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How to get old gracefully

 

“Did you see that woman over there?” my husband asked.

I turned my head and tried to subtly glance over to the woman he was referring to.  Her back was against me, but from behind she looked amazing.  Slim, toned and curvy in all the right places.  Then she turned her head and I gasped.

Her face looked like the crypt-keeper.  Pale and taught ghostly white skin was interrupted by strangely exaggerated eyes turned up at the corners.  Her lips were huge and plumped full and it was obvious she had undergone multiple cosmetic procedures to the point of resembling a freakish Michael Jackson wannabe.

I shuddered. Tim smiled at me, “I’m glad you aren’t’ afraid of aging and you would never do anything drastic like that.”

“Hey now,” I said.  “She looks pretty good for a hundred.”

Tim laughed and walked off to lift weights.  But the scary lady didn’t leave my mind.

I secretly stole a few more glances and then thought about my own insecurities regarding getting old. Certainly it’s inevitable and a natural part of life, so why the resistance, the flat-out denial by some folks to step up to the plate and surrender to gravity?

There are certain parts of getting older which I adore. My emotions no longer rule my heart, wisdom has snuck up on me after a multitude of hard knock lessons, and I have an appreciation for relationships and life, like never before.  I have more confidence in my identity, my voice and don’t really care if people like me or even agree with me anymore.

But the parts I don’t like are the parts which resonate with the plastic gym lady. I want to be pretty and in a world and culture that reveres youth, looking old and haggard is less desirable.  I don’t like the weird little age spots appearing on my body, the aches and pains that seem to appear out of the blue after thirty-five, and my metabolism, which is getting slower by the day. These things make me long for my eternal body.

One component of aging that sometimes makes it easier or harder depending on the season, is the personal expectations or goals I place on myself for age thresholds. 

 Twenty-five-married and college degree-√

 Thirty five-have kids-√

Forty-be a successful writer (working on that one)

Fifty-five-grandma-TBD

As I hit the birthdays with my goals checked off, I feel better about myself.  But the year I hit thirty-three and found myself a divorced, single mom, getting older didn’t feel so good.  In fact, the ache was deep and I felt somehow inadequate.  Happy Birthday didn’t feel so happy that year.

I hear the pain in my friends voices when another year passes by without a husband or a child. It’s the same hurt-another year slipping by and another reminder of unfulfilled dreams.

Isaiah once said, “The flowers fade and the grass withers, but the word of our God will stand forever.”

I know in life there will be good years and not so good years, but the years will come, no matter how I try to halt the ravages of too much sun and the gravitational pull on my behind.

But when I keep an eternal perspective and focus my eyes on the road before me, ageing isn’t such a scary place.  If anything, it’s just one step closer to Jesus.

Image: Ambro / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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Poor Barbie get’s dissed

I have a confession. I played with Barbie and Ken dolls well into 8th grade, until the very threshold of high school.  Pathetic, I know, but I liked my fantasy world of happy endings, perfect blonde hair, and makeshift clothes I sewed by hand.  I had no idea my secret little doll addiction was so detrimental. Apparently, Barbie is guilty for not only warping my body image standards, but now the big B’s been tearing down the rainforests as well. 

Greenpeace activists are repelling off the Mattel building in downtown LA dressed as Ken dolls to protest Indonesian rainforest destruction.  Greenpeace asserts the pretty boxed packaging used to highlight Skipper and her modern Barbie babes are responsible for the continued devastation of the world’s delicate ecosystems.  They dropped a huge banner off the side of the Mattel building condemning this devious consumerist mentality.

I am all for green initiatives, but I have to wonder if this might be a tad extreme?  Might it just be a fun excuse to dress up and get an adrenaline hit scaling buildings like Spidey? It reminds me of Legally Blonde 2, when the sorority gals storm the capital to make a statement against animal testing. “Bruiser, Bruiser, Bruiser…”

 I guess now they are shouting “death to Barbie, Barbie, Barbie.”

Certainly, it has raised public awareness, but at what cost? I still like Barbie and will continue to purchase the dolls for my tots. And honestly, I would buy them in a 100% recycled box for a few more bucks, or even a fabric reusable bag (all the better to cut up for some more groovy outfits).

Mattel currently uses 95% recycled materials and has plans to be 100% by 2015, not too shabby as far I am concerned.  And while I empathize with Greenpeace, I also tend to agree with John, who commented below on the fiasco.

“When these groups do things like this, the focus instantly turns away from their cause, and it becomes about THEM.  Their work ends up being all in vain.  Their cause gets overshadowed by their antics, and the spectacle they create.”

In my opinion, isn’t the bigger issue to create a world where each person takes personal responsibility as a steward of the planet?  Simply because, as humanity, we are all intertwined and deeply connected in a world with limited resources.

Maybe they should make a PC Green Barbie and she can be an activist who get’s arrested to save the planet. A little toy bulldozer in the box would be cute!

http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-greenpeace-mattel-20110608,0,2905499.story

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No Pain, No Gain

It’s official! I am obedient. The receipt below show’s my sincere desire to listen to God after six months of blowing him off. I know none of you would ever cover your ears and sing “La La La La, I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you…” and then do exactly what you know in your heart is defiant, but then again, I probably am the only big sinner around these parts.

So, of course it’s over something silly, my stubborn as Balaam’s Ass streak, but it has been a real stumbling block in my faith. Over Christmas, our family splurged and bought memberships to 24 Hour Fitness.

Our goal was to get healthy together and do some mom/dad/kid bonding with dumbbells. But, part of negotiating this deal with my husband included me canceling my membership to LA Fitness, which is close to my office, but nowhere near our home.

I promised hubby I would do it, but then I didn’t. I procrastinated, I put it off, I secretly liked my cushier gym and hoped Tim might forget his request.

But he didn’t forget and constantly questioned me over, and over, and over. And in response, I would quietly change the subject, defer gracefully and try to look sheepishly cute. We both knew I was being a mule and while Tim was kind enough to not force the issue, God on the other hand was not.

Now I have been a gym-rat for the last twenty-five years. Working out is my thing, my big stress reliever and what I consider to be a healthy coping mechanism (alongside copious amounts of prayer, girlfriends and an occasional margarita).

But ironically, since Christmas I have been thwarted in a million ways to find the time or energy to drag my sorry butt through the gymnasium doors. Kolby has been sick, then not sleeping, and church busyness has been overwhelming.

Lunchtime at my office was always my escape. I could sneak away and catch a run or lift weights and come back to the office sweaty, smelly and happy (possibly TMI).
But all of sudden, as lunch approached, a crippling fatigue would permeate my body and I would find writing to be a much easier endeavor. I actually started to run, for about a week, and then I broke my foot.
It was one thing after the next and I was getting sorely peeved by the non-stop obstacles in my path. It would have been easy to write off my lack of motivation to go to the gym as normal laziness, but this time it seemed like God was trying to get my attention.

On Easter Sunday, during cleanup of the worship service, I accidently kicked a large (lifesize) wooden cross while carrying the baby and a chair. I didn’t see it and wham-delerious pain.

A week later, I was chasing the baby in the church sanctuary when the lights were dim and hit the offering box hard, with the same foot. This time, my whole foot swelled up and turned black.

When I went for x-rays, they confirmed my foot was indeed broken, but it was the cross that had been the culprit, the offering box merely did it in.

Clearly, God was speaking. Maybe the donkey didn’t talk, but the pain in my foot communicated a message. I just didn’t know what it was.

One morning, I decided to test my wobbly foot with a stroll and confessed my frustration to the Lord. And the response I got was humbling, to say the least.

Me praying, “Lord, I’m so bummed…(wah, wah, wah).”

God to me, “Sam, have you ever considered that when you defy your husband you defy me?”

And this was the moment of epiphany. Truth illuminated the boulder of pride lodged in my selfish heart and tears streamed down my face as I lifted up my hands and sincerely repented. (Now don’t forget I am out walking in Ladera Ranch with a stroller)

It was one of those shameless moments in life where I simply wanted my heart to be right with God, and could have cared less if people passing by thought I was a nut.

When I arrived home, I immediately got on the horn and called LA Fitness. Ultimately, I had to go to the gym and cancel in person because, as easy as it is to sign up, they make you go through a thousand hoops to cancel.

When I shared the story with hubby he got very excited and laughed in delight. “Doesn’t if feel good to obey your husband?” he asked.

“Sort of,” I replied. ” But, I don’t really think this was between us.”

I thought to myself how hard submission is, even to a wonderful man. It doesn’t come naturally. But the reward is the sweet serenity of walking in obedience to God.

Receipt for Membership Cancellation

Today’s Date: 6/2/2011
Customer #: 1xxx04
Membership Barcode #: xxxxxxx
Member Name: Samantha Adams
Dues: Too much!
Final Billing Date: 5/15/2011

This confirms cancellation of your membership. This membership will expire on 7/14/2011 and includes application of your pre-paid dues at the time of enrollment. The member is entitled to use of the club through that expiration date. If you have a balance due, it will automatically be charged to your account on file with us, on or after your next regular scheduled billing date, pursuant to the authorization you previously provided.

If you have any questions regarding this notice, please call your local club during normal business hours.

Thank you for choosing LA Fitness.

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Teen Snatching

We almost had to file a police report. Our jovial and loving pre-teen son seemed to have disappeared.  And to make matters worse, the perpetrator replaced my darling child with a defiant, sullen, and entitled kid with a decided mean streak. So, we called for backup and fell to our knees begging God for the return of our son.

I also pulled out Boundaries with Teens, by John Townsend and cracked the cover.  I bought it a while back, anticipating such a time as this and knowing I would need all the help I could get(I know, I know, there are moments where I seem a little less blonde).

As far as rules go, we try to keep it simple in our home.  There are three biggies we enforce religiously that best define our family’s values.  This is not in some pastor’s manual, it’s simply the Keller’s trying to figure out how to be parents and not screw up our kids.

The Rules are: respect, honesty and obedience.

If the kid is disrespectful, they lose a dollar out of their allowance.  If they are disobedient they get fifteen minutes of extra chores and if they lie, we take away dessert for two weeks or skinny jeans depending on the child.  So far, the baby has only had a time-out but we expect great things from her spunky and independent little spirit (translation: strong-willed child).

But Kyle was blowing through all the biggies in minutes. Something had to be done. So, for the first time we implemented the full grounding of said child.  No friends, no social engagements, no phone, no texting, no Mac, and no fun for a solid week with an option for two.  We also took away the teen dances he loves to attend, indefinitely, until his two B’s find their way back into the A range.  This is not because we are Tiger mom and dad, but because we know he is capable.

And something amazing happened…our son has returned home.  It took a few days, but he seems to have come around (at least for now), and I am happy to report the book works!  I am hoping(and praying) as Kyle re-enters society he will not turn into Mr. Nasty again, but I am more than willing to put him back on restriction again(less driving him around, more help around the house…the benefits could go on and on). I’m sure this is just the first of many battles and it scares the spit out of me if I dwell on it too long.

I think the biggest lesson from the book is that freedom is earned and respect is a non-negotiable.  To give our son boundaries is truly a gift for the both of us.  He enjoys newfound responsibility and we have an amiable son navigating the path to adulthood.

Tone matters. Demeanor matters. When I watch kids treat their parents like morons my heart aches.  I don’t believe it has to be this way. 

Most of all, seeing his smile again matters to me.  And at least for this week, I’ve got my boy back again.

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sexual harrassment

It started in my very first job.   At least once a week, the owner of the almost billion dollar corporation I worked for, would walk up to me and drop his pencil very obviously in front of me. It was his little running joke.

“Oops, I seem to have lost my pencil.  Can you grab that for me Sam?”

Mr. CEO would start drooling and giggling as he waited for me to bend down and pick it up, hoping for a glimpse of either leg or cleavage as I was forced to bend over awkwardly in heels. 

Then there was the vice president (also from the same sleazy tech company) who approached me at the office Christmas party and talked to me about my ministry aspirations.

“Sam, I hear you are in seminary getting your masters in theology,” Mr. VP asked with an inebriated smile.

“Yes Sir, I am.”I replied.

“Wow, that’s hot.  I think we could have a religious experience together.  You could tie me up and make me say Oh God over and over.” Mr. VP raises his arms in the air and demonstrated how he would like to be tied up.

I weakly smiled at him and ran as fast as my heels could carry me to HR.  

But yesterday, oh yesterday, took the cake.  This time the comment was launched not from my own place of business, which is refreshingly drama free, but it came from a client.  And therein lays the dilemma.  You can tell a boss to go climb a tree, and threaten to report him, but how do you tell the client he’s an A-Hole?

I walked in to Mr. Client’s office with my boss for an impromptu conversation after a previous meeting nearby.  This customer was not one of my accounts, so I had zero context for the meeting and decided to keep my mouth shut and watch their interaction.  As we stood to leave, Mr. Client turned to me and launched his bomb.

“You certainly contributed to the conversation.  So, is this what you do all day?  Do you drive your boss around and let him sit in the backseat and make calls.  Is that your job?”  He dangled his keys in front of my nose as he leered at me and insinuated that I was my boss’s very personal assistant and valet.

Anger surged deep within my spirit and I bit my tongue until it bled.  I glared at him, thought about the consequences of telling him off, and then stomped out the door. 

The problem with harassment is it goes hand in hand with the feeling of entrapment.  It feels like you are screwed however you approach the situation.  If you make a big deal about it and go for the jugular, you lose credibility in your field and become one of those red flag people.   Or conversely, if you ignore it, the situation can escalate and lead to bigger problems.

With my first company, I documented and reported the incidents with the temporary HR person, who was then replaced by a more appropriate candidate who looked the other way at the corporate bigwig’s mischief. It goes without saying that certain companies are experts in managing their image, no matter how debaucherous it is.

I often wonder how many of these incidents go unreported in the workplace and I imagine women, and yes… even men have to figure out appropriate boundaries with inappropriate people every day.  I also presume that until more people call attention to this issue, jerks like the one I encountered yesterday will continue to be unchecked power-hungry JACKWAGONS (and yes…that felt good to vent).

I take some delight in pondering the perfect comeback to drop on this guy if I should happen to cross his path again.  Or, I guess I could simply mention his name and company on the internet.  (Just saying…)

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“First Baby” and other labels

My First Baby is officially, as of May 23rd, a double-digit midget (translation-Faith turned ten-years old). Now that might be confusing to some because it makes absolutely no sense if you know the birth order of my kids. 

Faith Whitney is my second child (out of three) and now carries the middle child banner after almost a decade of being the baby.  After that long, you would think the middle child traits would be nominally apparent, but jealousy is such a strong emotion and even the most secure kid gets rattled when their role is replaced.  

I’ve noticed Faith fights to claim her place, postures for attention and vacillates between big girl and lisping baby talk–all symptoms of a classic middle child.  It’s tough being the sandwich kid in between the studly athletic older brother and a ridiculously cute toddling baby sister.  I think of Jan Brady and her silly wigs, just trying to fit in and find her place.

So, as chief mother and encourager of my little tribe, I have decided to break with tradition and give her a new nick-name, First Baby.  For many years Faith was indeed my baby, and instead of taking on the bitter and sassy middle child identity, I have decided to give her a new title, allowing her the distinction of feeling treasured instead of lost among the birth order.

Now, while this might sound coddling to some, I do confess a certain degree of parental guilt when it comes to juggling three kids.  My position recognizes the recurring nagging feeling of mommy guilt because I haven’t been able to give my middle child the attention she craves now that there are three.  The truth is I am outnumbered and Faith has genuinely lost some time and attention from the mommy bucket. 

But, even though my hands are full, as all moms know, my heart has an endless amount of love for my little girl.  So one of the things I decided I could do was to give her a special name.  And when I hold her in bed at night as we cuddle and say prayers, I sense my effort is appreciated.

Clearly she is still the middle sister.  Faith’s role has not changed, but her title has been tweaked a bit to boost her security as my beloved child.  It’s a beautiful picture of what God does with us.  The world calls us certain labels and He in turn tells us we are chosen, redeemed, and cherished.  The circumstances in our lives don’t change, but the image imprinted on our heart, (if we choose to believe what God says is true about us) begins to define us more than the other titles. We operate differently because we are secure.

A recent story in the news caught my eye about a family who has refused to announce the sex of their child.  The baby named Storm will be allowed to pick its own gender.  On a million levels this disturbs me but mostly because we are created in the image of God, male and female he created them. 

Little Storm will grow up without labels, without a gender even.  His family, in an extreme effort to avoid the world’s identification and labels, has created even more insecurity for the child.  In my opinion, this seems like another misguided attempt to play God and redefine the created order into some PC perversion of an alternative reality. 

I understand the desire though.  It’s the same reason I go out of my way to make up silly nick-names because I love my kids.  It’s the yearning to experience the paradise we were created for. Something deep within our spirits strives to recreate that which was lost. Of course not being God, we distort in our effort to recreate beauty or in this case a world without labels.

Strangely enough, I imagine in about a year or two, the last thing Faith will want me to call her is a baby.  And Storm in a few years will probably figure out his or her sex, despite his parent’s shroud of secrecy.  Hopefully, both will find their true identity in Christ alone and ultimately that will be enough.

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Bad Boys, Bad Boys…

Every time I hear another story of a wayward husband  powerful man out finagling instead of legislating, I am sickened, but sadly not surprised. It seems rather par for the coarse these days.  The more surprising revelation is a leader with integrity.

Not that Arnold let me down, because I never really bought into the family man façade to begin with.  (Though I am so sad for Maria and the kids). Arnold is and was a player. The “gropinator” was clearly operating within his wheelhouse.  (Yeah, I know that was mean, but it’s my opinion) This is a guy addicted to fame, fortune and chasing the adrenaline hit. The $2000 suit doesn’t clean up his propensity to lust.  But seriously now, isn’t that part of his appeal?  

I heard a guy on the radio this morning suggest, “A man is: how he treats his wife.” (If I knew who you were Mr. AM Radio man I would give you a full attribution). I thought his statement was brilliant.

Because in the end, our lives are defined far more by what we do than what we say, and lip service aside, I’m tired of all the Kool-Aid trying to clean up the acts of all the bad boys out there. (Yes, I’m talking to you Tiger)

Another study recently came out suggesting those in high management positions have a greater risk of cheating (discussed on KIIS FM this morning). Maybe it’s a confidence thing?  A big ego tied to a powerful position?  I guess you don’t get much higher than a governor, unless it’s a launch pad to the job of president?  This whopper of a secret makes even Newt Gingrich and President Clinton look tame.  Late night TV pundits were claiming it was harder to catch Arnold than Osama Bin Laden.

So, back to the male integrity dealio.  The media would make you think all guys are philandering jerks, but I disagree.  And, I’ve never been more grateful for all the guys in my life who treat their wives as a treasure.  So today, I celebrate you…the Good Guys!  (Do I sound like a beer commercial?)

Here’s to the faithful husband’s and dad’s out there that aren’t climbing the corporate ladder but manage to make all their kid’s baseball games (with the team snack).  Here’s to the men who wake up at 5:30am on Mother’s Day to stand outside Pavilions and buy their wives’ a card, some flowers and eggs for breakfast(that’s for you honey),  and here’s to the man who’s quiet actions speak MUCH louder than his charisma.

Three cheers for all the faithful husband’s and dad’s!

We love you just the way you are and you don’t need a Speedo and muscles to win our hearts.

Photo by:schumachergirl1956

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beautiful mistakes

There is nothing quite like a captive audience (even if you have to bribe them to be there). Tonight I am so excited to speak for the second time at Birthchoice. For those of you unfamiliar with this nonprofit, they are a pro-life health clinic dedicated to helping and equipping young moms (and even a few single dads) with parenting and life skills, as well as preparing them to have healthy relationships.

When the young parents attend a class they earn points which can be used towards diapers and baby clothing. Therein lays the beauty of the scenario…a group of teens and young adults, all paying rapt attention. This is virtually unheard of in most realms.

One thing I learned from my last class is teen moms are just like all moms, but younger (profound, I know…).  No matter what the topic, all they really want to know about is labor, pain and nursing. And this ultimately, is what all expectant mom’s want to know about because it’s the big scary unknown.

I could have spoken on car seat installations and the first question would have been, “How bad does nursing hurt.” (Then again, maybe they weren’t paying attention?)

Of course, being the great instructor I am, I was completely honest and told them it hurts like hell.

One smarty-pants girl retorted, “Only if you’re doing it wrong.” (La Leche clearly has a new advocate)

Honestly, I was a little scared the first night I showed up. I didn’t know what to expect when I walked in the room and encountered all these curious eyes staring at me.

I didn’t know my heart would pound so nervously before I spoke, or how much I would enjoy bantering and playfully razzing the group. I certainly didn’t anticipate my spirit swelling with a profound ache.

Their courage was tremendous and it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I wasn’t that brave at their age. I made mistakes.

I believe abortion is often (though not always) the quick fix and the easy way out.   I know that’s a loaded statement and many will disagree. I also know there are situations where rape and incest are involved and that certainly changes the parameters.

But this group of kids, despite the circumstances, were willing to take a risk, even though it was by far, the more difficult (at least initially) of the two paths.

I imagine few will ever regret their decision, while another generation of young women and men will struggle with shame and remorse for making a different choice.

I am humbled by their bravery.

We all screw up eventually, but few will choose to make beauty from ashes.

And a baby just might be the most beautiful mistake ever made.

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A Picnic with Frank and Chuck

Continue reading “A Picnic with Frank and Chuck”

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Cranky Pants

sad face

I am rounding up the week of the fractured foot. And it’s been so stinking DEPRESSING!  I never realized what a happy camper I normally am, until I wasn’t.

Warning! Here comes the vent….WAHH! My foot hurts. All I do is sit, sit, sit on the stupid couch. I’m not motivated to get my sorry behind up and do anything because it hurts even more. My kids look at me and think, “Hey, there’s mom parked on the sofa again. What happened to our vibrant, active go get’em mama?  Who is this long faced bummer gal?”

I am also depressed from the writing conference (Orange County Christian Writers Fellowship) which I attended this last weekend. I actually sat down in front of an editor from a big name publishing house and pitched my book concept . And then, miraculously he told me to submit a book proposal. (Which if you know anything about writing is like manna from heaven, because publishers almost never take random solicitations). You have to get a literary agent, and have a platform of 35,000 people and be on a speaking tour…and have all this marketing mumbo jumbo that makes my head spin around like Carrie.

So I should be happy that I got my shot, right?  But then the editor says to me, after he delivers the wonderful news that he is indeed interested… “But, it might be a long shot.”

Long shot! I am no long shot!  How dare he? I am Scrappy Sam the underdog.  How can he not see this spunk and fire in my belly? Doesn’t it radiate from my very being?

And so now, I feel this pressure to perform and to wow him with my Scrappy Essence. Which means some major edits to my slightly scrappy manuscript. It’s possible (ok, really possible) that I somewhat  haphazardly threw together the book for the writing contest I entered at the conference. 

It means really sitting down and defining my voice and the direction of my book.  It means getting my crap together and putting on the big girl pants.

This is serious stuff.

It’s a make it or break it moment. And even though I broke the foot, gosh darn it; I refuse to give up without a fight.

I’m getting all riled up thinking about proving Mr. Editor wrong. Of course, not enough to actually get off the sofa just yet, because I am in serious pain, but maybe enough to get my fingers tapping and get out of my funk.

To Do:

  1. Find theme song for motivation (Rocky, Oceans 11 soundtrack, any suggestions?)
  2. Ask for prayer (yes that’s you). Pretty please!
  3. Give myself time to heal (so hard)
  4. Surrender wounded ego to Lord (even harder)
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