Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Vibram KMD LS Shoe Review: Fucking OW.

I finally caved and bought a pair of Vibram "Five Fingers" shoes.  Specifically, these ones.  I blame my friend Sam.  It was her constant goading about how they are the most comfortable shoes she's ever owned that got me tempted.  I am a big fan of comfortable shoes, but even I wasn't sure I could clear the ugly hurdle on these ones.

Monday, December 9, 2013

Escaping the Virginity Cult

OK, that’s sort of misleading.  I have two kids.  I’ve been married twice.  Obviously, I escaped long ago.

But as a mother of adolescent daughters and an unofficial counselor (however undeserving of the honor) to a handful of young people misguided enough to listen to me, I have to come clean:

I reject the Virginity Cult.

Sunday, December 8, 2013

A Short Stack

I have big, strong hands.  So does my brother. We get them from Dad, who was always a smallish guy, but had these powerful bear hands.  When I had a pre-employment physical done a year ago.  It included a hand-strength test.  The nurse made me repeat it twice before accepting the results.  “Your hand strength is over twice the average for a woman your age,” he said.  “I’ve never seen anything like this.”  I suppose I should be self-conscious (“Women with big hands make for insecure men,” an ex-lover once told me), but I’m not.  I knit; I garden; I write; I cook.  I cradle my loved ones in my broad palms, twine the world through my long fingers, and squeeze the juice out of life with my freakishly powerful grip.  Above all, I cling.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013


I walk into the yoga class.  My head is a whirlwind, full of tumbleweeds and dust-devils: Shopping lists, to-do lists, a vague sense of anxiety about the approaching holidays and my lack of preparedness for same.  A brief but potently self-critical look back at my life.  A moment of self-pity, in which I feel old and spent.  The requisite ensuing moment of guilt, in which I think of all the people who have it worse than I do.  In short: I am a mess.

It probably does not help that I went to yoga via the sauna first.  The sauna is my own personal mini distress tolerance room.  I sit.  I ignore the hypochondriac voice in my head who likes to tell me I'm dying.  I try to forget the episode of The Six Million Dollar Man I saw when I was little in which The Bad Guys try to kill some towel-clad woman by locking her in a sauna. But mostly, I listen to my breathing and try to sweat out the day's crazy.  Today the crazy consists mostly of my unbridled and frustrated libido.