Archive for the The Journey Category

Every Spring when I hear the rumble of motorcycles, my heart ignites. If I had my wish, I would straddle a Honda Shadow(my dream machine), clad in fringed leather from head to toe and with a red bandana in my hair. I rode a motorcycle for a few years until my significant other deemed it too dangerous. With great sadness I sold my Vulcan 750 to a man with sleeved tattoos, long, black, braided hair and a wicked grin. I’ll never forget that last ride….bumping down highway 70 with my husband driving behind me while I delivered the bike to its new owner. He was certain I would hit a bump, fall and roll, and he would run over me. He would say it was the most stressful drive of his life.

But I still dream of leather. My favorite part of my bike was the leather seat. Soft and cushy, it held my enormous rumpus while I glided down the highways, covering miles of ground with no purpose other than the wind in my hair and the sun on my back. Now that I’ve lost the weight I dream of owning a new bike again, but every time I mention it to my husband he gets this squinty face and says, “I know you want to be a Motorcycle Mama, but the truth is, you will die.” I usually sigh and go back to dreaming but decided to push the issue over the Independence Day holiday. He told me a few gruesome stories of death, decapitation and paraplegia, all true tales from “morons” who participate in that misfortunate activity. I wanted to punch him.

I feel very much like Ralphie in A Christmas Story. “You’ll shoot your eye out.” Well, maybe I’d be happy with one eye. Did he ever think of that? Hm? So I say, “If I die riding a motorcycle, at least I will die satisfied with my life!” But he is like the Grinch that stole Christmas. His heart is 3 sizes too small.

I have been trying to think of covert ways to manipulate him into letting me get a new ride but he is very unmanipulatable. So I’m stuck with daydreaming. But there is no law against buying leather motorcycle clothes, right? So I have set my eyes on leather chaps, a leather vest with a fringe and a red banana. Maybe even *gasp* a leather bra! Of course I’ll need some cool black boots and I have even decided I need a new tattoo. It will be a big heart on my right arm that says “Motorcycle Mama.” And I shall walk up and down the street, and I shall go to the grocery store(Aldi and Shop N Save) and to Wal-Mart(where I will fit right in with the rest of the weirdo’s) and I shall drag my children behind me, red faced and frustrated while I pretend to be what I feel I already am inside.

Because a dream deferred makes the heart sick. And dreaming of motorcycles makes me happy. Maybe one glorious day my husband will give in-–he will I just know it-—and I will get to be a Motorcycle Mama once again.

I’ve talked the past few days about overcoming challenges at work with a positive attitude. As I slog through my people problems, I continue to work through my issues with food. My oral proclivities do not always blatantly manifest. They subsist in the background of my busy life like a dormant virus. But stress has a way of causing them to erupt and when they do…

It starts with a whisper…. “Things aren’t going well today, you should really treat yourself.” Visions of Snickers bars and chocolate cake dance through my head. But I fight them off with images of elephants dancing in bikinis. That strategy is successful for a while. Copious amounts of coffee and then lunch staves off the munchies temporarily but the drive home ignites my brain into overdrive as I plan the evening meal. When I am stressed out, this simple thought process is overwhelming. Making dinner suddenly feels like running a marathon. Cooking takes time, effort and energy I just don’t have. Usually I win this argument with myself by thinking about how much it’s going to cost to feed my beastlets, but when I’ve had a really bad day, I conveniently don’t care.

We have this “terrible, horrible” restaurant in Ferguson called Queen’s that makes the tastiest hot braised chicken and crab rangoon for miles around. It often calls to me “Margaret, you know you want me.” And I am suddenly weak in the knees. I obviously have no spine. Tuesday night, Queens lured and snagged me. With great glee I sliced off my right arm(Queens ain’t cheap) and carried home my box of sugar, fat and salt. Not only did I mistreat my body with that disgustingly yummy “food”, I inflicted bodily harm on my family as well. I freely admit we were all immensely happy. And then, to make matters “worse”, I ate a big waffle cone filled with ice cream because, well, I had ceased to care about the junk I was ingesting.

Wednesday morning I stumbled out of bed only to experience the dreadful Chinese Food hangover along with a healthy dose of remorse.

The truth is, no matter how much meal planning I do, I freely admit that I too fall prey to the delectable delight that is fast food. But I am not a failure! I am not conquered by that grease-laden delicacy! I too shall overcome the disastrous consequences of eating deep fried processed parts and rice byproducts. I have hitherto promised myself that I shall never, ever, eat Queen’s again(that’s a blatant lie).

The truly wonderful thing about weakness is that it reminds me I am human. I also love the challenge of failure because it reminds me I am strong enough to dust myself off and make better choices next time. I know that no matter how much I preach against processed foods and deep fried anything, I am sincerely glad that they exist for the truly bad days in life. And while I must make good choices 95% of the time, being bad 5% of the time feels AWESOME!

I have decided I will always fight for who I am and refuse to be defined by others. Historically I have caved to others opinions of me. I have wrapped myself in pretzels trying to be what they wanted me to be. This began in grade school when I was not widely accepted by my peers. I suppose I didn’t fit the societal norm or maybe I was just different. I thought something was wrong with me so I tried everything I could think of to fit in. As I have grown I have learned to embrace my differences. My unique talents serve a purpose that only I can provide and there will always be people in this world who take issue with that.

This morning I saw a woman in the office who is tall, leggy, lithe, and blond. She looked stunning and instantly I thought, “I would kill for that body.” And I looked down at my dumpy pants and plain white blouse. And I mentally assessed my saggy tummy and flappy arms. I have tried every strength training exercise I could find to rid myself of these flaws. Guess what? Nothing short of plastic surgery is going to rid me of them. I will never be tall, leggy, lithe or blond(unless I dye my hair). But that does not make me inconsequential. I see too many women obsess over their appearance and subsist in a world where they feel their value is diminished because they don’t look like the cover of Vogue magazine. I can think of one person at work specifically who is bubbly, energetic and whip smart, who makes a point to degrade her body every chance we talk. And yet she is widely regarded as one of the thought leaders for my company. Honestly, who the hell cares what she looks like?

Women, control what you can control and let go of what you can’t. If you feel unhealthy, make a plan and start working to get healthy. You may never look like Cindy Crawford, but that does not diminish your value as a human being. Embrace your differences! Challenge the world’s viewpoint that pretty is everything. Be unique. And spit in the face of Anna Wintour! Stop fighting a war you are not equipped to fight. Beauty is not everything no matter what L’Oreal says.

There are a couple of hags(who are not physically ugly) at work that made a point to make my life difficult yesterday. Deep down I think they are insecure and petty. Only insecure and petty people attack others because they have an innate desire to elevate themselves. I see through that façade. I watched them attack my opinions and skills and then start in on the abilities of a co-worker I highly admire. I saw their true colors immediately. Ironically, the person they chose to malign stopped by my cube late in the day(unaware of the opinions of the hags) and reminded me that all personalities(Drivers and empathetic leaders) are necessary in this world. If everyone were nice and polite the business world would screech to a halt. Maybe that is true, but prudence, respect and kindness go a long way towards earning loyalty, and associates who feel valued and respected will work their tails off (leaders take note).

Character defines a person, not beauty or status or stature or wealth. Some of the loveliest people in this world are overlooked simply because they do not look the way the world would choose them to. While actions speak louder than words, honorable character will often be subtle, like iced tea with a hint of raspberry. But when pressed, character always outshines the most beautiful body, no matter how sexy the dress or the body of the person wearing it.

I couldn’t find a picture to adequately define good character but I found this story. We should all live like Jordan Rice.