What Kind of Friend Are You?

I’d like to think that I’m the kind of person a friend could call if they needed to move a body. I consider loyalty to be a very important quality in a person. So if someone called me I’d like to think I would pause Mad Men and drive over there immediately. No judgment.

Now before you go freaking out calling the police, I don’t mean the kind of body you would have to move out to the desert, requiring a shovel and a deep hole. No, that’s a whole different conversation and level of friendship. I’d probably have to know you for more than ten years to do something like that. But no, that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about a body that’s passed out on your couch for some reason or another. A mom. A dad. A brother. A sister. A son. A daughter. A grandma. Your dude. Your lady. Whatever they may be to you. If they’re passed out because of too many Lemon Drop Martinis, El Patron shots, or something stronger I’d like to think that my friends could call on me for help. No judgment. No drama. No gasps of horror. No lectures.

The ”please don’t tell anybody about this–” preamble would not even be necessary with me.

I read something recently about the depths of friendship and the whole moving the body situation, they got all into it with details, scenarios, and different types of friendships. And it got me thinking about the type of friend I am.

I’m not the fake Facebook friend, I’m the body-mover. I realized that I’m one of those people.

I’d probably show up with a great piece of chocolate and tell you there’s no need to move the body, just leave it there. There’s no social worker coming over. So let them sleep it off. But if you still wanted me too, I’d help you move it. I work out. I’ve got muscles. We could do it. Then we could feast on chocolate and I’d probably try to throw in some Goodfellas type of jokes just to lighten the mood. And there would be no chisme, no drama, no judgment. Just safety in knowing that The Guat’s got your back. Really I’m the last person to be judging anybody, my life isn’t all happily ever after, it’s like a Spanish soap opera, but with more clothing and less good-looking people.

But while I was contemplating what an awesome non-judgmental body mover I would be, I realized that I only had a few of these type of friends on my speed dial. I had movie-going friends, writing pals, eating lunch time friends, give me a ride to the airport friends, and go to a game with friends. Not too many move-a-body friends, or relatives for that matter.

I felt a little bad about that, but then I realized you only need a few of those friends. Bodies aren’t that heavy if you’ve got a plan. You really only need one friend like that. A strong one, or maybe one that studied physics in college, stuff that would make body moving easy. I mean it would be awesome to have like twenty body moving friends, but realistically I didn’t see that in my future. But I could be wrong. In times of crisis people come through for you. They surprise you. So you never know.

 

 

The Death of Wednesday

Dear Wednesday,

Here it was Thursday and you wouldn’t leave me alone.  You just had to follow me, like some crazed stalker. You tried sucking me back into that dismal state that only Wednesday drama can do. You followed me into Thursday, clutching onto my sanity and peace of mind. You suck, Wednesday.

Normally I don’t consider Wednesday ”hump day” or get-me-to-Friday-already day, because when you’ve got two kids the days sort of blend together and they sort of lose their feeling. You don’t realize what day it is until you turn on AMC and see what’s playing. Although sometimes I wish my life was an hour-long drama or better yet a half-hour comedy. It could be wrapped up and resolved by the end of the episode and I’d be drinking coffee at the end of the day and smiling as the credits rolled. It’s too bad I don’t drink coffee. Everyone I know drinks coffee and they seem to be getting passed Wednesday just fine.

I normally let go of 24 periods that suck. I try not to have too many emotional hangovers because they rob me of the chance for a better day when the sun rises. But not today. Pinche Wednesday.

I needed it to be neatly wrapped up already. I didn’t feel like re-winding the events of the day and going through all the what-if scenarios. I was so wishing that Jack Bauer would swoop on in and save this nuclear mess that I call life. But Jack Bauer did not come.

It’s days like this that I don’t like gray hair or wrinkles or age 37. Days like this make me look in the mirror and wonder if I have any brown hair left willing and able to take on any new adventures out there. I know there’s Nice N’ Easy, but that’s like cheating. I don’t mind having gray hair. I like them when they are born out of excitement and living an awesome state of existence. Stuff like bungy jumping, zip lining, paddle boarding or anything ending in “ing” really. But when these gray little fiends rise out of the depths of despair during the ”for worse” part of your days I’m not so much a fan.

No Wednesday you suck. You gave me a few new ones, and I wasn’t really happy about it.

And then it happened. The death of Wednesday, just like that and it was all because of a tea party.

A tea party.

I had forgotten that  I was invited to a pre-Mother’s Day Tea Party at my son’s preschool. In truth I wasn’t sure what to expect with some of the Children of the Corn parents planning to attend the festivities. But I promised my son I would attend, so I braced myself and forged on.

It ended up being exactly what I needed. Thursday rocked. It was definitely a cure to my emotional hangover.

 

The Invite

 

The treats await.

 

On my place mat.

 

The snack at the tea party.

 

These were gone by the time I took my second sip of tea. Most of them eaten by my son of course. I was glad that each table had its own … I didn’t want a riot to ensue.

 

While snacking on treats I explored the Mother’s Day folder created by son.

 

His notes amused me.

 

This was his how well do you know your mom quiz. I wondered what the teacher thought as she wrote down his answers. It definitely got a smile from me.  I think he’s too young to know about AMC and HBO, so he stuck to the PG rating show.

 

My portrait. I’m smiling, can you tell?

 

On our way out the little goodie bags await.

 

Thursday … yeah … definitely the cure.

This One Is For The Ladies

“I love him and want to thank him for putting up with me.”

I recently heard this and for some reason it burned me out. In truth I’ve been hearing and seeing that phrase quite often.

What’s up with that?

It usually happens at anniversary parties or at birthday parties, or for some reason when I’m at the market waiting for Coupon Lady to finish up her transaction and I’m browsing the magazines. I see it and I wince.

For some reason chicks feel the need to utter the words, and I guess if you’re a real ball buster, money spending pain in the ass crazy PMS mood-swinging diva who can’t even boil an egg, well then maybe it’s true. But for this hard-working Guat the thought never occurred to me. It may be the fact that I think if I were a guy, I would totally be in love with me and be grateful for this Guatacular person that has come into my life who constantly makes me laugh.

I don’t consider myself a person that someone has to “put up with.” It probably dates back to the days when my high school coaches and teachers told me I was great. And I believed him. A couple of them even told me I was special and seeing how they were college educated and wise beyond their years I had no reason not to believe them. I heard guys say that all the time, but they were just smooth talkers trying to get me to go out with them. Can’t really trust what a hormone driven teenager has to say. You like it, but can you really trust it?

Maybe.

It may also be due to that fact that I read too much Anthony Robbins change your life kind of quotes so that I can jump-start my Shark-Week kind of day. It may be due to the fact that Steve Harvey says that kind of stuff about women all the time. Wherever it came from, I got it. That’s what I think.

I may not flaunt it with my Chapstick Girl kind of lifestyle, but it’s in there. Even if Budweiser Chick herself were standing next to me I’d still think I was pretty awesome. Running triathlons, Warrior Dashes and 1,400 stair climbs tends to boosts my confidence. The fact that my four-year old son tells me I’m good mom helps out too.

Now don’t get me wrong, being awesome hasn’t gone to my head. The family I grew up in makes sure nothing gets to my head. You stay so low to the ground you know you’re a Salt of Earth kind of person. But nevertheless I’ve got what my Latino people call caracter fuerte, which loosely translates to being a strong woman — I’ve got balls. But I’m not a crazy person, I know when to unleash The Hulk and when to stay dormant. I’m like one of those wild animals on National Geographic, majestic and beautiful, but ready to chase you down if you piss me off. I live by the law of the jungle. I know what I am and I know what I’m worth. Sometimes it makes me sad that chicks don’t.

And what is it that I am?

I know I am not a person someone has to “put up with”. I’m the kind that should be appreciated. And I’d like to think that there are other ladies out there that feel the same way. Not all the ladies because in truth I know there are some chicks out there making it hard on everybody. You know the kind that are married and their poor dude is no longer Emilio, Hector, or Esteban. They are Poor Emilio, Poor Hector, Poor Esteban. So I get it. I know that there are “put up with” kind of people. But I can assure you not everyone is like that … there are still awesome chicks out there. So if you are out there, I’m holding my glass up to you ladies because the Guat feels you.  I know you’re awesome too.

The Rematch … It’s On Devil’s Canyon … It’s So On. I’ve Got Backup This Time

It’s that time of year again … the time when I challenge my weary bones and muscles … the time of year when I pretend I can swim freestyle knowing full well that it never works and I just end up swimming the backstroke and floating my way to the finish line. It’s that time of year where I step out of the “mom” box and step into the badass frame of mind which lasts up to 24 hours, then I go back to being defeated. It’s … Tinman Triathlon time and Devil’s Canyon awaits.

Pinche Devil’s Canyon. It’s on … It is so on.

Image via Durtbagz.com

 

I’m counting down. I’ve got about two months to whip this Guat body into Tinman shape. Don’t get me wrong the Fight For Air Climb certainly put my quads where they belong, it’s just the rest of my body that needs to cooperate. Specifically, the old parts. The parts that take Glucosamine and something called CoQ10. But I’ve decided to add some yoga and stretching to the mix, because my lower back seems to be aging faster than any other part of my body. Although my knees are a close second, and I’m afraid I’m going to need both to conquer Devil’s Canyon. So if you have any pointers feel free to share them.

However this time, the Tinman experience will be different. The training will be different. I’ll have someone there. My son. My four-year old son has agreed to enter the Tiny Tots Tricycle Triathlon. A super miniature version of the race and I’m excited to see him cross the finish line.

This of course means that I’ll be doing double duty when training. I can’t really go at full speed when training with him, so I’ll have to do my training whenever I can get it. This usually means at the break of dawn, which sucks for a night person like myself, or it can happen in the dark of night where suspect people usually walk the streets and I have to keep my Hapkido skills on high alert. Win-win I guess, but at least I have one day during the weekends where I can get my muscles up to Tinman status.

My son is pretty much at Mini-Tinman status when it comes to biking and running. He’s pretty high energy all we have to do is extend the road he covers. However we do have to practice our swimming a bit more, so the Lightening McQueen floaties and goggles will be making an appearance.

We’re both excited about the event and all I’m hoping for is that he finishes the race. He doesn’t need to be first. He just needs to finish. As for me? I don’t need to be first either. I just need to conquer Devil’s Canyon. It kicked my ass last year and I’m hoping the incident doesn’t repeat itself. In truth all I want to do is finish my race before the Tiny Tinman race starts. I want to be at the starting line cheering him on and be part of his pit crew when he gets on his bike. So I definitely need to get into kick-Devil’s -Canyon’s-Ass Shape.  It’s a rematch. Definitely a “Thrilla in Manila” type of event.

Stay tuned.

 

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• Despite Devil’s Canyon, It Was The Best Hour and a Half I’ve Had This Year. I Am A TinMan

 

Fitness Party Lessons

I know I have rhythm, I’m a regular Solid Gold dancer with slick Latin dance moves. It’s in my Guat blood and in truth it’s one of my favorite traits. But I’ll admit I was a little nervous. I had never participated in a Zumbathon. In truth I’d never even done Zumba, but as I mentioned before it was for a good cause. So I suited up in my best Costco sweatpants and t-shirt and was on my way.

Zumbathon Logo.

I didn’t know what to expect, but I can honestly say I didn’t expect to see this type of chick there. However when I walked into the basketball gym, I saw them … Dude. There they were all decked out in their full on Zumba gear, bracelets and hats included. I thought who the hell wears a hat when they workout. I mean if it’s not a baseball cap to hide your messed up Iris Chacon-Amanda Miguel morning hair, who wears that? Who wears hats like that to sweat?  Who does that? Zumba groupies I guess. I had been informally introduced to the Zumba groupie. I’m sure you’ve seen her, she’s the kind of chick that wears makeup to workout. After this encounter I wasn’t sure I was going to be enjoying this fitness party adventure.

The Zumba Groupies

But after a while, the majority of the Zumbathon people trickled in and most of them were wearing the “normal” sweats, shorts, yoga pants and t-shirt attire. Most of them were people from my old high school, most of whom I hadn’t seen since I graduated, and I was all right with that. There’s really no need to see certain people after high school, and some of them you don’t even want to run into on Facebook. Unfortunately, they find you. But I was willing to cowboy up and have the numerous Oh-my-God!-how-have-you-been conversations for the sake of raising money for my old acquaintance battling cancer.

So after all the hello hugs, I found a spot with my buddies and began the “fitness party” adventure. I had been warned that it might be a serious workout and that I might need to take several breaks within the two-hour frame. But in truth I was all right. I felt like I was on a dance floor at a wedding, only this time I was wearing my New Balance and not some killer high heels that would emotionally and physically damage my feet. Now don’t get me wrong there was a lot of sweat, but it didn’t feel like I was working out, which I guess was a good thing.

I enjoyed my first Zumba encounter, although there were a couple of things I learned through this experience.

The Zumba instructors and for some reason the groupies got into the shot.

I learned that the fake excited dance teacher that you see in DVD/videos really does exists. It’s not a myth. She’s real. She has all these cartoon character facial expressions and cheesy sayings that she really shouldn’t use, but she does because she thinks it’s going to motivate you. It doesn’t. It makes you lose faith in the Zumba philosophy, and it just makes you wish you hadn’t wasted money on that particular exercise DVD. Sadly I couldn’t turn her off. She was live and in progress. I was so grateful to learn that there were five other instructors that day and that fake happy dance teacher would not be returning to the stage. I also learned that the sixty-year old, gray-haired Zumba dance instructor was the most badass of them all. Sweat was pouring out when this lady took the stage.

Lesson Number Two: You Gotta Commit. In both life and Zumba, you gotta commit. I’d never taken a dance class but apparently it’s kind of like monkey see-monkey do. You pick up the dance moves as the routine progresses. Some of the moves were a little bit too involved for me. They were a little bit too much for everyone except for the Zumba groupies down in front. But as I saw the people in front of me half-ass the moves I thought  … dude that looks terrible. So non-athletic and non-dancer like.  I can’t be looking like that. Either you’re in or you’re out. So I fully committed to all the steps and if I messed up the Flashdance moves …  well … then … I went down in flames and I got a couple of laughs in the process.

Working it on the Zumba dance floor.

Lesson Number Three: Be Prepared to Pump It.  I had no idea that Zumba had a lot of these chest-pump dance moves. A lot. I felt like I was in a rap video — you know the kind where the chick is wearing Daisy Duke shorts with six-inch heels, and all of sudden takes a wide stance, puts her hands up in the air, and does her best Beyoncé-like chest pop. Apparently it has something to do with the abs, but I wasn’t feeling it and I looked nothing like Beyoncé. More like a chick with back problems, but nevertheless I remembered Lesson Number Two and forged on.

Two hours went by pretty quickly and in the end everyone was pretty sweaty from all that chest pumping. It was such a success that they said they might be planning another one in the fall. And who knows I might go again and learn a couple more lessons. But hopefully by then people will not feel the need to take pictures and post on them on Facebook. Maybe they’ll just take pictures for the sake of taking pictures.

 

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• My RSVP to the Fitness Party (thewishfactor.wordpress.com)

My RSVP to the Fitness Party

I’ll have to admit. I had to look it up.

I wasn’t aware of this phenomenon. In truth I hadn’t been to the gym since my college days where step classes were the latest workout rage. I’m not fond of gyms, too many beefcakes checking themselves out in the mirrors and too many naked chicks in the locker rooms admiring themselves. I’m not into narcissism so I like to work out in the privacy of my own home where I can where sweatpants and nobody will judge me for not wearing a matching sports bra. Or I exercise outdoors where there is nothing to admire but nature.

So when someone sent me an invitation for something called a Zumbathon, I had no idea what they were talking about. But Google enlightened me. Apparently it is something well-known in the fitness world. It involves Latin dancing and exercise moves that make you sweat in a fun way. That is just Zumba, but a Zumbathon is a two or three-hour session of this moving and shaking. I guess it’s a nice way to shed the pounds. They call it the “fitness party.” I’m not sure I like this phrase. My idea of a party does not involve exercising. Dancing yes, lifting weights and sweating in front of people? No, not really.

But nevertheless this whole Zumbathon was for a good cause. They are raising money for an old high school acquaintance who has Leukemia. So I thought if it’s for her, why not. We weren’t best buddies and we didn’t hang out and eat Corn Nuts together at lunch, but we had a few laughs when we joined forces at track meets. She was the track and I was the field.  Believe it or not my scrawny 130 pound self was a shot putter and a damn good one. I always came in first place against opponents. They underestimated me. I had a lot rage. Boys. They suck in high school. I mean they suck all the time, but more so in high school.

My only hesitation was the whole running into old high school people. I don’t like running into people, which is probably why I’ve fallen off the Facebook world. People find you and I’m more of the if-I-want-to-hang-out-with-you-I’ll-call-you frame of mind. But it’s for a good cause so I sent in my RSVP and will be participating in this fitness party this weekend. I better brace myself for the whole Oh-My-God-I-haven’t-seen-you-in-years-what-are-you-doing-now conversation. Plus all these people will probably be taking pictures with their camera phones and immediately posting it on their Facebook status. What is that? What is that! I’m not into being tagged and broadcasted on pages so that other high school people can find me. But I’m sure I’ll be all right. I’ll bring sunglasses.

However in terms for the actual exercise part of this event. I don’t know. How do you train for this sort of thing,? I don’t think you do, really. I mean it’s not a sport. I’m still in pretty good shape because of my recent Fight For Air Climb and I’ve kept up with my regular workouts. So I don’t think I’ll be out of breath. And there’s definitely no need to practice dance moves, because those are just natural for my Guatemalaness. So I guess will just have to see what comes out of this fitness party.

 

Image via LeFunny.net

 

Hopefully I won’t end up looking like the chick on the right during this whole event. I’ll keep you posted.

 

Happiness Project Update 24: Stopping the Autopilot

I thought that multitasking was a good thing. I’m a chick, we need to multitask. There’s only 24 hours in the day and we need at least 30 to get everything done. I know I do. But I realized that sometimes multitasking can suck the life out of you. Suck it!

No, it’s not the stress of  not finishing. No, not the anxiety that comes with failing to cross off items from your to-do list. No, it sucks the life out of you because sometimes you stay on autopilot and miss out on life. I found myself trying to pay bills online, wash the dishes, get distracted by to-do list thoughts, and have breakfast with my kids all at the same time. Then it sort of hit me while I was doing my 21-day Meditation Challenge last month.  I thought … what a jackass. If someone was doing all those things while I was trying to have a meal with them I’d be pretty burned out. I realized … multitasking kills my mindfulness.

I needed to start being in the now, being present. Now in my defense, when I’m out on adventures, exercising, or hanging out I am fully present. But sometimes I have technical difficulties, usually when I’m at home. Usually when multitasking arises. My mom ambition takes over and the mission to accomplish everything on the to-do list gets a kung-fu grip on me. It’s a mission and I need to finish it.

Image via happiness-project.com

But that whole 21-Day Meditation Challenge really honed in my focus and my appreciation of “the moment,” it forced me to stay still, and it also reinforced what I read in Gretchen Rubin‘s mindfulness chapter.

Now I understand that I have to get things done and that life moves pretty quickly, especially if you’ve got two kids and you’re the CEO, CFO, Managing Partner and custodian of the household. Things sort of move at the speed of light sometimes and you’re doing whatever you can to catch up. So you go on autopilot, but I realized that sometimes autopilot draws out the jackass in me and I miss moments, stuff like breakfast with my kids. Now mind you sometimes breakfast may include syrup in someone’s hair, pancakes on the floor, spilled milk, battles for the last sip of the orange juice or toasting up bagels only to realize that there’s no cream cheese. Yes morning chaos may ensue, but sometimes you have a moment — the kind of moment that you remember at the end of the day — the kind that makes it to the what-am-I-grateful-for-today answer list. Mindfulness helps you remember that you’re probably going to have very few meals in the future where the kids won’t be multitasking, texting, and ignoring you as they are dashing out the door.

So what did I do when the universe sent me the mindfulness message twice?

Well … I paid attention. I shut down the autopilot and paid attention. I closed the computer, left the dishes alone and joined in at the Frosted Mini-Wheats and Silver Dollar Pancake extravaganza.

The most important was mindfulness — the cultivation of conscious, non-judgmental awareness … it gives clarity and vividness to present experience … Gretchen Rubin, The Happiness Project.

I realized that mindfulness can help boost your happiness levels a bit, and I could always use a shot of that. Being in the present definitely helps you enjoy daily life a bit more, especially when you have something out of the ordinary take place. You’re there to witness it, all of it. Now that doesn’t mean I would stop multitasking, but it did mean that I would stop the autopilot when hanging out with my kids. I’d be in the moment and forget about the to-do list until my kids were actually engaged in something else. Play-Doh and Legos usually rock their world, so I would save the multitasking until then.

So here’s to mindfulness … for taking the jackass out of me.

 

Keeping A Badass Frame of Mind

Just when I thought I was badass, The Fight For Air Climb made me think again.

I knew it was going to be tough, but I didn’t think it would be so challenging. I thought I had trained for this. I was Rocky Balboa for about two months and I thought I was ready. I stormed bleachers and stairs and thought my Hulk Hogan-like quads were sculpted enough and ready to take on the 1,400 steps waiting for me.

Yeah … I thought. That was the problem right there …

I mean the morning started off all right, just a few jitters at the registration table.

 

My gear from the registration table.

 

But when I saw my t-shirt I laughed. I knew I was in the right place. I was still in my badass frame of mind. I mean you’d have to think you were a badass to climb this monster.

 

The Challenge. The AON Center. 63 stories and about 1,400 steps.

 

And so I remained in this state for most of the morning. However, I did have some help. The DJ pumped up the crowd with a few tunes and everyone was excited for the climb to start. Then I noticed the memory wall — names of people being honored during the climb — and I saw my dad’s name and it gave me an extra boost. It reminded me that this was more than just another BenGay moment.

 

The memory markers hanging near the starting line.

 

As I passed the memory wall I noticed a group of firefighters approaching.

 

Heading towards the front of the building.

 

I was like dude … did someone pass out already? But they seemed to be walking pretty slowly to be rapidly responding to a crisis.

 

The rest of the crew, getting geared up for the race.

 

No. No crisis. They happen to be walking to the starting line to join the multitude of elite climbers designated to go first. Apparently these firefighters were also participating in the race, however they were not wearing t-shirt, and shorts attire. They were in full-on firefighter gear. I really thought I was badass, but this … this seem to put me in the minor leagues. I couldn’t imagine climbing with all that extra weight. I could barely climb with an iPod. But I was here, and I was going to finish no matter what league I was in.

In truth, I thought I was going to do well. As always I watched clips from Miracle, Rudy, Remember the Titans, Hoosiers, Rocky, Glory Road, The Natural, Invincible, and Breaking Away. I listened to inspirational coach speeches. I thought I had prepared, both physically and mentally. I’m a nerd I always prepare. I reached the starting line, got the countdown, and took off.  I thought … I got this.

 

Standing at the starting line.

 

Uh … think again. When I reached the eighth floor. Something happened, and I had to think back to my training.

There I was in the outdoors storming the bleachers of the local high school and community college stadium, working up a sweat after about forty minutes and thinking … I can do this. But there was only one problem … I was outdoors, breathing fresh air.  Fresh being the key word here. So I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier. I guess I should have known that fresh air, or fake air for that matter, does not circulate in skyscraper stairwells. It does not.

You know what does circulate?

Sweat, smell, and claustrophobia. Yeah … it spreads itself up and down those 63 stories, crop-dusting itself all over, in every nook and cranny. I couldn’t understand why my legs felt heavy after only twelve stories. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t storm these steps two at a time, like a real athlete, like I had during my training. I couldn’t understand why I got so tired so early and why my heart was beating so quickly.

And then it hit me. I was learning this lesson the hard way.

Oxygen. Pinche lack oxygen.

I was in the American Lung Association‘s Fight For Air Climb and I was literally fighting for air. This is when my fake running began. You know when you’re running at the park or track and you see some chick or dude half-assing it. They’re running in slow motion, it’s not even jogging. It’s slower than jogging, but they think they are actually sprinting because they’re pumping their arms and bobbing their head up and down. They’re going at the speed of walk. Yeah … that was me. I had become the half-ass chick because there was not enough oxygen and everyone around me was feeling it. We were in full-blown hypoxia mode.

Thank God they opened a few doors on various levels, and thank God for the high school volunteers trying to fan me with signs. That definitely helped boost my energy level a bit. And then just when I thought I was getting closer I looked up and saw the sign. I had barely cleared the 24th floor.

Holy crap. This climb was definitely going to kick my ass.

 

Most definitely.

 

But I didn’t want to stop, so I grabbed hold of the handrail and kept climbing. Once I hit the halfway mark I just stopped looking at the signs. I hated the fact that I was climbing so many steps only to realize that I had gone up a few flights. All I wanted to see was the 60th floor approaching, but I was so far off. This floor countdown was not cool,  so I just tried to avoid the signs.

But, did I make it to the top without crawling, without hanging on the stairs for dear life, or without throwing up like many of my fellow climbers?

Hell yes!

I rose to the top. I did it by any means necessary. Mostly jogging, the running had stopped at the eighth floor. But there was some dancing as I passed by my fellow climbers. I fought through the lack of oxygen and smelly hallways to finish in 87th place out of 350 chicks. It may not seem fantastic, but it was good for me.

So thank you Double Dutch Bus, thank you Mr. World Wide Pitbull Don’t Stop The Party, thank you Devil Went Down to Georgia, thank you Eye of The Tiger, thank you Michael Jackson’s Mama-Say-Mama-Sah Ma-Ma-Coo-Sah. You came through for me once I reached the 40th floor. But most of all thank you Tucanes de Tijiuana because La Chona helped me run my way to the top.

 

One of the views from the top.

63 Stories. 1,400 stairs. I clocked in at 18.41.

Surprisingly there was no BenGay this time, maybe it was because of the VIP sports massage I got after I finished the climb. However, there was plenty of ice for my weary 37-year old knees.

But the question remains … Still, badass?

Yes. Hell yes! Most definitely.

Daily Prompt Challenge: Playlist of The Week

 

I felt pumped at the beginning of the week having succeeded in my most recent challenge … roller derby. I felt badass.

 

 

Life caught up with me on Tuesday.

 

 

And in the middle of the week when you’re usually feelin’ crappy, I did a little turn around and found some inspiration.

 

 

Picked up some pep and things got a little better.

 

 

Ended the week feeling pretty good … not quite badass, but definitely on my way back.

 

 

Daily Prompt Challenge courtesy of The Daily Post

Happiness Project Update 23: Extending Deadlines and Plan B

During my whole Happiness Project quest there were a lot of truths I had to come clean about in order to make this project work. One of the things I had to let go of was My List. At one point or another, everyone has a list. You know, the By-The-Time-I’m-at-a-Certain-Age List I should be at Point X in my life.

Image via happiness-project.com

Yeah that’s the one.

I made the list as a way of giving myself a deadline. You’re supposed to be filled with certain milestones every decade, right? 20, 30, 40? It gave me something to strive for, to work for, to reach for, but when I didn’t get where I was supposed to be, well what was I supposed to do?  Stuff my face with chocolate? Yes. Definitely yes. But why the disappointment? I should have accounted for some setbacks, right?

Here’s the thing. I didn’t think I was going to fail, so when I did I thought holy crap, what should I do now? Couldn’t do anything but let go. And dude that was hard. I turned 30 and that was that. There were a few items left on the list. Unfinished. I hadn’t made the deadline, and letting go of it made me feel like a failure. This is where the chocolate came into play. The disappointment of not completing My List by 30, probably gave birth to my love affair with chocolate, which I guess was a nice silver lining.

But as I continued reading the Happiness Project I realized that I didn’t really have to let go of My List, I just had to extend the deadline. We get extensions all the time, why not on this, right? I mean for people who get it all done by 30, 35, or 40 well woo-hoo and great for you. But for the rest of us there’s Plan B — The Extension. Now some people may look down on it. So there are times when you get down on the dumps, because you hear all these stories of people getting to Point X a lot sooner than they originally planned. No extension needed. But then I saw this commercial and it gave me hope. I thought dude … it’s on. I mean I’m not close to 50, but it’s still on.

 

 

I could still chase those same goals and those same dreams, I could still pursue my passions, and probably experience all kinds of adventures in the process. But I’d still be able to cross off items from The List. It would just take a little longer. Passion doesn’t run out. It’s still beating inside you, like a heartbeat. The only difference is that I would no longer follow the blueprints from my original plan. I’d have to take on an alternate route. A Plan B. But just because it’s Plan B, doesn’t make it any less of a woo-hoo moment. A woo-hoo is a woo-hoo no matter what the timeline. Realizing that there would still be high-fives and chocolate waiting for me made it a little easier to feel less crappy about not completing the 30s List. This just meant that my 40s and 50s list would be more rewarding, more adventurous and requiring more Glucosamine.

 

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