Going for a run in the cool of the night and feeling your legs burn and your heart pound.

A hot bath with perfumed soap, a yummy drink and a great book to read.

Squealing girls jumping through the sprinkler (although my neighbour might think they're annoying).

Stroking items off a to-do list.

Packing a bag and loading the van.

A fresh coat of paint on a wall that needs a change.

Great friends who call me, encourage me, challenge me and laugh with me.

Really talking to my almost 16 year old son (who most days thinks I am the single biggest freak on the planet) and reaching out to touch him without him recoiling like I have cooties. 

Feeling like my jeans fit.

Having a best friend who knows all your shit and would never tell a soul.

The way the sun glistens on the water and the land is a gigantic patchwork quilt of greens, yellows, blues and browns.

A delightfully light lunch with mom.

Being invited to meet with friends for a drink on the patio.

Knowing that no matter what happens everything will be exactly as it will be... perfect.

The sun on my shoulders and uber-cool sunglasses.

Living a moment with intention, without assunptions, with faith, without expectations, with joy and without taking anything personally.

Breathing deep.

I'm on the up-swing.

I've been avoiding you.

All of you.

I've been keeping a secret from you, in the hopes that if I held my breath, kept the curtains drawn and the blankets over my head, eventually I'd come around and you'd be none the wiser.

But that's the thing about secrets. They don't like to be avoided. Or burried. They have a way of wriggling out from under you. And the harder you try to keep your secret under wraps - the more difficult it becomes to control.

"Anything you hide in the basement has a way of burrowing under the house and showing up on the front lawn." - Howard Sasportas

Secrets are dangerous, mostly to the keeper of the secret.

That's because the one who is keeping the secret mistakenly thinks that if anyone knew the truth, they might not be loved/valuable/respected anymore. Think of the abuse victim. The closet eater. The addict. The homosexual young person who doesn't feel as though they can tell anyone their truth.

Secrets are dangerous because they have to do with shame.

Shame is defined as a painful feeling arising from the consciousness of something dishonorable, improper, ridiculous, etc, done by oneself or another.

Shame is a poison that seeps from your mind through your body, invades every pore and leaves you feeling like an invisible plague. If people really knew the real you... you'd be abandoned, unforgiveable and unlovable.

Truthfully, secrets are most often nowhere near as bad as we think they are. We build them up to be so huge in our mind that the fear of being 'found out' is terrifying. The fear of someone knowing your secret can make you feel as though your personal safety may be at risk.

FEAR = false expectations appearing real

I believe that everybody has a secret they feel is embarassing, shameful or unforgivable. I also believe that we all walk around thinking that we're the only one that has a secret THAT bad.

The funny thing is, if you were to share your secret with just one safe person, you'd feel infinitely better. Especially when you got guffawed at and then told "oh yeah?... you think that's bad?.... well I did... (such and such)!" 

Secrets and shame are self-worth stealers. Holding onto secrets and old shame mean you aren't forgiving yourself or moving forward with clean breath and a clear conscience.  

Carl Jung, the famous Swiss psychologist believed that everyone has a Shadow Self. The Shadow Self is everything within us that is unconscious, repressed, undeveloped and denied. It is our dark side as well as our light, and he believed that there is positive undeveloped potential in the Shadow that we don’t know about. (This is because anything that is unconscious, we aren't acutely aware of... right

Basically, our shadow self is a part of us that exhibits the characteristics we deem "bad" or "unwelcome." We try to deny those aspects of ourselves so that we can be "good." Shadow theory says that we must make friends with our shadow selves, because they are part of us, and by denying them, we give them strength. 

Too heebie-jeebie for you?

Dont' worry... I'm not a demon. I didn't break the law. Or harm anyone. Although, I have done some SUPER STUPID stuff in my lifetime! But that's another blog... (or book

'This thing of darkness I acknowlege mine. There is nothing more confining than the prison we don't know we are in.' - William Shakespeare

My secret is that I battle with anxiety disorder, depression and compulsive behaviours... and have for almost my whole life. (for those who know and love me and are close to me, this is NO secret.)

And the reason I've been avoiding you, is because I didn't have anything positive, happy, motivating or inspiring to say. And I didn't want you to know what I was feeling (secret). It's part of a social stigma. If you know the 'real' me - then you might not 'get' me, 'like' me or 'respect' me anymore (shame). My anxiety/depression/compulsions is a part of me that I try to keep at bay, under wraps - as far away from 'me' as possible(shadow self). There are ways to cope with it (staying healthy, active, rested and being kind to myself) but when I deny it... avoid it... hate it... am scared of it.... it hits me full force.

'The most common form of despair is not being who you are.' - Kirkegaard

So I'd been avoiding writing because I'd been battling with my 'shadow-self', trying to keep it away from my work, my family, my friends and my marriage. But the more I resist, the more it persists.

My anxiety builds and my depression deepens until I don't want to talk anymore. I don't want to get up. I can't make decisions. I am completely unmotivated. I am obsessive in my thinking. I have trouble smiling. (I know - me? not smiling I cry. And even on the sunny days, I feel as though I am in a fog.

It's been coming over a few months. My first mistake was becoming entirely focused on my business, and stopped taking care of my body. I allowed myself to 'burn out' - When I look back to the winter, I can see my unhappiness building in my work. I can read it in my writing.

Tten days ago it began working its way to the surface... Worry, guilt, shame, fear, coming up from the inside, pushing it's way out. Reminding me I'm not worthy of happiness, success and joy.

But I'd been capping it. Trying to keep a lid on it. Attempting to control it. Until I make myself 'sick'.

Here's proof that the Lord always knows exactly what you need, if you just ask.

It was my husband who saw it first. He knows me so well. He'd say I can see that you're not yourself. But I didn't know what to do with it. So I said I needed to start running again.

Then, two days ago, I had a melt down. On the side of the road, I couldn't decide where to go. Should I push myself to work? or drive myself home? Work meant being awake and would mean my mind was going non-stop crazy. Home meant I could draw the shades and climb under a blanket and avoid the world.

I called my mom.

She's been with me since the beginning remember - and has watched me deal with my 'stuff' since I was a little girl (when I inexplicably pulled out every last eyelash and eyebrow hair - imagine that trauma for a mother. Her unconditional love and practicality meant I had a sounding board and a hand up.

Lastly it was a sweet friend who told me that instead of hiding my 'real' self from everyone in an attempt to appear always strong, unaffected and sunny, I should allow my 'shadow self' to tell my truth. 

To tell my secret.

She thinks that is what makes me my unique self. That there is honesty and healing in sharing my truth. And that by sharing my shadow self, I will make peace with my dark side. That by accepting it as a part of who I am, it loosens it grip on me.

"The shadow self is what sabotages our relationships, jobs, it denies our spirit, keeps us from realizing our destiny and dreams. It is what we sweep under the rug. It gets buried and repressed into our deep unconscious self. The shadow is what we don't want to be. It seems so horrible and grotesque feeding into our greatest fear that someone might discover our dark shameful secret --- further repressing it. " - Deborah Eidison

So let's play a game for a second: 

maybe your secret is not mental illness.

Maybe you got drunk in college and slept with your roommate's boyfriend - or you've done your share of illegal drugs and loved it all - or you lied about your age and occupation - or you falsely believe that you were responsible for your mom and dad divorcing when you were nine - or you get up when the house is sleeping and eat a carton of brownie ice cream - or you've had sex with 42 men and you liked ALL of it - or you keyed up ten cars on Halloween when you were 17 - or you cheated on your exams - or you terribly bullied a kid in junior high - or that you are on the brink of bankrupcy AGAIN because you are purchasing pretty things to make yourself feel better...

WHATEVER it is that you are hanging onto, or running away from - thinking that noone would ever love you again if they only knew the 'real' you...

I get it.

I get you.

And you're still loveable. Flaws and all.

Me, too.

I enjoyed my yearly physical on Thursday. (Sarcasm, ladies.) I adore my doctor. He's a lovely, sensible fellow with dry wit and a very comfortable bedside manner. He's always very polite. 

'Ok now Madam, here we go... cold, cold, cold.'

Once you've experienced the loss of all dignity and pooped on the delivery table during the expulsion of a 7pound 8oz baby (I'm over it now, that was six years ago... I think my husband suffered more shock at that moment than I), a cold speculum and an exam attendent (nurse) are nothing. 

Spread 'em. Yeesh.

Much more disheartening was my pre-exam. Blood pressure - fabulous (132/74). Height 5'9 and 1/2 inches tall - (yes, most people think I am taller... it's my shoes.) Weight. (Oh for the love of - Ay - yi - yi... mamma mia.) The attending nurse compares this years weight with my weight at my last physical and we discover that I weigh 15 pounds more now.

Wow.

Whoop di do, you say. Kim, you look great the way you are. What's 15 pounds, you say? That's no big deal.

Set 15 one pound bars of butter on your kitchen counter and then tell me it's no big deal. That is one pound of butter stuck to my ass every month (plus!. 3500 calories. 16 ounces. Every month for a year. And not just caked to my ass - but around my thighs, my arms, my belly. My chin. 

Ugh.

Not to mention - my omentum. (Watch Dr.Oz on Oprah anyone? - you'll know what a omentum is...) My heart. My pancreas.

What is it about seeing the actual number in black and white on the scale in front of you that is like someone punched you in the gut?

Bam. You're overweight by twenty pounds more than you should be. KA-POW! How's that feel? What's the matter, Kim? You look pale.

No shit, Dick Tracy.

Actually, I'm not surprised at all. I knew I'd weigh in heavier than I've been for a couple of years. I could feel it in my skirts. My pants. My shorts. My shirts. My bra is fuller.

Argh.

There is noone to blame but myself. Last year at this time I was running 4 - 5 times a week. As soon as I got crazy-busy-obsessed in my business - the first sacrifice was my exercise time. Indeed, it was a poor choice. No motion and extra calories (all those 'business' lunches) and pretty soon my good fitting 11/12 is a solid size 14.

Please remember that although I don't love the number on my pant size - my concern is less about the size of my booti-li-cious and WAAAAY more about my longevity and health. I want to be healthy and fit instead of saggy and baggy. I want to be able to kick the ass of a woman half my age. (in endurance... I'm a lover not a fighter.) 

Could you imagine HOW I'd look if I gained 13 pounds a year for the next two years? I'd be a size 15/16 at my next birthday and a 17/18 for my BIG 4-0.

Gulp. NO WAY! 

I refuse to be another size larger by my 39 birthday. If I can lose a pound a month - AND resume my activity level (which is faaaaaaaar more important to me than a lower pant size) I'll be the healthier and happier for it. 

And so will my pancreas.

So - here's my commitment.... Beginning July 1, I will move my body a minimum of four times per week. (I'll walk, roller blade, bike and have a mini-rebounder... and I will start back at the gym in September.) I'd like to say that I will commit to some sort of weight loss program - but that just sets me up for failure.... however, I will make good daily food choices.

And once a month I'll keep you posted on the progress. (If there is any.) 

Starting now.... With my measurements. Bust 40" Waist 37" Hip 42"

Oh my GAWD - that is embarrassing!  (Apparently, I'm more coke bottle than hour glass.)

Not to be discouraged... here are the five things I will do in an effort to take better care of myself.

1) Start writing a food journal. (Maybe it will encourage me to keep track of my gas milage as well.)

2) I will drink more water.

3) I hereby give up pop. (I like S.Pelligrino and fruit juice anyhow.)

4) I will move my body a minimum of four times per week.

5) I will treat myself with patience and loving kindness - and attempt to come up with a relaxation and therapuetic reward system for myself. (Massage, yoga, meditation and infrared sauna.)

It has been proven that in order to make lasting changes in any area of your life, you must be at a point psychologically where the 'pain' of staying where you are is greater than the 'pain' of making the change. Change is hard.

But ANY woman who has ever been 15 pounds heavier (or lighter) knows what their pain threshold is and once they've hit it.

I hit mine on Thursday.

I celebrated my 38th birthday last Saturday.

Woo-hoo me. I bought myself a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans from the Hudson's Bay Co. in Banff - and ONLY because they were a) long enough for my 35" inseam and b) because they were on sale for $55 - which I felt was reasonable for denim (given that the price tag originally said $109).

I received loving phone calls from my kids - and from three lovely friends that I adore... wishing me happy birthday and joyous moments for the new year and I relished the wonderful way being loved by my friends made me feel.

Then I came home - back to planet reality - and discovered a few things about my adult birthday years.

For example: One might consider the fact that I quite possibly have used up half of my life. Maybe more. 38 x 2 = 76. It is entirely possible that I will live to be 76. Maybe even 86.

So - I get back to my office Monday after time away with the man of my dreams (my husband) - start returning phone calls and emails to clients saying: "Sorry for the delay in getting back to you, I was away for a few days celebrating my birthday. Ya-da, ya-da, ya-da...'

One of my clients/acquaintances/friends (male) shoots me back an email that says - 'Your birthday?! 40 Bones or 45??'

Now obviously, he hasn't had lessons in the art of conversation with women. Especially women over 35. Either that or he is a horrible judge of age. Or he was out to tease me - which could be, too. (We'll see who's the jokester - next time he leaves the room when we're visiting I am going to spit in his coffee.)

Why was I insulted?  Slightly. And I was shocked. Do I really look over forty?
Forty five???

More importantly - why do I think that there is something wrong with being over forty? - my sister Jenna, Alyson and Darlene are all over forty and I think they rock. My husband is 44 and he's totally hot. He's got great skin and I love the salt and pepper in his hair...

WHY do women feel such pressure and disdain for aging?

Seriously - that one comment has me considering chemical peels and shock therapy on the muscles in my face.

Or maybe it's my hair. Short and fuddy duddy.

I try to think 'who gives a shit?' but I give a shit. I refuse to think that getting older means the prime of my life has passed. I think I look better now that I did at 24. (Yeesh - if you saw photos of me then, you'd agree) 

I want to be 48 thinking I am MORE fabulous than I was a 38. However in the meantime, I don't want someone to think I am 45 when I am only 38.

I'm fighting the urge to run out and buy tooth whitener, anti-aging cream and crank dance music on the CD player in my mini-van while wearing low rise skinny jeans and layering my tank tops.

I will be okay. 38 isn't dead.

Yet.

Here I am 'broadcasting' live from the Chateau Fairmont Lake Louise nestled in the forest. The location is over 110 years old and the entire hotel is essentially exquisite. Everything you see and touch is the essence of rich opulence. The art, the shops, the food, the PRICES.

I've had the most marvelous day. I slept like a rock in a King size bed with the window open next to my head, high enough over the earth that the crisp snowy mountain air poured in and healed me while I slept.

We jumped in a canoe and went across the lake and back. It is the most miraculous shade of blue; like the tropical waters you see in postcards of places you'll never get to. Just our luck, when we checked in the young woman said yesterday was the first day the ice was off the lake this year...

Then we hiked almost 8 kilometres up the side of the mountain (my delight: I pushed myself to hike higher and further than I would ever have gone before due to my fear of being grotesquely mauled by a grizzly bear...) - high up into the dense bush on stiff mountain peaks where the paths are rocky and treacherous and the snow remains. When the clouds misted over us and snow appeared imminent, I forced my husband to turn around.

We came back and grabbed a caramel mocha, ate dark espresso chocolate and then went for a swim - actually he swam (I HATE pools) and I meditated at the edge listening to the gentle splash of the water.

Then I indulged in a glass of wine in a tub that is big enough for all four of my children with mirrors all around.

I was initially horrified to see myself in 3D - like I want to witness my cellulite and stretch marks in surround sound... However hooray... be it known that when the room is worth 400 a night - the mirror make your butt actually look not entirely terrible. I was shocked.

Tonight I am off to Walliser Stube for dinner at 8pm. Living in the lap of luxury - feeling horribly out of place - but completely content to fake it til I make it.

Tomorrow I am hoping the rain will stay away and we can hike to the top of Johnson's canyon.
A great way to celebrate my 38 birthday.

Thanks to my mom for the sitting service this weekend and the gift certificates that took care of the accommodations... it has been a wonderful day.

Last February I won $1000 in gift certificates to stay in any Fairmont Hotel property worldwide. 16 months later, determined to use the gift certificates (the only reason I'd spend $399 a night on a hotel room would be because it didn't actually cost me anything) we're leaving tonight for Lake Louise.

I LOVE driving through the mountains. I LOVE the energy, the air, the life, the view. I love the way it makes me feel. 

So I said to my husband as he left the house this morning, "I want to take the David Thompson highway tonight and travel through Rocky, Nordegg and then head down towards Lake Louise. We don't have a deadline.'

To which he responds. 'Okay, I'll stop at CAA get a map.'

"Why do you need a map?" I protest. "You've got a van full of maps. It's the mountains. There is only one road that direction... when it forks you either turn left towards Banff or right towards Jasper. You won't get lost. I don't want a map."

And so there is the truth.

I don't want a map.

Ever.

I don't enjoy planning. It's boring. It stifles my desire to explore and figure things out my own way.

Ask my mom, I called her on Monday morning at 7:50am from rush hour traffic in downtown Calgary saying, 'Okay I tried to find the Conference Centre twice but I think I need some help. Here's where I am - where do I go now?'

But that's okay for me.

I tried.

I failed.

I asked for help.

I figured it out.

That's the way I like to do my life.

I realize that it is not always the most effective way. Or the most responsible way. Or even the recommended way.

But it's my way.

And when I finally get where I knew I could get, without the map, the destination experience is that much sweeter.

If he brings home one more Alberta/BC map, I'm going to tie it around his neck like a cape and call him Super Nerd.  (No offense to those of you who prefer to have a map.) And believe me... I drive him as crazy as he makes me.

I still love him. And he is the yang to my yin.

And face it, diversity in personality makes the world interesting.   

I will be 38 this summer.

I am acutely aware that I am too old for mini skirts. (The street sign on Stacy London's show 'What Not To Wear' says 'No Mini-Skirts After 35'. I have spider veins on my left leg this summer that I know I didn't have last year.

Yesterday, I tried on a dress (an A-DOR-able dress) and the hem rested about four good inches above a knee cap that suspicously resembled a potato that has been left in the back of a warm cupboard too long. Soft, wrinkly, with a couple of nobby things on it and sprouting whiskers. Yeech.

Other than the hem-line and Aunt Vera's legs, which I somehow inherited and she wasn't really my Aunt (I also got her large facial moles), the dress fit pretty good. It had solid shoulder straps in it, a delicate black bow sewn into the front and a great peek-a-boo slit in the chest, offering the illusion of cleavage without showing too much boob-crack.

You know, boob-crack. The space between the breasts that closes in and disappears about thirty seconds after you put on a bra, leaving more of a bum crack than a delightful valley between two solid, sloping mountains. (if you've been blessed with lovely tiny breasts, you may not be familiar with boob-crack).  

Please understand, even though I may sound critical, I really do love and appreciate my breasts.

When I was sixteen they were outstanding really. Ripe and firm and perky with light brown nipples the size of quarters. When I got pregnant for the first time and gained 70 pounds my breasts of course, became the property of a nursing baby (and every nurse that grabbed them voraciously and tried to jam them into my newborn son's mouth). 

My second baby took to nursing like a hotdamn. She nursed for one year exactly. My third nursed for a complete two. My fourth for two as well. Five plus years of fill and dispense, just like a milk cow. Repeated weight gain and weight loss. Hard on the tissues.

Years later, when I am 15 pounds heavier, my breasts are happy. They seem like they have life. They're bouyant. Almost joyful. When I am down 15 pounds I am the one who is pleased with their appearance in my clothes. Pleasant lumps each staying dutifully put inside a great bra. But out of clothes... how could they be described?... Deflated. Lacking. Empty. All stretched out and practically floppy.

Someone out there just said... two words, Kim... 'breast implants'.

A woman can just look at the wondrous breasts that women are buying to boost their self esteem. Three grand could buy you a phenomenal set of smashing breasts. New breasts could mean a walk on the beach in a swimsuit that doesn't need underwire and spaghetti strap tank top with complete confidence and several sideways glances. New breasts may even mean a more turned on husband. (Could you imagine him more turned on than he is already with the breasts you have now? You'd never get any sleep.) Just imagine. Breast implants, like botox and weight loss make you believe, you could finally be happy.

Then people everywhere, men and women alike, would notice and say to themselves, 'Ooh, now she has great breasts.' Afterall that is what is most important in a woman. No?

We're so conditioned, I do it without even meaning too. Notice other women's breasts, I mean. Maybe it is simply wishful thinking. What if my breasts were that great? Like the 20-something waitress at the lunchspot with the long black ponytail and a body-shimmer of sparkles in her cleavage. Or the young woman at the store who has a lovely shape and no need for a bra.

And while at the grocery store, awaiting my turn through the checkout, I examine the countless tabloids, magazines and pocket books with the cover model pushing her flawless, airbrushed cleavage out at me. There are superstars and actresses in designer dresses, stunning shoes and fantastic perfectly placed breasts.

And I feel defeated for a flick of a second.

And I sigh. Hurumph.

I try to be kind to myself. I am a work in progress. I am lucky I have two breasts. This makes me happy. I have spent countless hours of joy watching my miracle children doze while nursing, with one tiny hand wrapped around my finger. My husband loves my breasts just the way they are. Full of milk; empty and floppy; 15 pounds heavier or lighter, he thinks they're lovely.

Ultimately, breast implants aren't an option for me. I haven't reached the point where two plastic saline orbs shoved through my armpits and six weeks healing time sounds like a viable option. Besides, I've got two perfectly good breasts that looks just fine stuffed into white stretch satin or black lace bra.

And I've got three daughters who have boobs, too. They need to know that even though TV, movies and magazines would you to think otherwise, there IS more to a woman's life than boobs. In fact the most joyous and fulfilling moments of my days have very little to do with them. They're just along for the ride. 

So, I'm going to back to buy that lovely summer dress with the black bow in the middle. I'm taking my soft potato knees, Auntie Vera moles and boob-crack to three wedding dances this summer.

And I am going twirl around the dancefloor with a smile on my face and show my girls (daughters, that is) that the least of what makes a happy woman is found in her bra.