I would put on my Oakland A’s batting helmet, tucking my hair in tight, and then putting on my dad’s thick eyeglasses. I’d have to lean into the mirror very close to get the full effect because his vision was pretty bad. Then I’d clutch the towel tight under one armpit, take the glasses off first, then the helmet and I’d shake my head to get the hair to fall around my shoulders.

Sometimes I’d lean into the mirror further and try to wink as I turned on one heel to walk away all sexy-like. As you can imagine most times I cracked myself up and grabbed my clothes so that I could go roller skate on the deck as Tear for Fears played from my little boom box.

About a month ago I got an invite to go to a murder mystery party for Halloween. My character? Jenna Mopez. It was a huge stretch for me and, quite possibly, one of the most fun experiences I have ever had pushing myself outside of my comfort zone.

The crazy experience taught me a couple of things:

I don’t have to be anyone else. When I tried adopting someone else’s defining (or recognizable) traits, I realized how special my own really are.

It’s ok to wear whatever you like; fashion, however you interpret it, is meant to be fun.

Pool is not meant to be played while wearing a floppy hat.

A little bit of attitude can trump fear.

Pleather doesn’t breathe.

Us moms could stand to channel a bit of the diva from time to time to help us discover a stronger voice. Try it.

Ask.

Explain.

Listen.

Share.

Look.

Look twice.

Ask again.

Press on, because if you don’t, maybe no one will.

We all have vastly more power than we know, true injustice is failing to use it.

Your voice, evermore yours to use for good.

We were in maybe the 4th focus group and someone sat forward in their chair and said, “I don’t really care about the specifics of what it looks like or which area it may be most closely related to, all I ask, no, all I beg, is that it be aspirational. Make this about where we are going, who and what we could be, not just what is expected or what is already there.”

The news of Steve Jobs stepping down has me thinking. He has no doubt been a polarizing figure in some people’s eyes, for others he has been a virtual mentor, someone we’ve tried to emulate. Whether you are a Mac person or not, whether you have loved him or loathed him, he has dared to be aspirational and as such, he can be motivation.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

Yesterday I paused, today I am looking ahead and realizing I need to let my voice be stronger and my heart bolder. Tonight we colored with crayons and flung hula hoops at the night sky, tomorrow we’ll chase new dreams and go to sleep ragged and content from the pursuit so that in the morning we can again, wake hungry and unafraid of being foolish.

Second, devise things to pack for the littlest girl to make her feel like a big girl.

Third, pack 2 lunches that will satisfy the distinct eating habits of the older girls.

Fourth, make the littlest girl feel ok about not having a packed lunch.

Fifth, apply deodorant*

Sixth, make coffee and mutter under breath that coffee should always be the first order of business.

*Why this one so often gets delayed and delayed until it’s the last thing I do making me late defies explanation.

I could go on, but I think you get the drift. I try to pepper the to-dos with things that focus on grooming myself, but the latter half of June saw every-other-day-showers at best.

[Self: focus on the improvements]

This morning I decided to get a tiny bit gussied up. I put on a bright green tanktop and my go-to white skirt (go-to as in every time I wear it Sean whistles, compliments and generally looks at me with lovesick eyes). I dabbed on a bit of this and that to make my face look refreshed and then saved shoes for last. When I walked out to the car Finley squeaked, “Mom, show me your shoes!”

I tip-toed over to the car, opened the door and let her peek at my shoes. Her face lit up and she nodded as she said, “Oh, mama, I like those shoes. So bowy!” Her delight and my own pride at having managed to carve out the necessary time to dress up literally had me walking taller. When I got to work I replayed her exclaim in my head. I snapped a picture and then something hit me.

I can be bowy any time I want. My sparkle, passion, drive, whatever it is, is up to me. So while I might get dismayed that person x is charging forward with something that is equal parts preposterous and ballsy, their actions have no bearing on how bright my own star can be.

We get so caught up in what other people have, what they’re doing, or where they’re going that we forget that we can choose to drive or stall our own success at any given moment. Sitting in the light of this revelation I feel emboldened to shout the pursuit of my dreams from twitter, facebook, Google+ and face-to-face.

I am not ashamed of my aspirations, nor am I dubious about my talents.

Today I wish for everyone to feel the freedom to be unapologetically bowy.

We also have responsibilities. We have to figure things out. It isn’t always easy.

Borrowed from Trigger and Freewheel

But we soldier on because if we don’t, we never get ahead. You push at work, or in school, you refuse to give up on that water stain in the guest bathroom (do you know about coke?) so the same should be true for your eating habits. The pyramid most of us grew up with was kind of a joke, you didn’t really use it or remember it other than that the fats and sugars were up at the top. I think a lot of us forget that the top didn’t mean “eat a shit ton of this.” It meant, the point, the smallest amount. We also forgot how to enjoy treats, creating such a wave of enjoyment in adding little extras here and there until as a friend of mine once said, “I don’t know what the hell happened, but I began to think I deserved dessert every night.”

We can attack Michelle Obama for butting into the family dinner, we can discuss the merits of the new design, but what we cannot do is continue to deny our role in the issue of childhood obesity and in the pervasiveness of gluttony as the norm in our culture. The debut of a new chart to help people figure out what to eat, or what to feed their kids if they choose to not be told how/what/when to eat is a good thing—not because it will fix it. It won’t.

Food, our understanding of it and the ways in which we are bound by things like availability of fresh produce and income capable of purchasing it, is only one fraction of the plate. We need to move, use our bodies in ways that require neither a remote nor a snack. We need to demand more from ourselves and our routines than traversing the same rut. I admit that I have never figured out the formula to determine my BMI, I doubt I ever will, but I did quit smoking. I do choose running over walking, stairs over elevators, working out over pigging out.

I have a responsibility to teach my children how to live right, a gift inherent in that message is how to treat yourself. It doesn’t have to be with something sweet, because really, when you wait for something it is sweet. So today I am celebrating the sweet victory of someone finally caring and demanding enough to take a step toward making a healthier life more accessible to anyone.

]]> http://amandamagee.com/2011/06/my-plate/feed/ 2 http://amandamagee.com/2010/08/the-truth-is%e2%80%94/ http://amandamagee.com/2010/08/the-truth-is%e2%80%94/#comments Thu, 19 Aug 2010 00:04:10 +0000 amandamagee http://amandamagee.com/?p=1856 The truth is—

…there is time.

…you should say it.

…you do deserve it.

…no, it isn’t fair.

…your current approach isn’t going to change it.

…moving on moves you forward.

…they only win if you insist on defeat.

…I am glad you are here.

…you can—

(Finish it for me)

I wanted a dress that I could wear and honestly say, “This? This dress feels like a t-shirt, reads like an ensemble and lets me be me.” Ok, maybe I was really thinking, “How about something that won’t make me look like someone from Upstate trying to dress like their idea of a big city girl.”

Seriously, I’ve read the nasty posts about the shallowness of the attendees worrying about what to wear and the posts about sartorial obsession that impedes one’s ability to enjoy rational thought. I think all positions on the spectrum are valid. For me, it comes down to wanting to feel comfortable, that may mean one night I am going to wear my favorite, worn-in Lucky jeans that are too short so I roll them up or it may mean that for a rooftop party where I’ll know no one, I am damn well going to wear something that makes me feel like I am doing right by my crossing-something-off-the-bucket-list-self.

Anyway, I found perfection on the site in the way of a dress that blended simple and elegant with a cut that promised I wouldn’t be tugging or twitching. Here it is in microscopic reproduction for you.

I clicked through to the end of the purchasing process and selected Next Day Air to get it here in time to take to BlogHer. My palms were sweaty with spending so much to get it here quickly, but I imagined it would serve me well for events that followed. I was happy and my desire to prepare had been sated. The morning after I ordered it I obsessively checked the order. It stayed as an order for most of the day until finally I clicked and saw “Your order has shipped.” I was elated. I had a tracking number and, yes, I tracked it.

The box came today. I was astonished that the shipping actually worked. I waited to open the box until the girls were ensconced in a rousing episode of usher-the-youngest-wildly-and-dangerously-down-the-stairs over and over again. I carefully sliced through the packing tape along the top and prepared myself for the magic I’d envisioned since clicking “purchase.”

I waded through the inflated plastic, past the sweet summer dress and Frye shoes, to lift the dress. I was going to try it on and sneak down to the girls to surprise them. It looked a bit off as I caught the first glimpse of the Tracey Reese Frock! tag. As more and more dress emerged I felt the breath rush out of my lungs. It was the wrong dress. Very, very wrong.

My mind reeled. There was no making it work. This dressed looked like something I’d have to wear on a bet. Too frilly and fussy. The cut was sure to wreak havoc on my long torso, because honestly, even in the days of high waisted pants, my belly button never saw a waist band. Long. Oh and it was garish in its blahness, is that even possible?

There was likely no chance to send it back and have the right one shipped back in time. I cursed. Then I cursed again. Then I asked the world why this always happens to me. I snatched the packing slip and dialed the number for customer service or, as seems more appropriate, customer disservice. I tried to explain to the woman what I had ordered and what I received. She asked if the dress I received was a medium and I said that it was. She asked if it was Tracy Reese and again I said that it was. Then she said something along the lines of, “And what is the difference in the dresses?” I tried to explain while she searched the website. “The dress I ordered and the dress that is in the photo on my order confirmation which came from your store has tangerine embroidery.” There was clicking and she said, “So, you did receive a Tracy Reese Frock dress in a size medium?”

I began to crack. “Yes, a size medium but this dress is (my voice took on a very Debra Winger, girlfriend is crazy timbre) nothing, NOTHING, like what I ordered. It has a WOVEN belt and an ELASTIC waist. It is not a sheath.” It was at the precise moment that I lost it when the girls decided it was time to come up and conduct Operation: Break the Mom’s on the phone we must be quiet rule. I turned to give them the hiss, shush and evil eye and they responded with greater insubordinate enthusiasm. I shrieked, “Stop.” I felt and heard the operator recoil. I almost defended myself with, “I am not a bad mom and I am not incorrect about this order being wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.” I refrained and she scoffed, “I cannot even find the dress on the website.”

I took a deep breath, feeling about as calm as Jack Nicholson, and said, “Do you have an email address to which I can send you the images of the dresses to make this easier for you?” Sigh. “Unfortunately, no, I do not have a personal email address to use at this time to do that.” I took a deep, but ragged breath and said, “Is there any email address for anyone who might be able to help me?”

She directed me to the website, walking me gum-chewing step by gum chewing step through how to scroll to the bottom of the page, go to the right hand side….(I tuned out) and finally to the contact form. I almost self-destructed from the futility. The girls became quiet. My body slumped. “Thank you for calling, is there anything else I can help you with today?” I willed myself to hang up before I told her how she could help me. I cooed at the girls and began what I knew would be an unproductive interaction with the Lord & Taylor website. It’s been 9 hours since I wrote to them. I know that isn’t a long time, but it is when the window of time I have is less than 72.

Tomorrow I will be sending the whole lot back. The dress was, for whatever reason, not meant to be. And, as the cool air of tomorrow drifts in the kitchen I realize that all that matters is that I am here, I get to go to BlogHer and I will never, ever order another dress online again. But damn if I didn’t want that dress.

I have begun to forgive myself the occasional slip, not saying I like it or broadcasting it, but I feel the weight of time so firm and unyielding on my back, I press forward to stay present. It isn’t perfect, but it is how I travel. A few weeks back I didn’t land so softly. Not only did I not find a gentle cushion, I continued to bounce upon surfaces harder than I could handle. Reliving the first was enough, being grateful for the care during the aftershocks is all I’ll do here. My blood volume is improving, my color is following suit, but the warning to proceed slowly hangs heavy over my every move.

I do not hurt, but my body is leaden. My mom and sister have flown in to care for the girls and the house. Our business surges ahead, meetings being booked and clients calling every day. I track the calendar, beg for scraps of news, but sit wearily as the days and hours pass without my involvement. There is no scooping kids up or sparring with Sean, I am sitting, not doing. I understand that it is what I need to do, but it feels so much less than natural.

Watching the girls run laps, zigging this way and that, kicking up sand along the southern edge of our yard and then leaving emerald wakes of fluttering grass on the other end, I very nearly twitch. They go without stop, playing soccer, running races, practicing yoga inspecting morning glories. I want to give chase, all the more so seeing my mom and sister gallop and exclaim along with them. There is, in the very farthest corner of the yard a complex system, a tunneled river of sorts, that Abbie has made for their Barbies. The ringing of another time meeting in a glorious summer’s day crescendo tortures me.

I am back in Eugene, Oregon. I am 5, crying on a rainy soccer field. I am 6 playing beneath a forthysia plant, pretending it is my house. I am 7 and arranging Star Wars figures inside a rhododendron bush. I am 10 at Hayward Field pretending to be Mary Decker. As the sun shines through the slats of the blinds and warm my arm, I cannot tell if the sounds and smells are now or then.

The mother in me keeps me still, the daughter and spirit inside of me want to lace on a pair of running shoes and race the wind and spin with those girls until I am dizzy.

Saturday I will be 37. Today I am living in minutes, not years, biding my time until I am whole again. I am choosing to be grateful for the minutes, rather than resent them. It isn’t easy and so I think of things that make me smile. This song always has and its my internal song right now as I think about moving again.

Go run!

PS My plan is to be at BlogHer…

I remember as a little girl (it started in fifth grade), I just wanted to fit in. I wanted to have the right clothes, ride the cool bike, say the right things, of course I never did. I was different. I didn’t love dolphins, didn’t like dresses and when it came time to play outside, I didn’t really want to play on the swings, I wanted to pretend to be a Russian orphan on the lam (preferably on roller skates.)

I played alone. A lot.

As I got older I wasn’t ready to do things when other people were. I didn’t have boyfriends in 3rd, 4th, 7th, or 9th grade. I kept my t-shirts untucked and my shoulders a bit hunched, uncomfortable with the parts of me that were becoming more feminine (or not.)

My first kiss came unexpectedly at 16 and losing my virginity well, it wasn’t with him and it wasn’t for a long time. I tried to fit into molds or at least really embrace mine, but I only ever really knew what I didn’t like.

“But what do you love?”

I never could answer that, not with music, study or activity. I graduated, traveled, got a degree, worked, dated some truly unloveable heels and then stalled. Wasn’t loving the job, wasn’t loving the life. Then I met someone who saw me completely differently. And everything changed, I began to consider things differently.

I quit smoking.

I started writing again.

I had three kids in four years.

I stopped apologizing for not loving the things people expected.

Finding my way and discovering my love has at once broadened and sharpened my focus. My desire in fifth grade to fit in had more to do with not upsetting the calm than it did making myself happy. I learned at the fingertips of a toddler and the hands of a lover that my crooked tooth, my freckled arms, my hazel eyes and my goofy ways are exactly why I do fit. My world, my passion, that’s what I love.

What is your world?

Remember hide and seek?

Remember believing that each new day held the promise of something worth squealing for?

Remember when you didn’t hide yourself?

Remember when you lived without hesitation?

Do you remember why you stopped?

Go live like this!