...and She Will Have Music Wherever She Goes

I love music.  It moves me.  I do everything to music - everything I can.  And no real music is off limits...well, except ganster rap and death metal.  Not music.  End of story.

I even wake up with a song in my head every morning.  And depending on my mood, or the mood I was in the night before, the song changes.  It doesn't even need to be a song I've heard any time in the recent past.  Take this morning for example, I woke up at 5 am (not okay with that, just in case you're wondering) with "Sail Away" by the Oak Ridge Boys.  Oh, yeah...that's right.  No Lady Gaga, Foster the People, Aerosmith, or Trace Adkins for me.  Nope...got stuck with some backwoods group that was hot in the 70's and 80's.  Lovely.

And no changing the channels either.  For whatever reason, I'm stuck with what I tune in to first thing.  But, I have noticed that it seems to set my day.  If I am listening to a sad song on my mental stereo, I will be a bit melancholy; if however, I have been rockin' a snappy number I'm more likely to have a groovy kind of day. So...this morning's happy tune got me going (and soon the day just sailed away!  Maybe tomorrow my music selection will move in to the hip tunes of Sir Mix Alot, Al B Sure, or Garth Brooks from those fascinating 90's.

Being the Joneses

I am old enough now that I no longer hop gingerly from the bed, crank up the music, and dance around my morning routine.  I now must rock back and forth to leverage myself up from the mattress, not unlike a turtle trying to right itself, praying to god that cracking sound is a normal response.  Once accomplished, I make the bed (it really does help the room look tidy no matter what may lay on the floor) and amble to the shower, then my whole physical 'fix up' begins.  And it doesn't matter the time I choose to grace the day with my presence, either.  I still do not have the capacity to burst from the sheets first thing any longer.

Reflection of my youth reveals a time when I could take 45 minutes from wake to walk-out, impressively put together for the day ahead of me.  At this stage in my life, I can take 45 minutes to remember what the hell I walked in the bathroom for in the first place.

Now, it's hair appointments to hide the gray, make-up techniques to open the eyes, botox considerations to remove the wrinkles and hours at the gym to "regain what's been lost" instead of "maintain what's been given".  It's slippers at the end of the day to relieve the aching feet from the heels I've stuffed them in and a reconsideration before choosing the shorter skirt or lower neckline.  Class is now defined by leather and smooth instead of louder and fast.  Elegance is embraced where rebellion once reigned and subtle-sexy is the new 'in' thing.

So, why do I do all this?  Why bother when it just gets more difficult to achieve, things take longer and require a little something 'extra'?  Because I am the Joneses.  And so are you.  Those of us who have weathered the storm of our teens, beaten the odds (and oddities) of our twenties and even seen clear of our thirties.  We now see something we want, we get it and we earn it.  We wear what we want and we wear it well.  Even those styles that make our audience raise an eyebrow or share a surprise glance.

C'mon, you must admit - the Walmartian donning the too-tight spandex and brazenly blue eyelids may scare you a bit, but it somehow fits her overall image...

So, roll out of bed and pray you don't miss the landing.  Grunt or expel some strange sound with every move you make.  Forget where you put the keys in your right hand.  Refuse to speak to anyone, even by phone or email, until you have had a pot of caffiene.  Open the garage door four times before you realize the trash can is already back in it's spot.  Neighbors be damned.  Because you are the Joneses and you're setting the bar (just make sure that it's set high enough that the rest of us can safely limbo underneath it if we no longer can clear it with a high-jump).

Tricks for Treats

With just one word, uttered almost imperceptibly, I can tame the wild antics of my boys - a blonde pit-boxer and a tightly wound lab - in to such pristine poses one would suppose that they always behaved their best.  They impress me when there is something to be gained.

Much like all other creatures, even humans.  We all seem to want to show our best when we have a target, a want, a desire.  Job interviews to social situations, we boast our best manners, style, and charm.  Tucking all of our dirty little secrets neatly away from inquisitive eyes.

It is only later, once the connection has been secured that we slip; cracking our facade just enough to let the qusetionable conduct, the taboo behaviors, the realness of our presence seep out in to our surroundings.  We become lazier, no longer tidying up our things before we leave the office and letting dishes stack up in the sink at home.  We slack off on the 'extras' we originally offered without provocation.  But hint at a jeopardy or instability and like magic our best washes over us anew.  Not unlike my dogs - one mention of a goody and suddenly butts are planted on the floor, ears are perked up and all hint of slobbering tapers off.

Are we really so malleable that we stop slacking off only when we need to earn the "treat"?

Oh, Those San Francisco Mornings

Fall is my absolute favorite time of the year.  The cooler temps, the robust colors, the smell...in my mind, it's a little piece of paradise.  For me the mornings are the best.  The clean, crisp air and clearer blue skies - it's all like the world is cleansed anew and I wake during this time every morning with a deep breath and a stretch.  It always takes me back to when I first experienced this phenomenon.

I was raised in the South and throughout my early grade school years heat and humidity was all I knew.  This was only broken up by a two and half year stint in hotter and more humid South America.  I loved my time there, it feels more like a child fantasy now when I look back on it, but it was definitely the land of bigger, larger, more.  More heat, more humidity, bigger bugs (um...BIG-GER), larger animals, grander thunderstorms.  As a kid it was total exotic splendor.  As an adult?  No, not so much.

In my teenage years, I moved in with my father and stepmother in San Francisco.  It was the first time I had experienced a lack of humidity, good hair and cool mornings.  In Houston, it can be 87% humidity at eleven at night and still at that percentage at 6:45am the next day.  But in Northern California the mornings dawned bright and clear and comfortably chill.  The kids wore shorts, flip flops and hoodies to school.  It was then that I realized I could never be comfortable in high-degree temps again.

I'm a well-insulated girl, so even operating at optimum weight and fitness levels, I perform better in cooler weather than warmer.  And as the days get cooler, I find my motivation increases.  I want to do more, wake earlier (I didn't say early folks, I said earlier), be happier and more active.

So, I say bring on the Autumn, the cool fronts, the color displays.  I will embrace them all with my best face on...and maybe a pair of heels someday real soon.

The Downhill Race

It seems as though life goes in cycles - smooth sailing and constant chaos.  While the easy-going pace of the 'up cycle' can be calm and pleasant, chaotic uncertainties can encourage us and push us to new levels.  We never seem to be prepared for these abrupt changes in our lifecycle but it also never seems as though the abrupt good changes affect us like the gut punches do.

One minute we are cruising through, the next a shocking phone call stops our breath.  Or an accident or illness.  Mother Nature erases your plans for the day.  An abrupt change of work status - whether good or bad - is announced.

No matter what, these times not only define our current path but help to define ourselves.  They give us those moments to reflect and decide whether or not we like the person we are currently and if there are changes that should and could be made towards betterment.

So, as my life goes bumping along as though I'm cruising down a dirt hill in a cardboard box, I try to remember that these moments help to shape me further, making me stronger and wiser.

Mum's the Word

Its dance time in the South and all the school-age girls are beginning to plan their wardrobe, hair, makeup, shoes, accessories, etc.  It's a crazy time all over the nation but somehow made bigger in the South.  And what dance would be complete without a corsage?  However, in Texas, it’s not a small rosebud with a sprig of baby’s breath.  It’s called a mum and it’s huge.  Literally.  It’s like a cluster of corsages having group sex.

I can remember my first high school dance.  My mother was so excited.  It was all about ‘the mum’.  They were displayed in storefronts like some kind of livestock award: a large blooming middle with streaming ribbons hanging down.  Only the mums for school dances are usually white or school colors.  My mother went on for the whole week, and I admit – I was excited about my first mum too.

My first mum was large and with red and white streamers.  How I stood up with it pinned on, I will never know.  However, not to be outdone by any other Texas mother, mine also sported small cow bells and little blinking white lights.  Nope, not kidding.  I looked and sounded like an electric Bessie.  I swear.

And now my daughter is of age for the mum-madness to begin.  Only she’s even luckier than I was then.  She’s got two women vying for the privilege of adorning a mum to her bosom for prom.  She’s a bit overwhelmed by the whole thing but I’m having a great time with it.  Imagine – two mums pinned to her chest.  She’s going to look like a mobile flower shop.  But as awesome as it is, I have warned her not to go outside during the day or she may just become consumed by bees.  Through it all, at least I can take some solace in that her boyfriend won’t be able to get too close to her on the dance floor as long as she’s got the floral armor pinned to her front.

To heel or not to heel...

After gimping about for more than a week, I finally made the trek to my doctor's office.  I show up on time (miracle) and in just a few short moments, in she comes.  She looks at me, then back at the chart in her hands and once again up at me, this time her expression revealing a bit of confusion.  "Tee, what brings you in today?"  She asks.

"Oh, my left foot is bothering me."  I pick up my leg and point to the area in question.  "So, I thought I better rule out a hairline fracture or something."

"Uh-huh."  She responds.  "So, you show up in 3-inch heels?"

I looked down at my shiny white patent wedges.  "Well, yeah.  I have a client after this."  Everyone knows you show your best face to clients, especially when you're masking an injury or illness.  At least that's how we do it in the South.

"Of course you do."   I distinctly detected an eye roll.

I pointed to the troublesome spot again.  "Last Thursday, I was vacuuming and kicked the bed frame, I don't know if you can see it or not," I began.

"You mean the red protrusion there on the outside?"  I might be mistaken, but I could swear there was a sarcastic tone applied to her question.  "Come on."  She exited, placing my chart on the counter.  "Let's get that x-rayed."

Three frames later, I'm back in the small prison-like cell that all patients invariably kill valuable time in.

She re-enters.  "It's broken, as you know.  Will you wear a boot if I put you in one?"

"Yes."  I say with complete conviction.  Then nothing; she's just staring at me blankly.  I shift my eyes left and right, re-focus on her face.  Nope.  Still nothing.  Just that stare.  I think for a minute.  "Yes.  I will wear it until I feel better.  Then, I'll probably start forgetting to put it on."

"That's what I thought.  So, we'll order you a post-op orthopedic foot boot. I want you to be off that foot more than on it.  You'll need to cancel that client.  You can see them again once you're wearing that shoe."

"Wait.  Are you talking about the ugly, velcro, blue thing people wear after foot surgery?"  She nodded.  I burst out laughing.  "That's not a good look."  Again, that blank stare.  She wasn't budging on this one.

"Just when you're planning to go out."

"That's not gonna happen.  I'm not going out with that on."

She studied my face.  "Okay, it's either this for the next three weeks or you could possibly suffer long-term, permanent damage and may not be able to wear your heels again."

What?!  Was she serious?  Without heels on, people don't even know I'm in the room.  I'm not exactly an average-height girl and I prefer dress-up to dress-down on most days.  She had me.  And she knew it.  "Okay.  You win."  I begrugdingly conceded.

Moral of the story?  Housekeeping should only be done by licensed professionals and is WAY too dangerous for a layman like me.  And if it compromises the ability for girls to wear great shoes?  Fix it.  No matter what.

Out of My Element

With my foot still giving me pains and keeping me down for two days, I decided I would try swimming at the gym.  I've never been much of a pool person.  I am the epitome of Air: I'm a Gemini, in my head all the time, prefer the wind to be blowing and have a penchant for breathing.  As it would turn out, there's not a whole lot of air to be had underwater.  Ergo, Tee is not much of a swimmer.

To my luck, there was an open lane available for me to pretend I know what I'm doing in the water.  I began praying not to look as though I was drowning and while I tried to catch my breath after one lap of intense dog-paddling, a couple sauntered in.  They began chatting it up and as I crawled my way back through the water I caught snippets that led me to believe these two were in a bit of a lovers' quarrel.  About that time, Pro Swimmer Barbie slipped in to the lane beside me and began to talk about swimming in a very official manner between laps.  I had no idea if I was doing the breast-stroke, freestyle, or just frantically trying to keep water out of my nose.  But there she was every time I paused, bubbly talking about goggles, strokes and chlorine.

Interestingly, as I coached myself to just keep going, tidbits of the couple's conversation revealed it was escalating with every erratic, uncoordinated slap of my arms on the water.  Finally, determined to no longer be the scene of attention, the man stood up and announced that he had to go (regretfully) to a meeting.  In response, the girl had a couple of four-letter words to grace us all with and shouted that he had had a meeting last week and he was just brushing her off.  Apparently, there is a maximum allotment for meetings each month.  Who knew?

Meanwhile, the swimming cheerleader next to me was still mentioning different strokes and techniques all the while I was just trying to wait until I broke the surface before attempting a breath.  So, I finally broke down and embarrassingly admitted to the woman, with her own floatation devices, that I hadn't actually been in a pool other than to have a water fight in many years.  Just then, to punctuate my whole experience, the abandoned pool-side girl began crying and stormed off as her man escaped to the men's locker room.  I fought my way down the length of the pool one last time and as I scrambled gracefully out of the water, I thought to myself: "Man, I've got to come to the gym more often."