So here I am, five days into 2011 and I think I am doing pretty well on my ever-expanding list of New Year’s resolutions. I have washed my face morning and night with an age defying cleanser every day since the first of January, and I am on the lookout for a reasonably priced French, wrinkle-zapping, miracle night cream. (This resolution was bred from the sickening feeling that took residence in my stomach each and every time a well-meaning European man mistook my mother and I for sisters this past week. My adorable, and I must admit, extremely young-looking mother left our vacation glowing from the compliments, while I slunk away feeling wrinkle-ridden, sun-spotted, and panicked.)
I have gone on three runs and two walks, on the annoying advice of Bob Greene, Oprah’s fitness guru, who callously orders readers of O Magazine to exercise for SIX HOURS a week. Maybe that is possible if you get paid to work out, per Mr. Green, or if some hired hand literally drags you from your bed and pushes you out the door every morning, per Oprah, but for me this six-hour mandate is going to be quite a feat. Even with my five days of exercise (an impressive stat in itself) I still have yet to hit 200 minutes, which means I still have more than 2 hours of huffing and puffing ahead of me to fulfill my quota for the week, and I was counting on at least one day of total and complete inertia. Bob Greene is now and forever my enemy. In the future I plan to refrain from reading O Magazine, but for now (or for however long I can keep up this resolution ruse) Mr. Greene’s directive is seared into my brain.
In another resolution coup d’etat, I have successfully warded off the snacking bug during all five nap times in 2011. As much as I cherish nap time, the blissful silence, the opportunity to use the restroom in solitude, the unfettered Facebook time, the clandestine Jersey Shore watching, it is also a time when I tend to graze through my cabinets in a manner not unlike our neighboring gluttonous French cows. While skimming through pictures of other people’s vacations I unconsciously consume half a bag of pretzels, in the time it takes me to catch up on the trials and tribulations of Lindsey Lohan’s most recent rehab stint I impressively polish off half a wedge of brie and a baguette. During nap time I eat because I am often too busy to eat lunch with the girls, but I eat without thinking, and I overeat because the stress of the morning has left me weak and haggard. This year I have vowed to try eat my lunch with the girls, and to not eat anything but fruit and vegetables while they are napping. For some reason gorging on carrot sticks is not nearly as tempting as polishing off that bag of popcorn in my cupboard. This resolution just may be my Everest. As I type this I am peevishly sipping on a cup of herbal tea and desperately trying to ignore that box of chocolates sitting on the counter.
That was it. Those were my three big resolutions, and I was mildly impressed with the fact that I had faithfully held up the resolutions for five whole days. Lurking way back in the corner of my mind, however, was a tiny voice, annoyingly reminding me about the blog that I had started with such enthusiasm when we first moved to France. Remember that blog, Maura? Remember how you wrote every, single day for weeks, and then every other day for a while, which turned to once a week, which quickly turned to once a month, until finally, not a word has been written since October. Oh my poor neglected blog! The guilt that has been steadily building from my blogging drought weighs heavily on my mind. I read friends blogs and cringe with shame (all the while enjoying your witty prose, and beautiful pictures, I promise). I read blogs by people who blog for a living, and marvel at their doggedness, their carefree writing style and super-hero like ability to tackle writer’s block, and wish that I could capture just a bit of that talent. If I am really serious about this whole resolution business, I owe it to myself to dedicate at least a sliver of these efforts towards my blog. I have been avoiding my blog like a certain beloved children’s storybook character eschews green eggs and ham. But, today I bit the bullet, I looked that Sam-I-Am in the eye, grabbed my plate of green eggs and ham, and opened my WordPress page for the first time in months.
Remarkably, when I opened up my blog I was greeted with a call to arms; in the upper left hand corner of my page a gauntlet was thrown by the people at WordPress, a challenge to blog at least once a week for the next year. For the more courageous at heart there was the option to blog every day for the year, but I chose the infinitely easier way out. Apparently, thousands of others suffer from dysfunctional bloggers block and WordPress is daring them, daring me, to change. Do I dare? Yes, I do. The truth is that I feel better when I blog. It is almost like exercising. There are so many days when the last thing I want to do is lace up my sneakers (and let’s be honest, many days I simply don’t, please don’t tell Bob) but once I do, I immediately feel invigorated and that feeling of energy and accomplishment carries me through my day. When I blog I am also rewarded with a sense of a fulfillment. When I write I feel like there is more to my life than the endless cycle of cook food, feed food, clean up food, with a little bit of laundry, child chauffeuring, and bottom wiping sprinkled in for fun. My blog is also a way of giving back to my family. It is a record of our amazing adventures in Europe, a history of the crazy things that happened and will happen to us while we live in France. When I think about my blog in this positive light I am invigorated and eager to write more. It is no longer an albatross around my neck, another chore, like cleaning the toilet, that I must slog my way through before I can relax. I need to remember why I blog, for my own sense of self, my emotional and intellectual well-being, and for my family.
So, a fourth resolution has been added to my list; to blog at least once a week. Any words of encouragement on this front are greatly appreciated. And, if there is anyone who is willing to call me every night to make sure I washed my face, that would be very helpful as well.
Pardon my French 