The only thing that relieves my stress is also the thing that makes me look like a total fool
In another life, I would’ve been a singer. A consummate, passionate, singing-is-like-breathing singer. But in this life, I’ve turned out to be a lot like my dad –in both ways that I like and in others that I don’t – and in this case, I inherited his inability to sing (unlike my mom). It’s not just that I can’t sing – I am tone deaf and have no concept of harmony, tempo or pitch. I don’t even know if tempo is an accurate word to use here, and whether the actual music you hear is the beat or the melody or what.
I’ve had to settle for simply loving music – for wondering at and being thrilled by lyrics, for letting it move me to the point of tears. I try to keep music all around me, even if at times I just play the same CD over and over again.
And as it turns out, singing is the only thing that truly relieves stress for me. I totally get why, there’s a whole psychology to this, but do we really have to revisit my crappy childhood right now? Good, thanks, I appreciate it.
And it also turns out that one thing that totally stresses the hell out of me is driving. I hate driving, period, but driving in Miami is pure torture from me. I hate every single person within 50 car lengths ahead or in back of me, next to me, perpendicular to me – all of them. Road rage, thy name is Tere.
So kiddies, have you figured out yet where this is going? The only way I can survive driving around here without completely losing my shit is to sing. In my car. With the windows down. At the top of my lungs. I’m so into the music and singing and dancing that I can forget about every asshole around me who’s out to ruin my drive and endanger my life.
And yes, I look like a complete fool. An idiot. Ridiculous. I’m more self-conscious than I care to be, and believe me, I’m quite aware of my ridiculousness. And if I were 18, I would probably care and be worried because all the cute boys out there might look at me and laugh at me. Thankfully, I’m not 18, and while cute boys (and others) do at times look and laugh at me, my ability to tune out is remarkably developed (just ask Ben). Still. Sometimes, my proud Leo ego feels the sting. All I can say is that I have a tendency to get completely lost in a good song, to the point that I don’t notice where I’m at or what’s going on around me (but I do manage to keep driving quite decently).
So please, if you see me in my little blue car bellowing at the top of my lungs, please keep in mind that it’s either that or my physically assaulting every jerk that crosses my path. Although that might be more bearable than having to hear me sing...
Weight & Sag
After my doctor's appointment last Thursday, I can officially say that I have lost the baby weight. All of it. It's all gone. I weigh less than I did at the time I got pregnant.
And so, enter the sag. Specifically, the sag of my boobs. Although I'm still breastfeeding (pump during the day, nurse evenings and nights), my supply has leveled off and my breasts are *almost* at their old size. However, they are most definitely not where they once were. I'm too sensitive about this topic to joke and exaggerate and say they're down to my waist, or even considerably sagged, but the fact is, I will never again be able to go bra-less (cry), and whereas it was just an option in the past, now I need underwire bras. My one comfort is that even if I had never breastfed, the result would have been the same.
And the sag has spread - to my arms and my ass. Ay. My cute little Cuban ass. I mourn this the most.
I'm clinging to the hope that all of it (except the boobs, probably) can be toned and tightened with yoga (or weights or pilates or wrapping myself in Saran wrap). And as for when I'll be able to dedicate myself consistently to any of these endeavors - well, I said I had a solution, not necessarily the time or energy to comit to it! I want to, I really do, but not more than I want to spend time with my monkey.
So unless I can de-sag while I carry, bounce, placate, dance with, and crawl with a baby, or unless he can chill out for 20 minutes so I can work out a bit (which I doubt, since, if I'm in the same room as him, he has to be in my arms), I see myself a bit saggy for the next few years.