Just Say No

So I am trying something fairly drastic for the next couple of weeks - no sugar and practically no carbs. You gasp, I know, and I can picture your face. Because if you are reading this, you probably know me well enough to know that those are my two favorite food ingredients. But, according to my doctor, this should help me to feel better, have more energy, and lose some of the weight I have gained in the last couple of years that I just can't seem to get rid of.

It should be an interesting 2 weeks. But I WILL do it! I have a couple of plans in place to help me succeed. First of all, my sister is doing this with me, so we can encourage each other. Secondly, I am recording the fact that I am doing it right here in public to give me a little more accountability. Here's to more healthy eating habits!

Another Form of Elective Modern Torture

I just got back from getting acrylic fingernails. I tried them for the first time a few weeks ago, thinking it would be fun to actually have hard nails that wouldn't break easily. I didn't intend to keep them up. Well, until a couple of the nails broke off this week and I saw just how weak and ugly my own nails now look in comparison. So I returned to a nail salon, feeding the addiction and also buying in to the notion that every part of a woman's body must be artificially enhanced or beautified. I'm not proud of it, but there it is.

I sat there as the old nails were pried off, nails sanded, new nail tips glued on, nails sanded, acrylic painted on, nails sanded, topcoat painted on, nails sanded and buffed.... and I thought how ludicrous it was that I was sitting there for 45 minutes so that someone could put these long, hard tips on the ends of my fingers. And don't think it was painless, either. All that tugging and sanding and acrylic painting made my fingertips pretty tender. 

But I sure like my fingernails. Maybe no one else will notice them, but I like them. And I guess if I think it is worth it, then that is all that matters. I just haven't decided yet if the torture is worth it. On keeping this up every few weeks.... the jury is still out.

Home is Where the Heart Is

I've had yet another huge and painful lesson in change the past several weeks. I've always been sentimental and held onto things too long. I suppose I will have to keep learning throughout my life that change and letting go is a part of life.

A few weeks ago, a fire started in the house that I grew up in and that I have returned to for holidays and family get-togethers since I left home after high school. My parents have lived in that house for almost 30 years. My grandfathers built it. It has always been a constant in my life. As an adult, my living address has always seemed to change every couple of years, and I would use my parents' address as a "permanent" one on my driver's license and other important documents. Naturally, I assumed it would always be there.

Well, after the fire and smoke got through with the house, there was not much left that was salvageable. Walking through a home you love and seeing piles of blackened belongings is a pretty heart-breaking experience. Then I returned to the house after the construction crew had gotten through stripping it down to the framing, it was a whole new dimension of heartache. I was taken back 30 years to when I was 7 and our new house was being constructed. It was probably as close to time travel as I'll ever get.

The plan at first was to rebuild the house. But owing to the many complicated workings of insurance (which I won't get into here), my parents are considering having the house torn down. I feel like I am losing a piece of myself. So much of who I am is connected to that place. But I have to remember that it is just a place and I will always have my memories. And, you know, when I look at my family who all survived the fire just fine, I have to be grateful that all I am mourning is a building.

Sprinter

When I left for work this morning, I felt like Mother Nature decided to play an April Fool's Day joke. I should be used to this kind of weather, having grown up in Utah. But each year, when the days are nice in March or April, I believe that the snows are behind us for the year and Spring will stay. Ha! Foolish mortal. Every year there are a few surprise winter snowstorms that come AFTER I have packed away my coats, sweaters, and boots. And the inevitable disappointment ensues. When will I learn?

This morning my first graders, when trying to come up with what season it is, decided it could only be described as "Sprinter". I would have to agree - as the first day of "Spring" was a couple of weeks ago and yet it feels very much like the dead of winter.