I’ve repacked the bags about 3 times. Today Sir Knight commented on how much room was left in his suitcase (smaller than mine). It was a relief to be able to offload a few items to his bag (items to be left with our hostess) and zip mine without fear of it exploding. Suffice it to say I have never been able to meld my fashionista with my wanderlust-ista. (DD, how many shoes do you have in there? Uhm… let me see… counting my flip flops? Like 6 maybe? I’m not telling SK that I didn’t pack heels because I plan to find some there…) You’d think I’d have this packing thing down. I am oh so much happier when I don’t have to lug a huge case around. But I also like to look good, and not like a tourist in typical tourist clothes.
However this trip is different. I’m going somewhere where I barely know the language. It’s a place I’ve only visited once in my life as a student doing a whirl-wind tour through Europe. It’s off the map for some. At that time it was a pity that I barely blinked my way through, have always regretted that, and always planned to return and “do it justice.” It left me wanting more. I adore this place, this culture, the history, the geography, these people, and the food–so intoxicating! I’m hoping to be able to wrap my tongue around this new and strange language that bears no resemblance to any I’ve learned to date. And I get to be there a month (SK can only schedule a couple weeks away, and he’s a real sweetheart to allow me to stay on)! To me, a month counts as “living” there. I have the good fortune that a great friend will host us. So, while there will be plenty of side trips and exploration (something this friend and I do well together), I’ll have a “home base.”
I hope for SK and I it will be a time of romance and renewal. This place has all the potential for that.
To say that I’m living the dream is an understatement. I count my blessings every day that after working hard and raising kids to adulthood, I’ve arrived at this point in my life where I can actually enjoy my passions. At times SK and I almost feel we have to apologize for being able to live these dreams. Most people are kind and authentically happy for us; others are confused and perhaps jealous. Everyone’s priorities are different… for what it cost my neighbor to put that pool in, buy that fancy car, remodel their house, have a vacation cottage, or purchase some amazing gadgets, I choose to create memories. Some just don’t understand this drive I have to travel and see the world, and some just parrot the soundbites the news throws at them about issues of unrest. Do you know that driving to the downtown area of your nearest city is probably more risky than most places in the world? Obviously I’m not talking about Damascus, Karachi, Kabul, Baghdad or some other world hot spot.
But what counts is that SK does share this passion with me, and that we get to do it together.
So, while I know that I’m not going completely off the grid… and plan to work on my writing while there… There’s a part of me that almost hopes that there may be little time for blogging. The blog thing has gotten strange lately, almost tired. Don’t get me wrong, I still love to write and share, I still seem to get a lot of views, but fewer and fewer comments or likes or engaging “repartee.” That’s OK. Maybe my story has just run its course for readers. It definitely hasn’t anywhere near run its course as far as I’m concerned. So, if you don’t hear from me for a while, know that all is OK. I may be over on the other blog I write on travel.
So ta ta for now, WordPress friends!
SK and I have been gliding along here over the past weeks and months. The nest has been happily empty for nearly 2 months now, save for a quick and welcomed visit from one CK. I know we are closing in on the final moments of all of us together for holidays and other times, but just as it should be as they all spread their wings and fly. By this time next year we should be out of this house and somewhere else. Right now the “somewhere else” is still somewhat sketchy. Our next chapter is still pretty blurry for my vision preferences, but I’m trying to trust the process here. Whatever that is.
Meanwhile we are having some fun. We get to travel. We socialize with friends. He has been stellar in planning things to do together, has made a foray into new and uncharted territories for “play,” he’s even trying his hand at cooking and giving me a night off. We make sweet love and get a connection in 2-3 times a week. He seems to even like delivering occasional spanks to my bottom (which I adore). He’s an extraordinary provider.
SK is a good, good man. I have a great life with him. I love him very much, and I am blessed to have him as my partner. I don’t know that I’ll ever have the joy of being able to say he is my “Sir” or my “Leader” or much less my “Dom.” Yes, I’m not easy, and I’m not “naturally submissive.” I have to work at it, and sometimes I really suck at it. My friend Angel just said that “leadership must be nurtured.” I guess I just don’t do this very well. And, well, sometimes this control-freak just wants a leader to take over. With a little bit of forcefulness, like he’s confident and he means it. Truth be told, I don’t think he wants it that much. It’s too much work. So, he basically lets me have my way and he “goes with the flow.”
It is what it is. We have a lovely life together. We get along. We care about each other. We love each other. We are faithful and devoted to one another. It’s more than what most have.
I asked him tonight to answer a question honestly, and truthfully I don’t think I really got an answer before we got into the discussion of “going with the flow.” I asked, “Since I first brought my desires for BDSM and kink to your attention, have you thought perhaps it was a phase that I’d get over?” He felt he knew where I was going with this question,
“You mean, because we’ve not done much… but you know last weekend could have turned into it but you couldn’t let go and get out of your head… But I guess the answer is, I’m lazy.”
Actually, my question was more overarching, rather than an accusation we’d not been much other than vanilla. “Well, no, I don’t think you’re lazy– I think that it can be hard to motivate yourself to do something that doesn’t resonate for you. I get that. But another question… since we really have just rediscovered our sexuality with each other, I sometimes wonder whether you are trying to prove to me that soft, gentle and vanilla are pretty good, and perhaps hope that I’ll be convinced it’s ‘good enough’ and all I need. And I love ALL sex with you, No bad pizza...” I try his joke back on him.
SK doesn’t much like these “I wonder what’s in your brain” conversations. He’ll accuse that I think too much. I think he doesn’t want to let me in on what’s in his head, because he knows it’s probably not what I want to hear…
The point of me not being able to get outside my head on his attempt at role play was a low blow. I had tried to verbalize my difficulties with the cheating scenario. The me of 24 years ago… He essentially said with dogged finality, “Tried and done, Door closed. Lesson learned.” I protested that it was new, and the scenario confused me, but that I adored he initiated this and looked forward to more like this, it would just take practice. The look on his face was, “You blew it, you lost your chance.” Again, I’m sure he’ll say I’m wrong. But what he DOES say isn’t much more comforting, “I really don’t care, I’m fine. It’s OK.”
This all led to me asking, “Did you read my blog on this confusion?” This question is sure to get the “deer in the headlights” look from him. I know he doesn’t read my blog often. I know he skims to be able to say he does; he acquiesces that he doesn’t read in detail because “I was there, I know what happened.” But he never, ever discusses anything about my blog, never says “good thoughts” or even “that wasn’t my favorite.” And, this hurts me to the core.
I told him, “The blog is my way of trying to tell you what is going on for me…”
“Then talk to me,” he replies.
“I do… I mean I try to. But writing is my best way of expression. And I thought that if you had an opportunity to read what I’m thinking about, without the pressure of me staring at you expecting an immediate answer, it’s less threatening.”
“You don’t always say it like it really was…” he accuses (I’m a little surprised to hear this as I strive to be honest… ) and he clarifies, “Well it’s from your point of view…” Uhm, yeah… who else’s?
“if you think it’s inaccurate, then you need to tell me that…” I encourage. “I’d like to discuss if my thoughts are wrong.”
But, it’s clear, and it’s always been clear. This man can read War and Peace and Ulysses and Atlas Shrugged, and Les Miserables, and Twain, and Hawthorne and the Bible, and just about any form of writing known to man. Two to three books going at once usually, and very little fluff.
But he can’t read my blog. And, he really doesn’t really want to take on the leadership mantle, much less Dom. I know he just wants to be a good husband, on his terms; and I should be happy to submit to that.
What can I say? It still hurts.
Over the past several days, the theme of redemption has crossed my path in ways that I could no longer ignore. Some a bit disjointed and seemingly unrelated.
Before you read further, I’m not talking coupons here, but in a sense it is. And, if you have the philosophy that you’ve never regretted anything in life, you might just stop reading here.
If you missed the Pope’s visit in the US this past week, then you must have been away from TVs and other media. It has been the top news story for days and hours on end. And for some reason, Sir Knight kept the TV on through it all. We watched the White House reception, the Congress, the talks, the Masses, the interfaith service at ground zero. I was pretty Poped out… yet, it was hard to tear my ears and eyes from it.
I think most people agree that this guy is the real deal, a servant of Christ who walks the walk. Who tells it like it is without condemning. A uniter and an encourager. Just what most people need in a world like ours. To stand on a dais in a place that saw great loss and pain and evil, and embrace a Muslim, a Jew, a Buddhist, a Hindi, a Sikh… and to have all speak the same message of peace and love… wow. Unprecedented.
The Pope’s message was hard to ignore. Help the less fortunate. Feed and care for the poor. Take care of our planet and don’t waste resources. Don’t kill. Build up the family. Love others. Forgive. Redeem the wrongs. Few could deny he had some valid points. And most of these entreaties have to do with selflessness, an “otherness,” a submission of our worldly desires for the overall good of others and the world.
The issue of faith has also intersected with the theme of redemption for me this week. Faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.
(Love Billy Joel… but this was the message many of us girls of the 70s got…“When I wrote ‘Only the Good Die Young,’ the point of the song wasn’t so much anti-Catholic as pro-lust,”Billy Joel said. In the 70s it was widely banned at Catholic universities)
I was raised a Catholic, attended Catholic schools, the quintessential “good girl.” I knew all the prayers and the rosary and the Mass in Latin, and even entertained the idea of becoming a nun… I had the white dress and party at my confirmation. Sometimes I wondered if Billy Joel had me in mind when he wrote his song “Only the Good Die Young!” Suddenly, in my 19th summer, I slipped away from those standards, big time. I didn’t have a stellar decade in my fancy-free twenties, which were pretty raunchy and x-rated. I can’t really tell you what caused me to go over the cliff like that. I played a game of secret sin for many years. I believed I was so good at hiding this with a squeaky clean outer image I wore well, and it almost made me proud that I could fool “everyone.” By day an upstanding professional, a dedicated grad student, a Girl Scout leader (I’m serious!), a church-goer, an ethical individual. By night, a slut. I reveled in the contrasts. Angel and devil. Lady and whore. I was simultaneously working my sainthood application at the same time as my slut-hood award. I loved surprising some of those men once the door closed behind us. Because even if they did “talk,” no one would believe them. And there are times to this day that I revel in that deception, that self-centered hedonistic time. That I got away with it. That the roller coaster ride was so fun and thrilling and gut wrenching.
And I maybe miss it a little. Sometimes.
Time does something very interesting. It often softens or even erases the negatives and bad decisions or situations of our pasts, the stomach drops, the deep depressions, the sadness, the rejections. The hopes dashed of trust in the men who acted so in love with us and in awe of us who turned around and married the (almost) virgin. The “dull” girl who couldn’t possible keep him happy! The predictable girl.
Many of us glorify our less than perfect or sinful past. What was wrong with that? It was hot!! The sex– oh, so amazing and wild. The men! The daring! The fact that you hid it all so well! That undeniable thrill that you got away with it and survived to tell the story. It’s like a drug, an addiction. It feels good during the highs, but the lows will nearly kill you. This is when you are truly taken captive, and need to be freed.
Oops. Wait. No, you usually don’t tell your story unless you’re an anonymous blogger. Because no matter how much we preach that “people should just accept everyone for who they are,” we don’t do that, and we don’t expect others to. Because in addition to damaging, our pursuits were truly selfish and self-seeking.
Many of us survived those crazy years (and some of us are still there). We made it through to the other side, we put the risky and hurtful behaviors behind us, reformed, repented, and we are “legit.” We cheated fate. We tried to bury the past. We didn’t get hurt, diseased, found out, and judged. Yup, we really rock! We swagger, that by “our” supreme power alone we dodged some pretty awful odds. We may do a little penance by being extra “good.” More good works. And we still feel guilty.
Yet we judge ourselves perhaps more harshly than anyone else.
Perhaps irredeemable. Unforgiveable. Unworthy of unconditional love, and the caring of a good man.
We possibly sabotage good relationships by telling ourselves that “vanilla is boring.” We too soon forget how bad and unreliable some of those other flavors really were. How selfish. How damaging.
Finally, you come to a point where you just aren’t sure that you know yourself, you are tired of pretending, and you are tired of not being happy without your drug. We realize that it wasn’t by our “supreme power” alone that we dodged a lifetime of misery. It was by God’s redeeming grace that this was possible, and for the asking! A flicker of faith stayed within us, helping us to have the confidence that we could move past the destructive, selfish, and regrettable decisions and that we were forgivable and redeemable.
Sometimes we need to tell ourselves this every morning, perhaps several times a day. “I am unconditionally loved by a God who forgives and forgets even when we don’t. Holding on to the captivity and the guilt dishonors my creator.”
I’m not talking about wonderful, fabulous sex in a relationship that honors each other. Nor am I saying intense pleasure, kinky sex, and TTWD are wrong. For true submissives, it’s all about putting our Dom first, realizing a worthy (God-fearing) leader will care for us and honor us.
It is hard to reckon the past– to not glorify the sin and mistakes and recklessness; to not bemoan the bad things that “happened” to us. But I think once we have the faith that we are redeemable to the one who made us and loves us, we start moving to a better future.
We who claim our redemption can then turn to: whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
Ok, so about three years ago, and ever since then, I decided that intimacy and relationship with the man in my life was greatly enhanced when I could be submissive and vulnerable. And there is no person in the world with whom I feel safer than with my Sir Knight.
Vulnerability doesn’t come easy to me. It never has. I have been hurt too much. When that happens, people build walls, they get self-sufficient, and they try to learn to not depend on others. It’s that simple. It’s sort of Pavlovian. When the bell rings, instead of salivating, you put on your armor, pick up your sword and take control. You just learn to take control to lessen incidents of emotional hurt and pain.
And, it’s a lonely state.
Submission and vulnerability are close cousins. They both get along very well together, and perhaps cannot exist one without the other. To submit is to be vulnerable. To be vulnerable is to submit.
So, while I’ve been trying to “fix” myself on the vulnerability issue, in an effort to rededicate myself to my marriage, I realize that I still have a long way to go. Sir Knight’s proposal and initiation of “Role Playing” yesterday drove home this point.
I think that all of us control freaks out there just long for the ability to let down our guard, remove the armor, put down our sword, and just TRUST. But it is so hard to do. I can definitely see that my kinky self, which loves being controlled, bound, and “used” sexually by the man I love is a vulnerability fitness test. Because I lack the ability to just “let go,” I ask him to facilitate that by taking control in a very extreme way. And when he initiates and leads in some sexy move (as he does increasingly), I have two reactions:
What are some ways that currently help me flex my vulnerability muscle?
Tipsy: I do not drink often, for several reasons: alcoholism in my family; it’s too many calories; I really don’t like not being in control (duh); and SK doesn’t much care to drink. We have an occasional glass of wine with our meal, and that’s about it for him. I’ve never seen him drunk or even tipsy, and he is always a reliable designated driver. However there are rare times, especially in social settings with friends I trust, that I don’t count my drinks. I will have a cocktail or two; and then several glasses of wine. And because I don’t drink often, I’m a lightweight. Sometimes it catches up to me before I realize I should have stopped. SK is not impressed with tipsy me. He doesn’t want to take care of me, undress me, or make love to me– and I want precisely all these things! Because my guard is down, I’m loose, my defenses gone, and my vulnerability easy. I’m happy and unworried. I know– most men don’t want to fuck women who don’t know they’re being fucked, but trust me, I’m not that far gone. I’m playful and fun. VULNERABLE. Fuckable, IMHO. SK wants nothing to do with that.
Bondage: Sir Knight does not do this often. As a matter of fact, when we received a new mattress a few months ago, our under-mattress bondage system never got put back into place. :-( On a few occasions SK will tie my hands, perhaps use the blindfold, and that is about it . Yet, I wonder to myself whether he notices that it is in these times when he is more easily able to bring me to orgasm. Yes, my helplessness and VULNERABILITY is “forced” but it allows me to let go. I have no excuses to fight my control freak.
Dominant actions: although I might pout and get my back up (a lifetime of reacting this way as an adult) when SK (rarely) issues an order or a non-negotiable, I secretly love it. I literally melt inside. I am bathed with such a feel-good glow to be taken in hand and led by someone strong enough to do it. On the few occasions when I start “spinning” emotionally, circumstances allowing, SK has leaned me over a nearby surface and spanked me, hard. Or even pulled me into his arms, reached around and spanked me. He knows too well now that taking me to the bedroom and putting me over the bed (or even more effective, his lap), pulling down my panties and sincerely reddening my bottom will immediately calm me and soften me. We are still sorting this all out, so it’s not often or consistent.
Role Play: Sir Knight thrilled me yesterday with the proposition of Role Play. However, I was confused about the rules and the premise of his proposed Role Play. It was the first time he had initiated something like this for us with no prompting or hinting from me, and that meant a lot to me! (We usually will only have seriously intense scenes when I express how much I’ve missed scenes… it’s getting to be about once a month. I try not to be greedy, knowing SK does this FOR ME and MY pleasure. But our bedroom scenes are always us, we’ve never tried roles). Being the creative writer in the family, I was searching for a structure: a plot, a description of the characters, scenes, story arch… I was perfectly happy to leave the outcome to SK, but I needed something to work with. Which, sadly, turned into what might appear to be a wresting of control. SK didn’t appreciate my many questions, and just wanted me to “go with it.” It was very, very difficult for me, because the role I was asked to play was myself, 24 years ago. That was sort of a scary thought. I’m not sure SK would have liked the real me of 24 years ago. At that time I only showed him the polished and shiny me, the one I thought he wanted to see, marry, and make the mother of his children. I wasn’t really lying or faking about most parts of me; I just hid the parts I thought wouldn’t make the sale. Don’t we all do this? But the bottom line was… In our play, I just wanted to be slutty and scandalous. I wanted him to be titillated, pleasantly shocked, wantonly turned on by me, unable to control his otherwise “in control” person. When I’d start to head down that path of slutty and ribald, I thought I felt his disapproval and surprise, so I’d pull back. Maybe he was in his role too, but I couldn’t broker it all… I kept telling myself he wouldn’t have wanted to marry slutty sexual me. I think this is what I tell myself all the time…
So here I am, still struggling with vulnerability. As if after 24 years of his love and dedication there’d be something about me SK couldn’t abide by (well, maybe not “my number” which will go to the grave with me). Yes, I LOVED sex and I had many partners before I met him– including some kinky ones… But there were some times in my life when I had some integrity and I wasn’t slutty. Couldn’t I just be HIS slut AND his lady? And can’t he help me build this vulnerability muscle?
Today with all the Pope stuff… seeing all the Cardinals, Bishops, and Arch-Bishops, it raised a memory that I wasn’t always slutty, and I shared it with SK (he normally doesn’t care to hear of “my past.”). At a time in my life I desperately wanted to be married to a conservative Catholic man, I met one serious hunk of a guy at Mass one Sunday. Our eyes met (well, I had to look up into his, a rare and welcome thing when you’re 5’10”). We smiled. He asked me to brunch. And then later to dinner. We had a standing Mass and brunch date after that. He had just about everything on my “list.” He was a gentleman. Charming. A lawyer. He was sure to be successful. He was impressed by my career. And even though he was recently divorced, thanks to a highly-placed family member in the Catholic clergy, he had an official annulment with a Catholic imprimatur on it (in the Catholic church, basically a Get out of Jail Free card, slate wiped clean, your marriage wasn’t real… so you’re free to marry again and still be Catholic). He was perfect and I was hearing wedding bells after a few short weeks. Then suddenly he wanted to sleep with me. SCREEEEECH. Huh? Good Catholic boy? At that point in my life I was done with casual sex. I wanted commitment, marriage, AND great sex. He wasn’t ready for the commitment part, and for being honest about that, I give him credit to this day. As much as it hurt, I held to my standards. It would have been so easy to have slept with him… but I think by that time in my life I knew better that many men in my circles didn’t marry the women they enjoyed fucking, and they didn’t want to know the woman they married was considered fuckable by any other man.
I’m not sure what it will take for me to find this elusive vulnerability, but I am starting to understand it better. And, somehow I do believe that it’s with Sir Knight that I will get there. Maybe we’ll start playing some true-to-self roles more consistently.
My very kinky self is a lot of wild and maybe deviant things, but it’s definitely not about cheating on my husband.
My text buzzed this afternoon while Sir Knight was out:
A mutual friend said we should meet, He said we may have a lot in common and that you are very hot. Would you meet me for dinner on Thursday evening at 6:00? I like (favorite place). If you have a significant other, please do not tell him. Who knows what might happen after dinner? Please meet me at (favorite place) at 6:00. Are you game? My name is Enrique.
I double-checked to make sure I read it right… the text was from Sir Knight. It was also more characters than I’ve ever seen him text.
Whoa. Sir Knight wants to play?
Or, is this a fidelity test?
I carefully crafted my response:
“I’m sorry, but you need to return my husband’s phone. As I am fully and completely my Sir Knight’s property, I would entertain no other offers. Only HE may tell me what he wishes (and I give All my kinky, sexy, hot self for him alone). I am completely his. How dare you assume I’d keep something from my Sir?”
His response was quick.
“I have met this Sir Knight and he seems the type who wants you to explore new things. In this setting, you are free to express new information about yourself. I am also willing to share revealing information. Please meet me at 6:00. Please do not let me down. Enrique.”
I didn’t quite get my own conflict. It was an exciting prospect to go with this, but wasn’t it sort of like cheating? If I said yes, would he think that I’m technically cheating on him with a fantasy? Or, could this just be fun role play? Nameless doctor-patient; teacher-schoolgirl; prince-princess; delivery man-housewife… yes, I kinda got that. But a fictional guy named Enrique encouraging me to cheat on my husband? I wasn’t sure how to react.
When he walked in the door a short time later, I told him.
“Wow, I’ve been getting some interesting texts from a strange man. Did you lose your phone?” I teased.
“Hmmm. I did put it down,” he responds with a straight face.
“Well, he wants me to cheat on my husband… And I told him that is never going to happen… that my husband owns me.”
I waited for his response to this, and didn’t get one, just a shrug of the shoulders like “it’s ok.”
Really. I was not trying to be difficult here. I really think I needed to understand the rules. I saw a lot of potential pitfalls; and I saw a lot of potential fun.
A short while later, SK sent me a link about Role Play. OK, so that’s what this is, it cleared things up a bit. It addressed my doubts: “Talk about the set up and plot, give your partner the autonomy to create their half of the situation, but don’t be afraid to go over basics of how it may play out or even dialogue points. Get into your role, be your half and trust your partner to be theirs… Flirt. Be someone else.”
You know, the craziest thing about this is that it makes me realize that my very kinky self is a lot of wild and maybe deviant things, but it’s definitely not about cheating on my husband.
After a couple hours had passed (life intervened), I realized I’d not responded to either his last text or email.
“Thank you for this chance to play. Yes, always want to explore new things. I’d like to hear some more about how this will go. I can enjoy playing a role as long as I know ‘the rules.'”
Don’t want to be a drip, and I totally love that he’s taken this initiative! Fun! Playing! Yeah!! I want to have fun. Sure, I want to let out my slutty girl and meet this mystery man. So, we will definitely talk about this. But, I don’t want to talk it into the ground and take away the fun, spontaneity, and surprise… and naughtiness.
I’ve just really surprised myself by my prudish response!
Crap. For a creative writer, I’ve hit a major writer’s block here!
Oh, but that won’t last long… there are some sexy stockings, a garter, and a few other things that may need to get put to good use on Thursday.
I was an active youth, when I could be. After running the gauntlet of a childhood heart malady at age 7 that required months of bed rest and years of “non-strenuous activity,” I came out at the other end with a passion for physical activity. In the early years post (dubious) diagnosis, I had to lie a lot. My parents were instructed by physicians that in my “condition” I needed to watch my activity levels which could stress my heart. I recall once on the elementary school playground when engaging in a roaring game of double-dutch, a teacher off-handedly asked if I didn’t have to observe certain physical restrictions? I lied that it was no longer true. And to my knowledge, the teacher never followed up with my parents. Yeah, kids lie.
I was dying to play on a girl’s softball team, but I wasn’t allowed by a chauvinistic Dad who always accused me of “throwing like a girl.” Team sports weren’t feminine enough according to my parents. Ballet and dance were deemed appropriately sedentary and girly for my “delicate” condition. I enjoyed dance very much and advanced to pointe quickly; but then the era of gymnastics entered the world stage and every girl wanted to be Olga Korbut. My parents used the excuse that it wasn’t in the budget for me to take gymnastics, so I used my hard-earned babysitting money to sign up at the local gym, and I participated as much as possible on our small high school “team.” The thrill of twirling around bars, doing tricks on a 4″ beam, fairly sedate vaults, and using my ballet in floor exercise fed my nascent adrenaline junky. I tried volleyball for a while; I enjoyed ice skating but in those days parents didn’t often pay for you to go to a rink, we waited until the pond froze over. The first time I witnessed skiing up close and personal, I was hooked and as a Christmas gift was given ski lessons, and a few years later, equipment. I regularly went with the HS ski club, in my 20s and 30s competed in amateur courses, and to this day enjoy the sport.
Tennis, sailing, swim team, golf, scuba… I tried it all. As long as it was a sport that didn’t involve a team of players, I was trying it. As an adult, I’d play on work softball teams because it was fun and we always partied after, but I wasn’t very good.
When I married at 34 and moved to a new town– a very hot, humid new town– I just never could find my groove. I got really busy with raising a family and reinventing myself in a new career. My new hubby was a marathoner and loved running. I never liked running. I tried, I really did. And I hated it. I wasn’t so much into swimming because of the hair thing (long blond hair that takes a long time to style and doesn’t like chlorine). Biking gave me UTIs. My main activity was walking, but even then when the temps soared into the 90s and 100s, I just couldn’t pull myself to do it. I tried exercise classes at the club, but nothing inspired me. And predictably, I got sedentary and fat and horribly out of shape.
The reality of my poor physical shape really resonated once when the entire family was hiking in Muir Woods in California about 6 years ago. Our young teen kids and their fit dad would energetically set out on steep trails without a care or a clue about how long or difficult the hike would be; and 240 pound me tried to keep up, heart pounding, lungs wheezing, knees and feet aching, and in general “hating” my family for “putting me through this.” I was beginning to realize what a toll the weight and inactivity had wrecked on my body. A couple years later, I joined a running club. A couple months in, after my longest (and hottest–July) run ever of 4 miles, I ended up a day later in the ER with an arrhythmia. I was told the connection to the run was purely coincidental. But I knew better.
Once I got through the heart procedure to fix my arrhythmia and recovery, I began my diet that would help me shed 75 pounds. As the weight came off, the energy returned. I darkened the doorstep of the Y, which I hadn’t done in years other than to drop the kids off. I tried a variety of classes as well as the machines. I liked the dance part of zumba; I told myself that power pump was good for my bone strength and muscle would burn fat… but these were still the sweaty and non-inspiring workouts I had always hated. No fun.
Until the day I walked into the yoga class. It was at first a little awkward. I positioned my mat near the back of the room and watched with wonder the pretty and funny instructor who apparently was a mother of 3 and who had a curvy, womanly, yet toned body. And I was hooked, even trying Pilates a few days a week. I felt great, my flexibility returned, my body looked nice, and the clothes were cute and suitable to wear the rest of the day if I chose. As I became a yogi, my mind also calmed and centered. A major stress reliever and endorphin builder. Any day I think about missing, I tell myself I just need to go there for my mind. Nearly four years later I rarely miss a day.
Our class is a cross between Vinyasa and Hatha, but our instructor is big on keeping the flows going steady with lots of flexibility and strength moves; my heart rate always goes up. It is not a sedentary class, and at times I just pray she’ll give us at least 3 minutes of relaxing savasana (or corpse pose) at the end of the hour! Added bonus– many more options for wild and crazy sex positions! Being able to plow gives him access to a very sensitive spot inside me…
I have tried the running again; and it’s one thing after another: torn meniscus, Achilles tendons. So I have just decided that I’m not a runner. However hiking has become a new passion for me, especially in beautiful National parks and around the world. A 4 mile strenuous hike actually feels like a happy accomplishment now rather than a horrible chore. I love my new hiking boots, and I just bought a hydration system for my backpack.
One thing I know for sure at 57 years of age… I’m glad I didn’t wait any longer. Yeah, some days are harder than others. Sometimes I am not motivated at all to go to the gym or start that hike. I just begged Sir Knight for an hour before our evening walk to let it “cool down,” and that hour is now up. But I when I’ve completed a workout, I am grateful I did, and that my body miraculously carried me through another hurdle. Second chances are awesome.
So, what’s your activity? LOL, and don’t say sex!! :-)
WARNING: May be offensive to some.
Rorschach Test: The inkblot test (also called the “Rorschach” test) is a method of psychological evaluation. Psychologists use this test in an attempt to examine the personality characteristics and emotional functioning of their patients. This test is often employed in diagnosing underlying thought disorders and differentiating psychotic from non-psychotic thinking in cases where the patient is reluctant to openly admit to psychotic thinking.
See if you can read these.
1. What does this one say?
2. What does this one say?
3) And this one?
Yup. Need the towels.
Who’d have thought?
- Oh My Stars, Sir!!!
- Wow… again? Did that hit you?
- Watch out, sir…
- Well, that was good for an evening of laundry, including the mattress pad. WELL worth it!