Author: Shelley Sim

Braving the Bikini….


This is how I feel right now. A wee bit “plumpy”. Maybe I misunderstood the Mediterranean diet. Everyday, I ate French bread with cheese and red wine. I was practically a vegetarian and yet the “diet” didn’t work. I am emerging from quarantine with a little more lump to the plump and I have to contemplate summer swimwear.

I want to be brave and wear a bikini this summer. Or at least a version of a bikini. I think I am gravitating towards a “two piece” swim suit. A bikini has string, I need spandex with strategic coverage and built in enhancements.

*NOT me! Oh to be brave! My “wish” bathing suit for summer 2020.

I used to wear a bikini and then somewhere along the line, I moved to tankini which was a disaster. Tankinis sounded super cute but in fact, it’s just a version of tank top that must have shrunk to sit weirdly above the belly button allowing the muffin top to look like a dozen donuts.

I also tried the one piece. Another disaster. A “sleek” one piece on me is like wrapping cookie dough in saran wrap. I experimented with the ones that had the “textured” middle but that just fluffed out the flab.

My next gravitation was to the sporty skort with longer top. This was quite fun until my hips went horizontal and caused the skort to skimp and reveal nether regions of raciness. I can barely tweeze my brows and shave my legs. If I have to do more grooming than that, I best buy a burka.

What I need is tasteful yet fun. Like the 50’s.

Here is the reckoning. The best looking women are the ones that show up as themselves and shine. It’s not the style or physique, it’s mindset. While I am stressing about the spandex not sucking in my stomach, someone may be looking and thinking, “WOW! Great legs“.

This summer, I am committed to making the shift. I will find my shine. Even though I failed with my Mediterranean diet, I exercised everyday. I chose on line work outs and made the commitment to sweat.

When I first started, if a workout session included burpees, I hit fast forward. I hated burpees. I hated them because they are stupid and hard and make everything hurt. Even though they are kind of stupid, I realized I hated them because I couldn’t do them anymore. I would do one and then slip into downward dog and pretend that was sort of the same thing.

I don’t know what part of me felt that I had to keep up with an online fitness program. They couldn’t see me! What part of “I have a remote control” did I not understand? I stopped hitting fast forward and would just hit “pause” and do the moves and do them at my pace. Today, I can now do burpees. I still hate them but I can do them. I am in my fifties. My physique is fluffy with a splash of flab but I am getting fit. Small wins.

I am pleased with my fitness but I am uncomfortable with my shape. I am embarrassed to be in a bathing suit because everything shows. All my imperfections are out in the open. I don’t like that I am not what I used to be. That other “me” that used to be 20 pounds lighter. It’s a weird walk of shame and then it dawned on me. This feeling isn’t about fit or fat, this is a metaphor about me. I don’t want to be seen in a bathing suit or in any other context. I want to hide in the cabana.

When I go to any social function, I have to talk myself off the ledge. I need cue cards to remind me of positive social topics that are neutral in content. I wear bright pink lipstick to give me courage. I try really hard to stay with small talk and say the “right” thing but before you know it, I veer off script and am knee deep in dialogue and debate with a heavy hand of out loud commentary. No amount of spandex is going to keep me tucked in and even if I just drink water, my mouth still runs off like I’ve had a few glasses of white. This all leads to the morning sense of regret. “Did I really say that?” “I wonder if they understood what I was saying?” “Should I have said that?” “Did they enjoy the conversation or just pretend to be polite?” And my favourite part of morning after reflection, “should I call them today and explain?” I just want to put on my bathing suit cover up and hide.

My goal continues to be to stop the self loathing and negative self-talk. I am working on reframing my self perceptions to a “what if” in the positive. “What if they liked my ideas?” “What if they were interested in what I said?” “What if they admired someone being outspoken?” I am also working on accepting that generally whatever I say, is really what I mean. I need to stop pretending I like the small talk. I like debate and deep social dialogue. I like hearing new ideas and hashing out concepts and possibilities. I like weighing in on topics many prefer to avoid. I like the mental stimulation that comes from hearing what other people think. I like the second layer, even if it gets messy.

Squishing into a bathing suit is super uncomfortable and so is squashing myself into being someone other than who I am. I tend to do both to try and “fit”. I seek approval and acceptance and yet make the standards of my self acceptance so high that there is not a hope in hell that I will ever reach it.

I need to stop being afraid. My jiggly bits are my insecurities. I don’t feel I am “enough” but I am trying to ease that load.

I am afraid of wearing a bikini and I am afraid of being me. It’s time for positive action and to make a change. This summer, I will brave the bathing suit and being me.

Here’s to having the courage we need to become more than we thought we could (and to finding the bathing suit that fits to perfection). Here’s to the shine that lives within!

With love,

Shelley

COVID, The Cabin & Camp Sim…..


The Sim Cabin

Our house is like a summer cabin. It’s cute but not finished. My husband calls it a “work in progress”. I call that “marriage”. The house needs small things like trim and a wee bit of siding but somehow anything and everything has a higher priority than trim and siding.

The house sits on two acres and is “nestled” in the trees. That sounds idyllic and it is, until you get the faint whiff of the pigs…. We started the house with two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen and living “area”. For a family of 5, it was cozy. Owen slept in the hallway. When we entertained, our guests had to bring a jacket because the only place to sit was outside on the porch. This was tricky in the winter. In the summer, we pretended to be trendy with “el fresco” dining.

Over the years, we have continued to renovate. Everyone now has their own bedroom, there is a large living room with a lovely vaulted ceiling and another big outdoor porch area that begs for rich conversation over steaming mugs of tea or glasses of chilled white wine. The house also begs for a second bathroom. However, all boys and men seem to delight in the freedom of the great outdoors so somehow we manage.

We are definitely not fancy. Our home is a collection of comfortable things; often second hand things. I love the worn leather couches and for some weird reason, I love the olive green loveseats with their cloth texture and 70’s design that don’t match anything else in the house. I adore the red chairs on the deck where I have my morning coffee and can listen to the rain on the tin roof. Our house wears like a favourite pair of worn jeans; it’s comfortable, casual and feels like a like a cabin all year round.

Mostly that is great but since COVID19, the cabin has morphed into summer camp and I am the new camp counsellor. The “campers” for this season include our eldest son Aiden (23), daughter Megan (21), youngest son Owen (14), our German student (16) and of course my husband Wayne who teaches the outdoor survival course. With all these people, you can see why I would be keen on a second bathroom.

The day starts exactly like camp would. Everyone gathers for breakfast and then they head off for morning activities leaving the kitchen help to do the dishes and tidy up. That’s me. “Camp Counsellor” is a wide descriptive. I also get to be the custodian and the laundry attendant. The camp seems to be run as a non-profit with volunteer “staff”.

As Camp Counsellor, I make sure I offer plenty of activity choices. Some examples are yard work, painting, scrubbing walls, sanding decks or organizing the sport shed. Afternoon “rest time” is the most popular activity. This is perplexing because it’s not something I offer as a camp activity and yet, every afternoon, people are happily lounging in chairs, hammocks or on the couches. They are reading or streaming or napping. I know this because I have to ask them to move while I sweep and mop around them. Time for camp chores.

I adore my daughter for all her Type A characteristics. She specializes in labelling, spreadsheets and organizational flow charts. Thanks to her, we now have a daily job chart where everyone is assigned specific tasks and each task has very clear directions and expectations. Cleaning the bathroom is NOT just taking a look and seeing that there is enough toilet paper. She just became the Camp Director.

Evenings are spent around the dining room table. The conversations flow and are quite animated. Sometimes we have to invoke camp rules like “play nice” and “don’t call each other names” but overall, it’s engaging. It’s also relaxing since the chore list was invoked and I don’t have to do the after dinner clean up.

Quarantine with the family has had its moments of “OMG! I HATE THIS CAMP, GET ME OUT OF HERE” but as the days flowed into weeks, I found joy in the rhythm. Morning breakfast includes morning visits with each of the kids. Megan and Aiden help Owen with his homework; they all head out biking and since Camp Sim doesn’t ban alcohol, happy hour is another popular social activity.

Camp life has allowed us to escape to a place in time that we never thought we would experience again. Wayne and I thought we might have outgrown camp. After all, Aiden and Megan had left home. They had gone onto university and had started creating their own pathways and were stretching towards their life milestones. Pre COVID, our family home was just the touchpoint that was used to bring people back together for Thanksgiving and Christmas. These holidays were lovely but the time was fast and fleeting. These days, we have nothing but time.

At Camp Sim, we laugh, we giggle and yes, we argue but we also make up. Wayne and I get to “know” our adult children in ways that we never imagined. Owen has new relationships with his siblings that previously didn’t exist. They have developed connections amongst themselves that are the foundation for a lifetime relationship and it’s beautiful to watch. I’m not so keen when they gang up on me as Camp Counsellor but I do cherish that they are the best cabin team of the summer.

There are many awful consequences to COVID19. At night, I admit to falling into a cold sweat (different than hot flashes) over finances, the economy and all the other “what ifs” but if I stay focused on our sense of summer camp, I am transported into a magical place for which I am intently grateful. Time has been suspended long enough that I can embrace the whole family in one hug. Life has paused. I can swim in the clouds and experience whole hearted being with my all my kids, all at once.

This week, the gears of our world are slowly churning and grinding to restart. Social circles can be expanded, businesses can cautiously turn on the lights and students will resume school in part time blocks. It’s not going to be the same; it’s going to be different. I hope the “difference” will include the good bits of what we have all just shared. I hope that we don’t “rush” back to a life that kept us too busy from connecting on meaningful levels. I hope that we continue to grow gardens, shop local and stay in touch. I hope that “slowing down” is viewed as a valuable part of being whole and healthy and that the “rush” and the “stress” of being “busy” is a pandemic to avoid.

It’s been a funny journey. The shock and awe that first took me by storm has morphed into gratitude for Camp Sim. I like this bubble but I know it can’t last. I know the bus will come and take the kids back to their lives. We will hug and say goodbye; it’s part of the camp experience but for right now, I just wish camp could last just a little bit longer.

With love,

Shelley

A Mother’s Day Tribute to The People Who Stopped Us From Eating Our Young….Happy Aunt’s Day!


My life goals never included motherhood. Children didn’t interest me. The exception to this was when I was babysitting and I was paid.

I remain immensely surprised to be a mother to three children. Perhaps the bigger surprise was having two children and then having a third eight years later. No, this was not a result of a second marriage. Yes, there was alcohol involved but that’s another story.

When our first child was born, I went to the hospital with three sets of cue cards. One for me, one for my husband and one “just in case”. The cards outlined the three stages of birth and suggested phrases of support. If my cue cards weren’t stupid enough, I also declined “drugs” but only because I had packed a small bottle of vodka as a back up pain plan. I’m not kidding but I am super embarrassed……

No one read my dumb cue cards and I forgot I had packed the vodka. All best laid plans went to hell and I just remembering looking up at the clock after hours and hours of horrific back labour and thinking “I’m pretty sure the cue cards said that we would be done by now“. This thought was followed by “how the hell do I get to stage three“?

The awful reality was that stage three was only achieved by actually giving birth. F*CK.

If I gave birth, I would then become a parent. I took Young Drivers of Canada to learn how to drive and I went to marriage counselling prior to the wedding. How was it possible that the hospital was just going to let me leave with a baby? No screening questions, no criminal record check and no one even looked in my bag to see if I had cracked the seal on the vodka bottle. They let me leave after seeing that we had a certified car seat. OMG.

Flash forward two years when baby number two arrives. If you think a pandemic brings on day drinking, try a husband in school and living in a one bedroom apartment with an overactive toddler and a baby that has colic.

I was not a natural parent. I needed help. PLENTY OF HELP. In addition to my own Mum, what really got me through was the “aunties” of the world.

The “aunties” are my sister (my AMAZING sister!!) and extended relatives but also those other magical people who helped along the way. They were the friends that gave baby showers and who offered to babysit. They were the people that talked me out of the bathroom after I locked myself in for a “timeout”. They held my hand when things got tough and hugged and cheered during major milestones of joy. They are the ones that still remember each of the kids names which is helpful because I always forget.

These friends and family members are the honoured “aunties” and an invaluable part of my children’s upbringing. At every stage, they extended kindness and support. And never judged. OK, when our third fell in the well, there were some raised eyebrows but honestly, he’s fine and has even learned to swim. The point is that when I made mistakes, it was the “aunties”, that supported me and kept me on track. They also made me laugh.

These beautiful souls went shopping for grad dresses, took the kids for dinner, taught them to ski and surf. They remembered birthdays and when left in charge, even made French toast as a special request. They filled in where I had gaps.

Glennon Doyle wrote “Blessed are those brave enough to make things awkward, for they wake us up and move us forward“. I hope that every mom has a team of “aunties”. They ask the hard questions. “Are you sure you want to do (or say) that…” “Have you checked…..” “Did you consider…..” and of course the big question “Don’t you remember when you were ……”. That last question was always tricky because I have to be accountable to those who have proof of my teenage years. As side note, if my children ask, I was perfect, never snuck out at night AND a virgin when I got married.

My kids are better because of those outside the role of “parent”. The “aunties” are the best influences and the greatest support. They are perspective and balance and the only side they “choose” is love for all. They are the compass in the storm and the touchstones for ever after. It’s not only my kids who are better but I am better because they weighed in and weren’t afraid of the awkward moments. They woke me up and moved me forward.

This year, my version of “Mother’s Day” will include “Aunties Day”. This year, I celebrate all those women who stepped in and walked beside me to make a difference. Thanks to them, I have three great kids who are the sum parts of genetics and external moments of love. Unconditional love is not the sole lawn sign that belongs to moms, it’s a whole big team who can wear the uniform with pride.

I am not enough. Kids need more than just the mother and the father; kids need the collective and sometimes the collective takes on different faces. My mother became the Grandmother, my sister becomes the Aunt and my friends are the “aunties”. My relationship to each of them is different than the relationship they have with my kids but it works to create the whole. Without them, I know I would have cracks. The “aunties” give kids a place to “be free” of parental judgment and nuttiness.

While I never thought I would be a mother, here I am. I still haven’t done a criminal background check but with the exception of falling in the well, being left at the hockey arena and maybe forgetting to pick them up after basketball, no one is in jail. And that includes me.

To all the amazing people who have shared in the journey of my kids, thank you! Thank you for being the safe space, the letter of reference, the person that dropped everything to listen and who always gave the gift of love. In my heart, I dedicate Sunday May 10th to you and the deep difference you have made to me and my family. You are my miracles and I am beyond grateful.

With love,

Shelley

The Slippery Slope of Aging and the Need for Larger Fonts…


A few years ago, I noticed that I would have to hold a book further and further away to read. When I needed to stretch further than I could reach, I realized that I had arrived at the age of “readers”.

While picking up party supplies at the local Dollar Store, I casually slipped a pair of readers into my basket. That night, reading my book in bed was a joy! The words were clear and bright. It was marvelous and also my own little secret. Like grey hair. Those little suckers were quietly covered up too.

My secret soon became public. I was at the gym peering at the stair climber console trying to squint my way through getting started. Likely more urgent was that I liked the TV on the console and couldn’t see the channels. No matter how hard I squinted, it was one big flashing blur. Nothing screams “OLD LADY IN THE HOUSE” more than wearing a pair of readers on your head during a gym work out. True story because when the younger members saw me come in, they quickly turned down the music and switched the station to hits of the 80’s. At least it wasn’t “golden oldies”. Ugh.

My readers went from an occasional companion to having a pair in every room, two pairs in my purse and the emergency pair in the car. “Don’t leave home without them” was not about my children or American Express, it was my readers.

With failing eyesight, I can’t see dust or grime or chin hairs until it becomes overwhelmingly obvious. Not terrible when it applies to dust or grime but discovering a lone chin hair that has gone rogue is a totally different issue. “How long has THAT been growing?” and “why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Plucking eyebrows is also tricky. I have to lean into the mirror, inch the readers slightly down my nose and then carefully angle the tweezers around the rims. The trick is being able to balance the readers so that I can see the dissident hairs and pluck appropriately. Without my readers, things can go bad very quickly.

I need things supersized. This includes labels, directions to medications, the font on my phone and menus. Even the best readers can’t help me in dimly lit restaurants with a romantic candle. Get rid of the candle and could someone please bring me a flashlight!

The struggle continues in the shower. At hotels I have to strategically place those little itty bitty bottles around the tub. Front right corner is the shampoo, front left is the conditioner and rear right corner is the body wash. One slip of the system and I am washing out of order. Even at home this is a problem. Finally, I got smart. C is for conditioner and S is for shampoo.

Readers were easy solutions but they were just one visual form that announced the aging process had begun. Tank tops are another.

I always wondered why women of a “seasoned” vintage wore tank tops in the winter. I get that wardrobe choice now. It’s not fashion, it’s survival apparel.

It takes real self discipline to be in a meeting and not bat an eye when suddenly your body catches fire. Staring straight ahead, you continue with the meeting. “Nothing to see, everything is fine“. No acknowledgement that your body is about to combust into flames. Beads of sweat start to form on the upper lip and brows; armpits become open taps and water cascades down the back like a waterfall. Quick action is required because at any moment people are going to start noticing the puddles pooling on the floor. Diversion strategies are critical. My favourite is to point towards the ceiling and ask “is that a spider“? I just need those few seconds to mop my brow, whip off the jacket, flap the blouse like a fan and regain my composure. These are the superpowers that I wasn’t expecting in my 50’s.

C is for Crisis.

The readers, the tank tops, the grey hair and the new spare tire were public admissions of getting older. I felt moments of “ageism” creeping into my reality. Parts of me were breaking down including knees and shoulders. I question hem lengths of appropriateness and I sure can’t attend exercise classes that include an excess of “jumping”. Was the best of me now behind me? There lay the sadness. I saw readers as the start of the decline and the years ahead were a hell of a lot shorter than the years behind. A point of life crisis.

Somehow I had let the “adulting” wear me away. I traded in my hopes and dreams for “respectable” and “responsible”. I gave into the concept that a “good mother” wouldn’t put herself before her family. A “good mother” would be last. The last to eat, the last to bed and the last to take time for herself. I bought into this invisible code of ridiculous conduct and now I was faced with the fear that my next decades of life would involve a tasteful wardrobe made up of ugly flowered blouses, comfortable shoes and bad light jazz.

C is for COVID19 and Courage.

A pandemic has brought panic but also an abundance of time to rethink my drink and recheck reality. Many self-help authors are more than willing to share their secrets of their incredible success but I am not sure I relate to “them”. Where my real inspiration has taken place is with those that are my friends. Here is where I found courage in action.

One friend has started an athletic apparel company, another is following her dreams and starting a business that involves cooking for seniors while others are embracing new careers and making moves to pivot their business models in response to the new economy. I am in awe of those who are winning with their fitness goals, starting new hobbies and I am humbled by those who have chosen to consciously “stop” and give generously to the needs of their family and friends. These people are not collapsing but rising and rising strong.

And if that wasn’t enough inspiration, Google has more! Judi Dench became the darling of the screen in her 60’s, Mary Kay kickstarted her career in her 50’s and even after a brief stint in jail, Martha Stewart rose to a new level of stardom in her 70’s.

C is for Change.

To follow along my theme of bravery, I need to reset my perspective. I am the one that chose to conform to some nebulous playbook; a weird form of societal convention and that has to change. My choice moving forward is to give life to the 18 year old that still lives within; to bring back that gal who loves to crank the music and dance on tables. Maybe my “readers” are to see that the best is yet to come thanks to a life full of experience and well lived life lessons.

To you my friends, thank you for the inspiration to be more than I thought I could be. There is power in reaching the age of the “reader” and I vow to rock the tank top!

With love to all.

Shelley

And Then We Bought Pigs…..


I feel a need to note that when I was growing up, my dream was to move to Toronto. I would be in business, my husband would be a lawyer and we would live in a lovely condo that came with a delightful cleaning lady. There were no children but several pairs of shoes. The kitchen would be fantastic but never used because we would only eat out.

I am unclear where I took a wrong turn because I live in a town of less than 2200. There are no stop lights, no sidewalks, no five star restaurants and if one wants to go shopping, there is a Fields where nothing is more than $20. Grocery shopping for even three items takes an hour. You have to visit with everyone. Even during a pandemic. In a small town, everyone knows your name. Chances are, you will be called out on some scandal. Likely it won’t be true but in a small town, reality TV is played out in the supermarket. I’m hoping that someone might think I am having an affair! The chances are slim to none but in small town gossip, to think that someone might be sweet on me at age 52, I will take that call to fame!

However, I am not having an affair. I am also not in Toronto in my condo with my lawyer husband and my cleaning lady. I am in BFN (bum f@ck nowhere) with Grizzly Adams as my husband, our three children, two dogs, one cat and an abundance of unfinished projects. Also, I seem to have taken on the role of the cleaning lady.

In a condo, I would have had double closets. In rural BC, I have chickens.

  • The Chickens…..Mabel, Mavis, Beatrice, Gertrude

We named them, we talked to them and they would join us on the deck for cocktails.

A bear arrived. The chicken coop was nature’s version of “KFC” and take out. It is a myth that black bears are vegetarian. They aren’t.

Black bear waiting for “take out”.

Since we had become attached to the “ladies”, it was sad to just find their feathers. We could imagine them talking. “Has anyone seen Beatrice?” “She was just here”

My husband was particularly indignant. We raised these chickens from the moment they arrived in a box on the bus. We brought them home and for their first weeks, we raised them in Tupperware inside the house. They were kind of like pets. I know, that is just so weird but true and when they were under attack, my husband pulled out the big guns. Literally.

Wayne spent hours waiting for the bear. He was going to protect the “girls” but that bear was tricky. It was almost as though he knew when the “hunter” needed to “rehydrate” and leave his post.

Farming means losses. We have watched bears use our coop as “take out”, cougars hunt for fun and much to our chagrin, our new puppy thinking the chickens were playthings. Imagine feather pillows…..

But back to what I thought my life was going to look like and what it actually is. It’s a pandemic, the world is upside down, I’ve joined the ranks of the unemployed and I have embraced food security.

Since I have a new found abundance of time, a growing sense of panic for the future coupled with a potential addiction to a cocktail hour that starts at noon, I really felt I needed to revise my focus.

Many might take this opportunity to indulge in yoga or some sort of peaceful practice that would invoke inner harmony. I likely had one too many glasses of wine and ordered pigs. I also ordered 40 more chickens (meat birds….yes, they will eventually be housed in the freezer), 24 laying hens, 72 tomato plants, a redneck version of a greenhouse plus new gumboots. Clearly, I should ease up on the wine.

I can cope with chickens, tomatoes, a greenhouse and new gumboots but pigs??? What was I thinking?

They have arrived at 30 pounds and it is anticipated that we will butcher at 300 pounds. Did you catch that? I easily said “butcher at 300 pounds”. Here’s the problem. I don’t know how to butcher a pig and I have real concerns that Wayne’s version will be messy!

Where the hell is the cleaning lady and my condo and how did I end up learning how to disembowel a chicken? I think it’s also appropriate to mention that I don’t even like pork!

So where does this leave me? Well, I vowed at the beginning of the year to be brave. I promised myself that I would challenge myself to take on new projects and learn new things. Likely I was thinking more along the lines of poetry and trying new cocktails but too late now.

My true confession is that I actually believe in food security and I worry about borders and food quality and international relations. Likely it is far fetched but This pandemic is generating feelings of paranoia but it is also the catalyst to wanting a new sense of community feeling self sufficient. Overnight it felt like a darkness came and stole our lives and robbed us of our means. This pandemic has taken various forms of prisoners and left no one uninjured. Self sufficiency on even the smallest scale feels like regaining a sense of control while the world is still spinning madly.

Everything is changing and large food production plants are closing down due to health concerns. The government has confirmed bridging aid but there is a small murmur that suggests we give up our fetish for shoes and trade them for gumboots. A backyard garden is a powerful source of sustenance. There might even be some newfound satisfaction in providing not only for ourselves but also for each other.

It seems impossible that we live through a pandemic that crushes the global economy and not emerge with new thoughts and new skills and perhaps a new outlook. What if we found new ways to look after each other and it was granular and basic and was delivered as baskets of freshly picked lettuce or maybe homemade bread or jam? What if our healing took place in the earth? Where our hands connected with dirt and we watched it sift through our fingers and we took satisfaction in planting and caring and growing? I think I need this healing. These quiet moments when the tending of gardens and animals immerse me in something greater than dreams of a condo and a closet of shoes.

I can’t say I’m expert because I’m not. I am used to being busy and being “productive” but lately I have been drifting and feeling a tad lost. I am hoping that by learning how to create from seed, will give me a renewed sense of soul.

It intrigues me that as the weeks of “self-isolation” pass, new life lessons emerge. It echoes what I “thought” I would be versus who I am “becoming”. My connection to the earth and food source is actually quite freeing. I used to depend on the “economy” but that clearly didn’t work out. I am wondering if I have to learn how to rely on myself? Frick. That’s a game changer for sure. I wasn’t always sure of myself and was often found looking for “Easy Street” and now I have pigs. I think of the iconic movie “Sliding Doors” and wonder what my moments will be. Fate or said destiny? Maybe it is just the deeper yearning that is starting to take hold?

So. The pandemic saw me clean my house, fight off waves of panic, embrace day drinking and now I feed pigs. It’s week 6. I am nervous as to what week 12 might bring. However, if I was totally honest, I would also admit that being “still” and doing “nothing” is hard but calming. I feel drawn to the silence and feel its ok to enter the abyss of the “the wondering” of what’s next.

BC (Before Covid19) I always rushed. I pedaled fast and the scenery of my life was nothing but a blur. I just went along for the ride. I lost that part of me that believed in my dreams. After all, aren’t I “too old” to change, to reroute and restructure a life that seems “fine”?

And then it all stopped. The pandemic arrived and now there is no rush and what was a blur is clearly in focus. The stopping has allowed me to hear that whisper that calls for new growth. I wonder if I shifted too far when I took my life turn. I look in wonder at a new grounding that is taking place all around. I see deeper relationships with family, friends even with oneself. I feel a tilting towards balance and a sigh of relief.

I vowed to be brave this year. I am scared to be unemployed and to lose my badge that comes with a title on a business card but as I work through my fear, I find new courage to meet myself on new levels. I wonder if I actually might like myself more?

I dreamed of Toronto and I find myself with pigs. Life is funny that way. Maybe Forest Gump really had it right when he said “life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you are going to get”.

I never thought I would get chickens or pigs or even kids and yet, I do and they are all an adventure.

I am still scared. I wish they would tell me what happens at the end of a pandemic. If this were a book, I would totally skip to the end. I wish I knew when “normal” would return and I sure wish I could hug those I deeply care about. I feel adrift because I crave connection but I console myself with the fact that maybe my best new connection is now with myself.

I wish you peace amongst the chaos and love with yourself and with others. I’m going to believe that it’s going to be ok. May we each grow something new and try something with courage.

With care and love,

Shelley

And Then I Tried on my Pants…..


My friend Amy said that during quarantine, we should be putting on our jeans every few days to ensure they fit. Excellent advice but I wasn’t sure if by “putting on jeans” she meant just one leg or actually doing up the buttons. I would also seek clarity if this referred to the jeans that had been worn several times or the ones that just were washed…..

I braved the moment and with some encouragement, the button finally connected but the bigger issue was that I found myself busting out of the blouse.

I either need new clothes or a new exercise program. Since I am a natural shoppping disaster, I opted for a new exercise regime.

I dug in and looked at the options. Not that this was hard. It seems my entire social media feed has been hijacked by spandex. My favourite articles leaned towards “more is less”. These articles are fairly firm that I have wasted hours and hours at the gym. I could have told you that but it was nice to have it confirmed by perfect strangers promoting their own program for a mere $69.99 per year. Of the zillion programs to choose from, I really leaned towards “change in just 7 minutes”. So did my husband. I told him that the seven minutes I was looking at required clothes.

The devil is in the details. Seven minutes was only going to be effective if I also adjusted my diet. Fair comment. I chose the Mediterranean diet; specifically French. The French like red wine and cheese. Me too! In fact, I like French bread so much that I bought a bread maker I also expanded into Swiss chocolate.

So many changes and yet….. the button still had to stretch to find the hole. What do the French do differently? Oh, right. The benefits of regularly smoking.

My adapted version of the Mediterranean diet was more like being on vacation. If I was serious about more buttons finding the hole, I needed stronger action on the exercise and food front.

This led me to contemplate running. Ugh. Has it really come to this? Running hurts. Those first 10 seconds could kill me. Just thinking about it makes me crave Advil. I used to like running but then, I used to be 30.

If I run, I might feel like a blender. There is a chance that all that wiggle and jiggle might be whipped up and purified creating redistribution either that or I will die on the roadside.

Confession. Running reminds me of who I am and who I used to be. This is likely why I love the Mediterranean diet; so many comforts that cushion deep rooted denial of reality.

It’s time to let all that go. I really have no more excuses. I am unemployed, in quarantine and have reorganized the cutlery drawer. I used to wear the t-shirt that said “No Time” but even that doesn’t fit anymore.

So I laced up and ran. The first 10 seconds almost killed me. The second 10 seconds weren’t any easier but I focused on fresh starts. I also looked for any platform of inspiration. Imagine my surprise when inspiration came in the form of a podcast featuring J. Lo and shaking it big time at the Super Bowl. I was so intrigued that I googled. OMG! She just turned 50 and she has the MOVES! Also long hair but that’s another story.

If COVID19 has taught me anything, it is that there are second chances and opportunities come disguised as challenges.

I will admit that somewhere along the line I got fatigued with a sense of failure and sinking into bread, red wine and chocolate was infinitely nicer than making the effort to try again and risk defeat. My button hole wasn’t just about the fit, it was finding my whole fit in the bigger picture. It’s about taking steps towards living the life I want to live; that life that I had stuffed into the drawer and labeled “one day”.

So I opened the drawer and “one day” started “today”. One foot in front of the other. Small steps that go from 10 seconds to longer. And by the way, my “one day” gets to dress in leggings!

Here’s to opening the drawer and getting the button to fit plus a little bit more…..

With love,

Shelley

And Then I Panicked…..A Covid19 Moment


How did the 1993 movie Groundhog Day go from “iconic movie” to modern day reality? I used to think that movie was hilarious. I now think the plot line sucks.

Every day is the same. “Get up, make coffee, have a shower and get dressed”. This is “success” for 2020. For the super achievers, they put on pants. The rest of us are still in leggings.

The new monotony of Groundhog Day is sucking the life out of me. Yesterday I sat in the car and turned it on just to see if it still works. Today I might take it for a spin around the driveway.

“Be still my beating heart” is not just love reflection, it is also one of the first signs of panic.

In the past three weeks, due to C19, I have joined millions in losing an income, likely losing a business and certainly losing my mind. I used to feel productive, useful and engaged. Now I get dressed and call it a day.

Part of my panic is wondering what I am going to do PC19 (Post Covid19). What is life going to look like? What skills do I have that will be relevant? What if I take a chance and “follow my heart” only to find out that it’s a bust? What am I going to do for work?

A friend sent me a text saying she was thinking of becoming a Phone Sex Operator. Likely a good idea. Can you imagine? No one would even have to know. You could be in the bathroom, screaming loudly “OH GOD!!” and everyone else in the house would listen and say “I’ve got to remember to put the lid down”.

Will I have what it takes for the next step? I’m from Generation X. We have been reinventing ourselves for 3 decades and I don’t know if I have another costume change in me. Gen X has survived three recessions; early 1990’s, early 2000 and let’s not forget 2008 when everything went to shit which gave us just enough time to recover for COVID19. Anyone else want to start drinking at 10am?

Yesterday I was feeling the pain of having to work up the energy to face that mountain and climb it once again. I hate that mountain. It is mean. It has steep slopes, jagged edges and quite frankly, I’m not sure that there is even a view from the top. I feel sad, angry, overwhelmed and somewhat distraught. It is uncomfortable living in the “unknowing” of what comes next.

When facing the peril of panic, I turn to podcasts and cleaning my floors. Podcasts inspire me and cleaning the floors reminds me that I will always have a job.

The podcast I chose was from Brene Brown (BB) and she talked about how people “show up” in times of anxiety. That got my attention. I learned that I am an “over-functioner”. I am not sure that is a word but I love it and it describes me. When there is a “situation”, I whip open the closet door, throw on my cape, grab my broom and fly into action. Forest fire that we have to evacuate for? Not a problem. Pack, label, organize and create a spreadsheet database. Community economic meltdown? Easy. Throw together dinner for 200 and done. Manage through a worldwide pandemic? Nope. I’m stuck.

For an “over-functioner” who is having to “stay home”, I have way too many hours of doing nothing but watching my hair get long and grey. I don’t feel I am contributing in ways that feel useful. I don’t actually “do” anything these days. What BB pointed out is that my need for “doing” was actually my way of avoiding “feeling. Oh f@ck. Now I need serious therapy.

Doing “nothing” is causing me to think and feel in ways that are uncomfortable. Instead of reveling in a life that has slowed down, I am projecting worse case scenarios.

I wondered if I should start breathing and practicing calm. Could it be that a world wide pandemic is the perfect time to figure out what I really want to do with the rest of my life? Maybe, a pandemic is a peek in the door to see what I might like instead. Maybe, tomorrow is a second chance and that fresh start I thought I might never have.

There are parts of my life that I don’t love but I typically stuff them in the drawer of “let’s not think about that” or shove them in the closet called “no, it’s not that bad”. What if post pandemic, I emptied the drawer and cleaned out the closet?

I’m not 100% sure where this thought might take me but while I dust the lightbulbs I will think about it. How bold could I be with my answers if I honestly asked “what if…..” and let my imagination run free? The possibilities suddenly seem more exciting than my panic.

I promised this blog would be about admitting to my stumbles, my awkwardness, my fears and much more. If you have moments like me, I want you to know, that you are not alone. I am scared and I am going to try and overcome that. I am also going to try wearing pants. Small steps.

With love and care,

Shelley