Procrastination: Making it Work For You

I have a pretty good exercise routine. The routine is important because it allows me to have a cookie or two, or five and not feel guilty. Or possibly, to purloin several Almond Joy's out of the bag of Halloween candy. (Kids don't like almonds and coconut anyway).

Here's my routine:
On mornings I drive Ethan to early-morning seminary, I return home at 6 am and do 30 Day Shred on DVD. I'm done in plenty of time to return to pick him up and deliver him to school.

On mornings when Ethan takes the bus, I originally woke to see him off to school, then promptly left the house to do 30 minutes of jogging-walking. However, as it has gotten darker and darker, I've now had to move my jogging-walking time up to 8am, which is just after the younger boys get on the elementary school bus.

Now, here is where procrastination has become my faithful exercise partner:

I realize that jogging-walking outside for exercise will probably stop at some point this Fall-Winter. It will get too cold or wet and I just won't want to deal with being outside. And 30 Day Shred can't last forever either. I know that one day will probably be my last day exercising until the Spring when I'm 10 pounds heavier for all the holiday and post-holiday snacking I'm sure to do.

I enjoy being somewhat in shape, and I enjoy the way my clothes fit nicely, and I realize that continuing to exercise is much easier than starting after a long time NOT exercising.

So every morning, when I'm dreading turning on the DVD or heading out into the cold to jog-walk, I ask myself, "Is this the day you're going to quit?"

So far I've always answered, "I can always quit tomorrow."

Just the thought that I can quit if I want to and that it can be as soon as tomorrow, keeps me going one more day.

And it worked this morning as I left for what turned into a 4-mile jog-walk.

I normally do 2 miles, but was feeling good at the point I'd normally turn around and return home, so I kept going. By the time I finally turned around and started heading back, it was cold and rainy and I just wanted to be home.

I thought, "I should have quit today."

But I made it home and took a really long, hot shower, and put on my comfiest jeans and slippers and only then, felt pretty glad I didn't quit today.

I can always quit tomorrow.

Afton Costumed: A Retrospective

I mentioned in my last post that I hadn't worn a costume for 20 years. In the interest of something to blog about, I decided to dig up photos of costumed me and put them up for all to see.

One costume picture I couldn't find was me as a back up singer to a lip-syncing, also white, Aretha Franklin. All I have to say is that I rocked the blue eye-shadow and ratted out hair. Can I get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T?

In this photo, my roomies and I are getting ready for the polyester prom, an annual event anticipated by all. It required a trip to the thrift store and the ability to dance the night away in thick, unbreathable fabric. In case you can't tell, I'm the beauty in the black and white number. Several at the dance commented that my hair-do that evening had a certain "Emma Smith" quality. (Only at BYU!)

Another annual event was the lip sync contest. This year my roommates and I favored the crowd with a fully choreographed rendition of Barry Manilow's "Copacabana." I was Barry. In the white suit. And I feel the need to tell you that we killed. It outdid our previous year's lip sync of a K-Tel commercial for an Abba compilation. 

That year I was an unfortunate Björn Ulvaeus. (I have the picture, but I'm really hard to see. But as a consolation, here's a close-up of me as Barry sans wig and big fake nose).

I can't remember who this guy was, but he was clearly sponging off my polyester, white suit greatness.

And finally, here is my Aphrodite costume for Betsy's annual Halloween party. All the roommates went and had a great time. I don't know what else I can say about a toga except I can't believe I got all the way to my final year of college until I finally donned one.

So, as you can clearly see, I've worn costumes. I can't say that I've particularly enjoyed costumes. I always feel more comfortable in my regular clothes. I remember my Psych major sister trying to analyze me when I confessed this to her in college.

"That means you aren't truly comfortable as who you are." she said.

That never made sense to me. If I want to dress as myself, isn't that how I'm most comfortable?

Psych majors!

In Which I Wear a Costume for the First Time in Twenty Years

The monumental wearing of a Halloween costume by your humble blogger is still a few days off, but items for said costume are being gathered and scrutinized.

The plan is to be Mary Poppins. Robert is going to be Bert. I sprang the news on him just about an hour ago, after spending a few days rustling up the newsboy cap, vest, shirt and makings of a chimney sweeper. He was excited. I think he is still wearing the vest around the house.

I think it's safe to say that for a Mary Poppins costume, the hat is the most important part of the whole ensemble. Without the hat, you're just a dowdy lady with a big purse and umbrella. So the hat has been a little source of stress.

As you can see from the picture above, I've gathered three hats thus far.

Hat #1, on the left, is on loan from Andrea. It's a real hat that she really wears and which she has in multiple colors. (I saw three in addition to this one.) It is cute, but in a "I would actually wear that," way. I am just not getting the MP vibe from it. And besides, I don't want to hot glue stuff onto it, since it's still in her current hat rotation.

Hat #2, in the middle, was purchased today at a Halloween store for $9.99. I believe I saw a sign that said, "no returns." Which is just my luck because as it turns out, I don't think this is the hat for me either. I was going to spray paint it black and try and rough it up a little. Online advice I've read suggested getting it wet to reshape it.

Hat #3, on the right, obliterated any desire I had for straw hat re-shapery. I found it at Goodwill tonight for $2.99. It's crumpled and there is a bit of wire in the rim that will allow for additional mashing up. I just have to remove the netting, satin ribbon, and gold lame band and hot glue my dollar store daisies and red berry things and I think I will be good to go.

Next on the costume assembly agenda: beating myself up for buying a $10, non-returnable hat and general stressing out over how much moola I'm sinking into this costume.

Costume guilt. Great. (This is why I've avoided costumes for 20 years)

The End of an Era

For three years I've carried this purse around.

You can read all about how I made it myself here. 

For three years I've received compliments on this purse. I kid you not. People actually come up to me and tell me they like my bag. It happened as recently as two weeks ago when I was shopping in Fred Meyer. 

Getting all these compliments is a heady experience. I got used to the compliments--depended on them, even. So it was with much confusion that I explored my growing malaise with this purse. It was getting tattered and worn. Even though I'd thrown it through the wash on multiple occasions, it just seemed dingy and old and dated. 

I started to wonder if some people were seeing the bag before they'd see me and thinking, oh, here she comes with that purse again. Is she going to hang onto that thing forever?

I'd be all ready to ditch the purse for something new when someone would compliment me again. I felt like shouting, "Are you kidding? This thing? Can you see how old and worn out it is? Do you not realize this same fabric has been on the shelf at JoAnn for over three years? There is nothing special about this purse!" But, of course, I never did. 

It took months for me to reconcile the possible loss of compliments with the intense desire for something new. But I've finally done it.

The old purse made one more trip through the wash and was folded up and put on a shelf in the closet. (A much higher honor than the under-the-bed status of my former purses.)

So, here's to another three years with my new Margaret Sling Bag.

The Facts

The fact is, Robert got three hours of sleep last night. Actually, that's just a guess because I didn't exactly remember the time he came to bed, but I turned in around 11pm and it was later than that. When the dull green glow of his blackberry illuminated our bedroom, it was around 2am. He got up, got dressed, and went back downstairs to work.

Most nights Robert gets about four hours of sleep and every once in a while, six. You might think that six hours is a perfectly grand amount of sleep, and it would be. If you weren't already so behind on your sleep to begin with.

The fact is, if Robert gets six hours of sleep, that means he worked eighteen. If he's not sleeping, he's working. Oh, he takes five to ten minute breaks for meals, but sometimes, when he's home, I'll bring a plate of food in to him because he doesn't have enough time to stop working and come out and eat with us.

This is the schedule that he keeps seven days a week. Every day. And he's been doing it since at least May. And, as he lamented last night, there is no end in sight.

That isn't precisely true--things will hopefully end in another three to six weeks--but I have no doubt it feels like there is no end in sight. He said, "there are three ways I see this ending. One, the project ends. Two, I die from working so hard. Three, I quit. But I don't really see a reason to quit."

"Um," I interjected. "I think your imminent death is reason enough to quit."

"Well, sure." He replied. "I'd quit if I was going to die."

So this is his life.

Since May, I can count on one hand the number of days he hasn't worked.

He got half a day off when Jonah had surgery, which was nice. He slept over half the time, including during Jonah's recovery time. He climbed onto the hospital bed and snuggled up to Jonah and went to sleep.

Before that he got a Saturday, Sunday and Monday off. We went to a nearby lake and played and had a picnic.

In one week we have tickets to travel to Minnesota for a wedding. Robert checked with work and they said they thought he should be able to take Friday, Saturday and Sunday off. However, there was no guarantee. Now, it looks like he won't be able to travel with us.

Finally, the fact is, since he's salaried, there is no overtime to this hellish schedule. He's working 130 or more hours a week. Every week. Since May.

Is there any other business in the developed world that makes its employees work like this?

Maybe the better question is: is there any other business in the developed world that wants to hire an engineer who would be happy to work 60 hours a week?

To Muster, or Not to Muster

I most definitely, one hundred percent, do not want to have a garage sale. The very thought of the work it would take to go through closets and bedrooms and kitchens and that storage area under the house that is only accessible by going through the two and a half foot-tall door on my hands and knees gives me heart palpitations.

So there's that. But also there's pricing, organizing and advertising. After all that, the chances that I would actually have things that someone wanted are slim to non-existent.

If, by some chance, I was able to bring myself to sort and sift and organize and advertise, half of my merchandise will probably be reintroduced back into the house by the boys, who, regardless of the fact that they've not thought once about Candyland (with half game pieces missing) for the last five years, will suddenly become very sentimental about Candyland and insist that we put it back into that little space under the eaves and not think about it for another five years.

What I really want to do is purge. I want to get rid of stuff and reclaim my space. I love space. It calms me. It makes me happy. And I don't mind purging. It's a solitary job and doesn't require that I post ten color coordinating signs at intersections with in a two-mile radius of my house. Purging is good.

This time, however, the amount of stuff, as well as the type of stuff that is going to be purged warrants a garage sale. It can't be denied. And that garage sale is breathing down my neck and whispering things in my ear like, "it's time," and "you know you want to," and "you can't put this off much longer."

But I CAN put it off longer. We just won't be able to park in the garage for a year.

That shouldn't be a problem, should it?

4 T Hike

Stop the river right here--this moment in time, when the boys are not too big or too little to go on a fun hike with their mother. This spot in the fast-moving river of time is--knock on wood--perfect. Today, hiking the 4 T Hike with my three boys, was like one of those mother moments that normally exist only in the ethereal cloud of wishes that seems to always be just out of reach of every parent. If there was complaining, I'm choosing to ignore it. I will remember only the friendly banter between the boys, the laughing, the running, the counting of banana slugs, and more than anything, the "thank you mom's." 

Our morning started at 8:30 am at the zoo. We hiked across Hwy 26 to the Markham trail and headed up to Council Crest. It was still a little hazy when we got up there but most importantly, it was cool and lovely, which is so much better than hot and miserable. 

A few of us ate our Cliff energy bars, even though we weren't even half way through with the first T of the 4T hike: the 4 mile "trail." I would have taken more picture of the boys on the trail, but they hiked at a pretty fast pace and I didn't want to make them stop. (And I'm choosing to not remember the moss covered bench photo that never happened because one child refused to cooperate unless he could sit in the middle.) 

The second T is "tram." We climbed the hill to OHSU and made our way to the tram (free on the downhill ride). The kids were blown away by the height and the view. 

Their chattering on the ride down mostly covered the topic of best places to land should the tram suddenly break free of its cable and come crashing to the ground. Pile of dirt was overruled by a nice, cushy house. So they collectively hoped we'd fall on a house. I, instead, dwelled on some new and unwelcome thoughts I'd never even considered before.

Regardless of their falling best-case-scenario discussion, the boys rode right up in front and watched our entire descent. 

We got off the tram and onto the third T, the "trolley." In real life, this people mover is actually called a "street car," but that doesn't fit with the theme, so we called it the trolley. Can I tell you how great it felt to sit down after that 4 mile hike? It was delightful. Isaac was the only kid would would admit to feeling tired and thankful to be off his feet.

These signs kept us on track for our entire hike, except for once, when we took a wrong turn and had to backtrack. After getting back to the point where we took the wrong turn, we noticed that the trail marker had fallen over and was laying in the ferns and ivy.

The fourth and final T was "train." Here, you can see the MAX train coming up the street for our ride back to the zoo. Yay! The tickets we purchased on the trolley ($1.50 for kids and $2 for adults) were good for two hours, so we were ready to jump on the train as soon as it came. 

This wasn't the best picture of the boys, but the look on Isaac's face reminded me of the McKayla Maroney is not Impressed meme. (Isaac is not impressed with the lack of pierced, tattooed, stinky he-shes on the MAX train.)

We finished our 4 T hike with a fifth T, "treat." This is where I gathered up the sixth T, "thank you's." It was mostly thanks for buying lunch at Dairy Queen, but I like to think there was thanks for the fun Portland adventure we shared too. 

Totally.