was walking to the bathroom with an armful of clean clothes preparing to shower and start my day while that nagging little voice followed me all the way in there, poking at me and telling me to "turn right around, young lady, and get that workout done." Fine. I turned on my heels and went to change. Brilliant will power! I win! Until...

The worst deterrent to my exercise routine struck: The sports bra. 

Today I chose one of those back closure deals that still has to go over your head due to the permanent criss-cross back (why???). Just to get it that far, I dislocated my shoulders one by one all the while considering if I should audition for "So You Think You Can Dance."

 

Finally, I get this thing over my head and in the general vicinity of my back. I reach around, grab a hold of the left and the riyyy... Wait..... What's this? 

Start again. I grab a hold of the left closure and .... reaching... Where?? Grab hold of the right closure? No...what the...? 

It appeared that the right side - the one with the hooks - was deeply hooked into itself up in and among the mesh of that criss-crossy bit and I can't ... quite ... get... it.... Are you kidding me? 

So off comes the bra, thrown with the force an MLB pitcher only wishes he has, directly into the cat who is innocently grooming himself on my bed. This sends him soaring into the air as only cats who have been pummeled by sports bras are known to do. 

As I watch my bra, still attached to the cat, run out of the room and around the corner, I feel simultaneously defeated and justified in scrapping the workout for the day. Still - remembering that Trudeau is already married and I must carry on with Plan B - I begrudgingly open my lingerie drawer, choose another somewhat less complicated version, sqwiggle my way into it and readjust every external body part I own. 

Yup. This thing is on.

But it ain't comin' off.