5 Minutes for Me x 3

At the end of each day, right after both my girls have gone to bed, I kick into high gear. I spend about an hour doing as much as I can. I fold laundry, wash dishes, pack lunches, review emails and action items for work, pay bills, write a blog, or whatever else I can squeeze in.

If it sounds a little frantic and tiring, that's because it is. By the end of my spurt of productivity, I'm beat. I hit the bed or the couch in a fit of mental exhaustion. It's only been a couple of weeks since I restarted my five minute challenges, and I'm already over it. The idea was for me to feel less stressed out, not more.

So last night, I tried something different. After the girls went to bed, I sat down, and did NOTHING. No dishes. No bills. No laundry. I put my feet on the sofa and watched the first 15 or 20 minutes of the Karate Kid. (The 1984 version.)

I learned a couple of things:

1. The first 15 minutes of that movie are boring.
2. I am more productive if I allow myself to recharge first.

After watching Daniel lose his first fight, I started my evening routine. I was more relaxed while getting the work done, and for some reason, it didn't take as long. I finished in time to see Mr. Miyagi take down a group of bullies dressed like skeletons.

While Daniel was waxing Mr. Miyagi's surprisingly large car collection, I rethought the purpose of my five-minute challenges. They are not tests to see how big of a mountain I can cram into a mole hill of time. Each five-minute segment is a doorway into an experience. Sometimes, five minutes will be enough. Other times, it will be just the beginning. I just have to keep that in mind.

Five Minutes for Fashion

My morning can proceed one of two ways:

Option 1: I wake up on time. After practicing yoga (this is new), the girls and I get dressed with no drama. I make a smoothie. Mini Me has cereal, and then we leave, often with smiles. (Lil' Ma has breakfast at daycare.)

Option 2: I wake up. Maybe I'm on time, but I'm usually not. I then stand in the closet for 15 minutes pondering combinations of tops and bottoms. I try on several, and none of them work. I look at the clock, realize I'm running late, and proceed scurry around like a mad person. In the midst of this, Mini Me shows up in an frilly sundress to plant flowers at summer camp. Tears are shed as she drags herself to the closet to pick another outfit. No yoga. No smoothies. No smiles.

The difference, I've learned, is a five-minute investment on the weekend. For some reason, I'm much smarter about picking out a week's worth of clothes on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. My daughter is also better at this time, and she puts up little argument when I explain that sequins ballet flats don't work for a trip to the pool.

At 10 months old, my youngest is fine in whatever. I'm enjoying this while it lasts.

I will admit that five minutes can turn into 10 or 15 if I need to iron a item or two, but the amount of time I save each morning, and the smiles, are well worth it.

Five Minutes of Om

The last time I did yoga, I was five months pregnant. I walked into a class that I had attended on a quasi-regular basis. The teacher, however, was not familiar to me. I explained my situation, and she told me to rest when I needed.

What she should have told me was to go home. I wasn't ready for her intense, work-up-a-sweat style. I spent most of the class in child's pose and the next two days in bed.

A newborn baby, sleepless nights, a stress fracture, a torn meniscus and carpal tunnel have placed yoga no where near my to-do list. (The story of all these injuries is quite unglamorous. I am simply getting older.)

When I announced the return of my five-minute challenges, my favorite Yogi reminded me to keep my shoulders down. After chuckling, I did a quick self-check. She was right. My shoulders were up to my earlobes.

Instead of hitting the snooze this morning, I got up and blew the dust off my yoga mat. I took 10 minutes instead of five, but it was sorely needed. I'm sure I used to be able to touch my toes. Nevertheless, I felt better after just a few minutes.

I spent the majority of the work day in meetings. After chasing and wrestling a squirmy 25-lb kid this evening, another yoga moment was in order. I squeezed in five minutes between putting my two girls to bed.

My shoulders are not yet back in there proper place, but they are on the way.

Changing My World Five Minutes At A Time (Again)

When I had this idea three years ago, I was inspired. I knew that if I put my mind to it, I could make a significant changes for the better. For a while, it was working.

So what happened?

One word: Life.

And once again, I'm at a phase where five minutes seem very precious, and these minutes hold the potential for impactful change. It seems to align quite well with my current search for fabulous.

So I'm starting this challenge anew, and I'm quite excited. I have no idea where this will take me, but I'm determined to see it through. Five minutes at a time.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Accepting Praise (or Finding Fabulous, Part 2)

During one of my daily Facebook check ins, I saw a post from a friend that said she was on a mission to slim down. I had to read the person's name twice, because I didn't think she needed to lose an ounce.

I happened to run into her later that day. She was petite as I remembered.
"Hey!" I said. " I saw your post earlier today. You look great! You want to lose weight?"

She sighed out a puff of air so tough it ruffled her bangs. As she was explaining to me that the weight loss was much needed, someone else approached and had the same reaction as I did. That person then turned to me. "You look awesome too! That's a great outfit."

I looked down at what I was wearing. Black pants, floaty white blouse, black blazer. I had a lot of trouble picking something that day, and I begrudgingly threw that outfit together. Just as I was about to lament, I caught the complaint at the back of my throat.

"Thank you," I smiled.

We spent a more few minutes talking about fitness. As we parted ways, I said to my friend: "I understand not being where you want to be, but I think you look great."

I got a smile. "Thank you. I must be hiding it really well."

This exchange got me to thinking. When do women learn to accept compliments with a grain of salt? I tried to think of the compliments I've received lately -- from friends, colleagues, my hubby. I gave a caveat to most of them.

That's over. I'm still in the process of defining what "fabulous" means to me, but I'm certain it includes gracefully accepting praise and believing that I deserve it.
So yes, my outfit was banging. I worked that blazer.

Finding Fabulous

A couple of years ago, a friend and I took two weekend trips - one to LA, and one to Seattle. I remember being glad to get out of town. I had been juggling a full-time job and a part-time teaching gig, so I was beat.

Not only did I feel run down, I think I looked it too. My hair was in that awful in-between stage -- too long to be short and too short for a ponytail. My highlights were fading, and I needed a relaxer. Add dark under eye circles and a not-so-glowing complexion, and you had what was by far my most haggard look.

In LA, the people were sunny, sparkling, and stylish. In Seattle, they were effortlessly cool. My fatigue was magnified while in both locations. My friend felt it too. She battled a demanding job and found it hard to take a break.

At some point during one those trips, we made a pact. I'm certain a good meal and a glass or two of wine were involved. We would dedicate ourselves to being fabulous.

By the time we returned home and fell back into our busy routines, the pact was all but forgotten. A pregnancy and a new job for hubby made for big changes in our household. My pregnancy was a high-risk one, thanks to chronic hypertension. Hubby's job was out of state and would keep him away for two weeks at a time. Being fabulous was not a priority.

A few things have happened in the last year and a half (Time flies!) that have me thinking about this again.

1. Pregnancy and prenatal vitamins gave me a head of shiny, thick hair. Post-partum hair loss left me with bald spots at the temples. Enter a talented stylist who cut in a bob with blunt-cut bangs to rival Michelle Obama's. And just for the record, I got mine first.

2. My friend gave me a gift card for a mani/pedi, which I promptly used. Then Ulta Beauty opened near my house, and they regularly send me coupons that are too good to ignore.

3. I decided to cut myself some slack. If I say no once in a while and ask my hubby for help, it's amazing how much more time I seem to have. More about these later.

I don't know if I'm fabulous just yet, but I think I'm well on my way.

Vintage Thursday: The Breastpump and the Intern

In honor of my second tour of duty as a nursing mom, I thought I'd repost this entry about one of my most memorable moments of motherhood to date.


April 2005

What do you do when you accidentally show your breasts to an intern? Do you confront the situation, or do you pretend that the whole thing never happened? That is what I had to deal with today, and it was a bad scene.

It was one of those days when you get up on time (early even), but you are still running late. Twice a day, I close my office door to pump breast milk for my daughter. I usually pump at around 9:30, but this morning I didn’t get to it until 10:15. I had a meeting at 10:30, so I quickly closed the sliding door. I was moving too fast for my own good, because I forgot to turn the lock. About 30 seconds into the process, I heard a soft knock immediately followed by the sound of the door’s metal wheels grinding on its track.

“NO, NO, NOOOOOOOOOO!” I started to yell. My back was to the door, and I turned slightly so that I could scream at my unwelcome guest. I was trying to cover my breasts and juggle the pump’s suction cups at the same time. The cups loosened from my boobs, and milk leaked all over my pants. The door was cracked about 6 inches, and I looked the intern in the eye. Damn, it wasn’t even a woman. He turned his head and quietly closed the door. I ran to lock it. I tried to pump some more, but I was so keyed up that I barely got a bottle’s worth.

I have no idea what he saw, and I really don’t want to know. As far as I’m concerned, I may as well have been naked on a pole. I made it my business to steer clear of his corner of the building, and he didn’t make any efforts to find me either. Needing a bit of comfort, I went to two women in my department. “I need a hug,” I wailed; then I told them the details. “Well, it could have been worse,” one said. “At least you didn’t have your shirt off.”

“I hear you embarrassed one of my guys,” the intern’s supervisor said to me later in the afternoon. Excuse me? I was the one who had her shirt hiked up. I know he was kidding, but the humiliation was still fresh. “I mean, he was red-faced embarrassed. He’s young, and he had no idea what was going on,” he continued.

Now, I realize that I forgot to lock my door, but wasn’t it being closed enough? Am I the only person who thinks that it is rude to do the “knock and open?” He probably thought that I was on the phone or something, but the purpose of knocking on a door is to get permission from the person on the other side.

My boyfriend, Mike, called to ask about my day, and I filled him in. He was ready to put on his shining armor. “Are you all right?” he asked. Do you want me to come to your office and talk to him?”

“No, honey,” I said. “I’m sure he wants to forget about the whole thing as much as I do.” Besides, Mike is a bodyguard. I have a feeling that his “talk” would be anything but that.

This is the latest in a string of incidents when my privates have been on display. Once you find out that you are pregnant, your body is no longer your own. At each doctor’s visit, you are examined from head to toe. While I was in labor, everyone from the doctor to my cousin thrice-removed walked in and out of the hospital suite as if it were the living room. And every now and then, I’ve even had to nurse my baby in public. So what’s one more person, I suppose. But to ensure that the number stays to a minimum, I made a “do not disturb” sign for my office door.