Mom

I’m going to start off this post by saying that my mom deserves every accolade out there—she is funny, wicked smart and her good health and youthful appearance gives me great hope for my own genetics. While now I truly consider her a friend, when I was younger, my mom managed to strike that amazing balance of being approachable while not trying to be a teenager herself. In other words, I wasn’t allowed to run wild and I was expected to get good grades, but I felt comfortable telling her about the awkwardness of basically everything associated with growing up.   

Perhaps most importantly, she raised me with incredible values, taught my brother and me how to respect others and always encouraged us to be ourselves--even when it seemed like the world was telling us otherwise. Even now that we are both adults, she always puts us first, is super proud of our achievements and supports us when we need a hand. Sometimes she says things I don’t really want to hear, as moms do, but I can say with 1000% confidence that she is the best and Jacob and I are lucky to have her.

As I’ve gotten older, ‘lucky to have her’ has taken on some new meaning. While Mother’s Day for me and Jacob is a time of true celebration for the kick-ass woman who put(s) up with us, it’s become more apparent the last few years that for some, Mother’s Day is anything but joyous. While of course tragedies happen at any turn, it’s a reality that they happen more frequently with age, and many people in my life have parents who are starting to get sick or have passed away. In other cases, people also associate Mother’s Day with being, rather than having, a mother and this day can be painful for someone who has experienced a miscarriage, the death of a child or estrangement from a son or daughter.

Social media makes this a million times worse. While I too have taken part in the ‘My Mom rules!’ Facebook postings, complete with a cute pictures of the two of us when I was little, I can only assume that people who feel sad on Mother’s Day also generally dread the internet around this time. When you’ve experienced that kind of pain, it puts salt in the wound to be faced with a barrage of people reminding you, without necessarily meaning to, what they have that you don’t. And, this is on top of all the advertising and marketing that goes into Mother’s Day, from special deals at stores to prix-fixe menus to ‘recommended reads for Mom.’ If you’re lucky, you revel in the festivities, but if the day brings mixed emotions, it can all be a little much.

For this reason, I won’t share this post on social media. If you’re reading it, it’s probably because I sent it to you directly or someone else did. I of course want to honour my mother as I do every year, but this time I’ll try to do so in a way that’s sensitive to those who are not so lucky.

This brings me to my final point. At the end of the day, I don’t need to tell the whole world how amazing my mom is, but in the spirit of what I’ve just said, I should probably tell her a little more often. So Mom:

Thank you for your infinite patience over the last 28 and a half years. Thank you for the meals, the rides, and the homework help. Thank you for listening to me drone on for hours about my day, and thank you for not getting upset when I sometimes forget to ask about yours. Thank you for indulging my picky eating. Thank you for showing (not telling) me how to be a strong woman with an independent mind. Thank you for being the most loyal reader of this blog, and of everything I write. And thank you most of all for just being you, and for always, always, letting me be me. You are the best mom ever, and I love you so very much. Happy Mother’s Day. 

 

Nostalgia and the Elephant Show

When news broke of Lois Lillenstein’s death I-- along with many others on the older end of the millennial spectrum--was heartbroken.  My productivity hit a wall, as I scoured the news and reminisced with friends and family members about what a loss this was for the generation—my generation—who loved her. The Elephant Show was a staple for Canadian kids in the 80s and 90s, and there was something so sweet and innocent about the program-- buoyed in large part by its highly likeable and quirky hosts. And, while Sharon and Bram still tour and record, for those of us now in our late 20s and 30s, it was always about the trio, a puzzle made up equally of three wonderful parts.

Lois’ passing represented not only the death of a beloved children’s entertainer, but also yet another trigger of the nostalgia I find myself feeling a lot these days. The Elephant Show is, to me, a snapshot of a simpler time, of being a kid, and thinking of it causes me to long a little bit for whimsical days past. I found myself looking back in the same way when Robin Williams died, and even just the other day when the Full House reunion was announced. With Robin Williams, I remembered watching Mrs. Doubtfire in my grandparents’ basement with my cousins when they came to visit, or putting Aladdin on every day when my brother Jacob was a baby. Full House was a show my mom (correctly) deemed ‘non-educational’ and so it was a once-a-week treat I so greatly looked forward to. In other words, every milestone that passes, every time a childhood hero dies, every reboot that’s announced, they all bring at least a little bit of that ‘I remember’ or ‘I miss.’

The nice thing about memories, though, is that they’re always there when you need them. Recently in a serious ‘feeling old’ moment, I learned that Alanis Morrissette’s Jagged Little Pill was hitting its 20th anniversary. Quite aside from the fact that the album itself is amazing, it also came in handy a few weeks later when I was feeling stressed, anxious and ultimately all too immersed in the big bad adult world. While I couldn't transport myself back to 1995 or relieve my life of every grownup pressure I felt that day, listening to Hand in My Pocket a few times, realizing I still knew all the words to Head Over Feet, brought me to a place when I could feel as if I was 9 again and the world was still simple. Essentially, I know I can never go backwards, but sometimes I can bring the past to me and make things a little more ok.

Perhaps even better than that is the fact that these cultural memories are shared. Though we all have unique stories to tell and our own associations with celebrities or events, ultimately every 90s kid went on a similar journey through pop culture, and when we get bad news or an old show is resurrected, we’re reminded that we’re not alone in our moments of mourning or reflection. And for me, as I approach my own age milestone, it’s shared moments like these that remind me that there are lots and lots of others out there feeling the exact same thing.

So yes, our whimsical Elephant Show days are behind us, and this week with Lois Lillenstein’s death, that rings a little more true. Still, nostalgia does more than make us feel old or remind us that we aren’t kids anymore-- it provides us with a wonderful memory lane we can walk down together, and most importantly, it gives us a smile. And so with that I say: Thank you, Lois Lillenstein, for the good times—you'll be greatly missed.

In Memoriam: My fast metabolism

I was a super skinny kid, and as a wise and all-knowing 8 year old, I assumed I’d be small and wiry forever. Then a catastrophe called puberty hit, bringing some home truths into the equation, and I spent the ages of 13 to 17 in a perpetual state of doughyness. I was not large by any means, but I definitely did not have the look of someone who could eat whatever she wanted and not gain weight.

However, in my late teens and early 20s, that all changed. I lost 15 pounds and virtually overnight I became one of those people unfairly blessed with a metabolism on hyperdrive. Perhaps the calorie-burning gods smiled down on me as reward for staying in school and saying no to crack, or maybe it was university and career-driven stress that did the trick, but whatever the case, the doughy days were indeed over and I spent a good 10 years not really worrying about what I ate.

Sure, I would gain a few pounds here and there, and yes it’s true that due largely to preference and dietary restrictions, I don’t lead a completely gluttonous lifestyle—I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, I can’t eat cream-based products, and most fast food doesn’t appeal to me. I also run (occasionally) and do karate (sporadically), so there has been some burning of calories the old-fashioned way as well. Still, I certainly take some liberties with my diet and my level of exercise, in that I can eat a medium pizza in its entirety and make working out more of a part-time commitment, and I’ve never had to have much concern over the consequences.

New reality.

Until recently.

I feel like it was right around the time of my 28^th birthday that I realized that the nuisance of gaining a bit of weight couldn’t be rectified by giving up fries for a week or taking an extra karate class. I began to notice that when I put on a few pounds, they tended to stay there, and I wasn’t just adding heft in nice places like my boobs or my cheeks. Also, I still felt hungry a lot, but slowly but surely I started to feel bloated at times I previously hadn’t been and wasn’t enjoying consuming large quantities of food quite the way I used to. Yes, this is when reality hit—my metabolism was slowing down and I wasn’t going to be young (or thin) forever.

We had a good run, me and my fast metabolism. I was fun back then—never a worry about another calorie-laden beer, never a concern about eating too much on the holidays or having an extra piece of toast (or 3) at breakfast. I didn’t have to be the annoying asshole at a work function who would sneer at everything delicious because everything delicious had too many carbs. Instead, I was the annoying asshole who would have seconds of everything delicious and then five minutes later complain-but-not-really-complain about how I couldn’t shop at the Gap because their smallest sizes were giant on me. Isn’t it a pain when your dresses are all loose at the sides and you need a belt with every pair of pants? Nope, in retrospect, it turns out it really isn’t a pain at all.

Overrated. Truly.

I would not by any means say that I have perfect eating or exercise habits now, but I am keenly aware of the price to be paid if I don’t make at least a bit of an effort, and to this end a giant plate of pasta doesn’t give me the same level of joy it once did. I know too that time is not on my side, and this isn’t something that’s going to go away, so it’s in my best interest to develop some good habits now. I try to tell myself, as I’m dutifully making my salads for lunch and exercising every ounce of willpower not to pack them full of croutons and cheese, eating healthy and exercising regularly does make you feel good and will ultimately make the aging process far less painful. Also our bodies change, I’m still perfectly healthy and not at all chubby, nothing wrong with being chubby anyway, blah blah blah (yes Mom, Dave, deeply irritated friends—I hear you). 

But let me just say that this is SO UNFAIR. Already I have to start worrying about wrinkles and grey hairs and wearing age-appropriate clothing, but now the fear of love handles and muffin top are part of this new reality too? And if I want a snack, that should probably something boring like carrots or maybe just a glass of water, not a cookie or a croissant or the ever-amazing ‘second dinner’? Getting older sucks!

First post!

In exactly 497 days, I will be 30 years old. If you’re doing the math, that makes me 28 and change, with a full year of my roaring 20s to go before I hit the big milestone.

I decided to start this blog because around the time of my 28^th birthday, 30 started to feel more ‘real’ to me. Before then, it had seemed like my 20s would last forever and that 30 was this big scary age way off in the future, but once I hit the 2 year countdown mark it began to occupy my mind at nearly every turn.

So mature.

Society puts immense pressures on women turning 30, and aging in general. We are still supposed to look like a teenager, dress like a fashion model and have the maturity and grace of the First Lady. Career-wise, we should be well on our way to executive-level success, and also having or thinking about babies. We should have traveled the world and embraced our youth, but should still have enough money left over for nice wine and fancy purses. In other words, we should be doing it all, having it all, without a wrinkle or a grey hair in sight.

To me, 30 is the first milestone I’ve actually associated with aging (compared to 19, which was associated with drinking), and also the only one where I had set goals or expectations for myself to reach by this point. I too had inflicted many of these pressures upon myself, and with less than 500 days to go, I often myself feeling like the clock is ticking. Have I traveled enough? Is my career where it should be? Is there something wrong with me because have neither a house nor a driver’s license? Oh and by the way, how do I look?

August 30^th, 2016 is a date that’s been looming on my calendar for a while now, and as it approaches, I’ll probably continue to feel a whole range of emotions. Consider this blog my therapy—my way of navigating through my fears while hopefully having some fun along the way. I hope you’ll join me on this journey and follow my path to my Dirty 30s!