Author: Shelley Sim

If anyone were to walk into my bedroom at 2am in the morning, they would see me wide awake and would wonder why . My husband wouldn’t ask this because he is fast asleep and snoring. He has no idea that every night, I wake up at 2am and sweat. Not panic sweat, just life after 50 sweat. It lasts long enough that I get a nap before I have another nighttime workout. In fact, I usually “work out” three times a night.

I am desperate for a good night sleep, to wake up refreshed and not sweaty. I am also desperate to find my waist again.

The magic of Google is you can just punch in a question and it spits out thousands of answers. When I asked “How can I get a better sleep and find my waist”, herbal remedies made the first search page. Flaxseed, black cohosh, evening primrose oil, Vitamin E, B and D and more. I learned about phytoestrogen which I quite liked. It’s well known for its presence in red wine. It has been shown to reduce chronic pain. I don’t have chronic pain but perhaps that’s because I drink red wine. I searched to see if drinking white wine might help me sleep. That wasn’t successful.

There comes a point when the information is so overwhelming that you just want it packaged in a little box. Like my red wine. Keep it easy.

I looked at all the suggested herbs and Google pinpointed me to a site that declared ” Thermogenic Probiotics do more than just provide support to the gut, immunity and digestive function. They have also been studied to impact fat storage, calorie absorption, & provide support for a prime metabolic state.” WOW! “prime metabolic state”. This sounded good and gave hope for sleep with a sign of skinny! Just two capsules a day and I would start feeling like “me” again. I quickly got out my credit card.

My gift with purchase should have been a t-shirt that said “hook, line and sinker” or better yet “SUCKER“.

The next morning I woke up with buyers remorse. Let me simplify what happened. I started off as desperate. I then listened to a man tell me that he had the answers. He played his magic flute and the lovely ladies appeared to confirm that my desperation could be solved by buying a bottle of thermogenic probiotics. In other words, I likely just spent $109 US dollars on snake oil.

In the sanity of the morning sun, I looked up thermogenic probiotics and sure enough, they supress appetite and have been known to be effective in conjunction with diet and exercise. No shit Sherlock. Everything is effective with diet and exercise except I can’t quite figure out the new diet or exercise.

And here’s my next confession. That wasn’t my only purchase. In the sanity of the morning sun, it got cloudy and I found myself listening to someone else tell me how I had been exercising all wrong and likely not eating the right food combinations. Oh. Look at that, the answer to my diet and exercise program. Did you know that for women over 50, we should be eating more and only exercising 20 minutes a day. True story. I read it on the internet and hit “pay now”.

Sleep deprivation has been a documented means of torture. Ask any new mother. With very little sleep, one does not function well or make good decisions. I can attest to this. I am waiting for snake oil while I browse through my new pdf cookbook that came with a FREE bonus of extra HIIT workouts. All which likely could have been found individually on the internet. Idiot. I am an idiot. Perhaps I should consider swampland in Florida.

I am guilty of wanting the quick fix and doing anything to feel “normal”. Most days, I feel like a piece of bread that has been left to soak in water and then set out on the counter to mold. It makes me think that women’s health is still on the backburner and not front and centre. I also have to admit that I am annoyed that people are making money off my desperation. My silent suffering is possibly because this is what women have always done but do we have to keep doing it?

I have been thinking a great deal about silent suffering and it’s bigger and broader than what I imagined. Look at the social movements that have been activated all over the globe. There is a spotlight shining on systems that have created to take advantage of circumstance. I have found this to be uncomfortable because somehow I am complicit. I can relate. Like reading about natural remedies, reading historical wrongs is complicated. There is no “quick fix” for my middle or the conversation around race. You can’t hit “pay now” and it’s going to be ok. The genie is out of the bottle.

I want to admit that I closed my eyes and ears. Racism is a painful subject and I don’t know where to begin. I have decided to “jump”. I am going to lean in and start reading and learning. I will keep my eyes wide open, even when things get ugly, uncomfortable and my insides start to squirm.

This week, in between my magic potion binge purchases, I ordered the following books:

White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo

How to Be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi

White Like Me by Tim Wise

21 Things You May Not Know About the Indian Act by Bob Joseph

I’m Still Here by Austin Channing Brown

What is becoming clear to me is that somehow “we” have to make things right. My favourite quote for the week is “the system isn’t broken, it was built this way“. I reflect on structures of power and realms of discrimination and believe that we have to rebuild with new purpose and intent. I want to start this work and I hope that the above reading list will help give me language that will allow me to participate with clear and constructive contribution. Policies that foster racism have to be changed. I want to be part of the solution and no longer complicit by sitting on the sidelines.

I listened to the podcast by Austin Channing Brown and it made me upset and uncomfortable and yes…. a little bit mad. She hit a nerve. I think that means I have to peel back layers of the onion.

I live by the bumper sticker “change is a long conversation” but I am thinking that this conversation has been going on for far too long and it’s time for action and to get into the game. This makes me nervous because I don’t have the playbook. This whole “white privilege” is really unnerving and to understand it, I have to learn about it and then “own” it and then change it. It’s going to be an uncomfortable ride.

I believed in magic, spells and potions. Anything that would take a complicated hurt and make it better. I put my money into the “quick” fix because that was easy. Real change will take real action. There is no room to profit off circumstance and struggle. That doesn’t resonate as the “right” thing to do. We can do better. I can do better. The call to action is now.

This is not an easy place to be and as a white woman, it feels super awkward. I feel the need to take the blame and in that blame, I feel shame and I also feel confused because I thought I was a good person. What I am learning is that is not enough. I closed my eyes to the awfulness and found ways to ignore what was happening. I numbed myself to a constant reality and that is not ok. Things are not right and that has to be said out loud along with a demand for systemic change sooner than later.

If ever there was a time of desperation, I think it might be now. This is a full on call to action for each of us. Together, we can do hard things that make a difference.

With love & commitment for a better tomorrow, for everyone.

Shelley

QUOTE BY AUSTIN CHANNING BROWN

“I will not and cannot prioritize trying to change someone’s mind/heart. We’d have to consult with historians but my guess is that a changed heart was rarely the catalyst for change. My guess is money, politics, media or the voice of the people was the real catalyst”

Gosh I am wrinkled. They are everywhere. Like mosquito bites. It’s incredible where you find them. Technically, my “wrinkle” on my back isn’t really a wrinkle but it sounds nicer than “back fat” so I am counting it.

It’s the hands and face that are the worst. And my neck. OK, I should add in my chest too. There are many parts that are beginning to look like fruit leather. I think my triceps are ok but only because they keep flapping in the wind and I can’t get a good look at them.

Some people are aging beautifully. Not me. Yesterday I was asked if I was “retired”. No, just currently unemployed. It’s kind of the same thing but without an income. But I digress. I have a friend who is rocking the house as she gets older. She is tall, graceful and when she walks in a room, she holds an audience with her spectacular sense of style. It also doesn’t hurt that she is smart, funny, kind and can make a mean martini. She also has flawless skin that makes most women envious.

One day I was talking to her and I kept wondering what was different. She always looks great but this day, it was beyond radiant. At the risk of sounding like a commercial, I asked her what her secret was. She told me that she had been doing “facial fitness”. Yes, it’s a “thing”.

I had to look this up because she looked AWESOME! What was this miracle of miracles? It turns out that facial fitness is like going to the gym with a personal trainer except you get to lie down, not sweat and you come out looking amazing. The treatment series involves microcurrents that stimulate facial muscles so that they regain their tone. Your skin gets plumped up (in a good way) and fine lines and wrinkles are diminished. Eyes open up, upper cheeks fill out with a slimmer and more structured jaw line. Now that’s a WOW!

In particular, it was my friend’s eyes that looked amazing! Wide open. Her experience was that the sessions had helped her face “lift”. Think about pulling your forehead up and back over your skull. The face literally “lifts”. I know this because I tried it and realized that my eyes had developed a bit of a “hood”. More than a “bit”. At this rate, I am likely going to be blind.

Gravity is a tough gig. My face is not just “falling”, it is avalanching. Everything is falling from the top down. It explains why my breasts have fallen into my stomach.

In a small town, we don’t have facial fitness facilities. I told my husband we should look at moving to the city for facial fitness options. He said he could hang me up in a tree like a deer and see if that would work. He also said he wouldn’t charge me. I don’t find him helpful.

Without access to facial fitness, I had to come up with my own home remedies. Betty White said that “the secret to aging better is getting 8 hours of sleep; 9 if you are ugly”. I need at least 12.

How am I going to age gracefully without being hung up in a tree? I’m trying to learn that lesson. I’m trying to transition. This is a metaphor for many things right now. I am trying to accept external changes and find ways to wear them so that they look good and not awkward.

Lately, with COVID19, I feel that many things in my life have been falling; not just my forehead but my career, my bank account and my dreams of where I thought I would “be” at this stage of my wrinkles. COVID 19 is definitely deepening my “WTF” lines.

This week, I have to write a new business plan and possibly a resume. The only thing worse than writing a resume is trying on bathing suits and we covered that topic in a previous blog. More courage is required. I have to stand up and admit that things are falling. It’s not comfortable. It’s like jeans that are too tight or my forehead falling over my eyes.

I talk about letting things go but it’s hard. Harder than I thought. I am dropping a business that operated for 25 years and enhanced my life in many ways. It helped get my husband through school, contributed to raising three kids and allowed me to flex my life so that I could serve my community and be a voice. And now it’s going to be different and I have no idea what that might look like.

Glennon Doyle is a beautiful author who has become a travelling companion for me. She wrote “what screws us up most in life is the picture we had in our head of what it was supposed to be“. True that.

So this week, I will write a new business plan, a resume and a rough draft for my next chapter. Right now my wrinkles are from worry. I am wondering what would happen if I could move worry aside to make room for more creativity? Surely these next steps can be mastered with a positive mindset of “what if” as opposed to “don’t fuck up“.

This blog is about bravery and trying new things. Not in the scope of “world peace” but rather in the ordinary realm of being just “normal”. Think job loss, heart ache, injustice, indignity and messiness not to mention a whole lot of “fuck am I pissed off”.

My goal for the week is to breathe into my “moreness” and keep a lid on the feeling of being “less than“. Again, my traveling companion Glennon, has good advice. “We can do hard things”. My hard might not be your hard and your hard might not be my hard, but regardless, it all involves that first scary step and that’s why we need each other. We need to reach out and help one another to rise up.

Courage cannot be measured. It’s a verb, not a noun and intensely personal not to mention it requires tons of bravery.

Here’s to having the courage to do hard things. Here’s to wrinkles that show a life that was lived with largeness and then some….

With love,

Shelley

I am determined to keep running but while running, I derive absolutely no joy. Sorry all you passionate, fabulous runners, it’s just not my jam – yet.

My running routine generally involves spending more time choosing my playlist than actually running.

Nothing has changed, those first 10 seconds hurt. The second 10 seconds aren’t any better. How can ten seconds feel like ten hours?

If my playlist sucks, I feel the need to stop. Music is motivating. The pain of my lungs exploding, my muscles yelling and the agony of “I have so much further to go” is not motivating.

There is that little voice that speaks to me and says “walking allows you exercise your hip flexors which is a good thing“. I like that little voice. I like it more than my muscles yelling at me. I stay stubborn and ignore the yelling. I have been a mother for 23 years, I am used to people yelling at me and ignoring them.

How can 30 minutes surfing the net go by so fast and 30 minutes running feel like eternity?

I keep running. It still hurts. I don’t know which is better. Should my goal be to run 5km or should I set a “time goal”? If I run 5km, I run faster so that I can get through it quicker. If I set a time goal, I tend to slip in more “walking”. Longer could help me burn off that second glass of wine. Sprinting through the experience gets me home faster and still a “check” on the “to do list” but only a small taste of dessert. First world problems.

I keep running. I like dessert. I also like wine. I find it depressing that I push through pain and I still have not burned enough calories to compensate for either of my vices. This of course means I need to run longer (with less walking). Ugh.

I run where no one can see me. The joy of living rural. If I do see someone, my ego takes centre stage. I pick up the pace to give the impression that I am an awesome runner. At least I hope this is the impression that I am leaving. There is a good chance that my idea of a “fast run” is a turtle sprinting. If I am running fast enough, they might not see the look of pain on my face or the fact that my hamstring has seized and I may never walk again. Ego is not a healthy habit.

The good news is that I can run and my belly bulge has not yet heaved up to hit me in the face. I am making progress and running is getting easier. The “hate” is still there but I reluctantly admit that I feel better after doing it. Maybe it is relief that I didn’t have to call for an ambulance. I’m not sure.

I will keep at it. I ponder that running is like Vegemite…. an acquired taste. We’ll see. In the meantime, I didn’t have to call for a ride. Success is relative and incremental. Here’s to one step at a time.

Love,
Shelley

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

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