I was underwear shopping today. One of my least favorite things to do.

Stand semi naked under florescent lighting in a dusty commercial carpeted upright coffin. I can hardly stretch my arms out with banging my elbow. God forbid I have to lift a knee to try on a stinking pair of pants.

Like my cottage cheese butt needs more bright white light shed on it.

Who the hell designs women's underwear? Without sounding completely obnoxious; I wonder how many men, gay or straight, are behind the joke.

And why can't we find something that isn't completely yanked up my crack without going directly to an old big bum granny girdle.

Like boy cut panties. Low rise, low hip, no cotton lining anywhere to whisk away moisture and prevent me from getting a rip-roaring-raging-want-to-scratch-down-there-with-a-wire-brush yeast infection.

(Am I making you uncomfortable? Sorry.)

But seriously, whoever decided to cut and join two pieces of four-inch wide elastic lace and call them panties has never had a child, let alone four. Or a c-section. There is a flabby white pooch that hangs between my belly-button and my pubic line that doesn't need something else to flubber over.

I swear its the same bastard that developed push-up bras made of t-shirt material. Any woman over a B cup must find it difficult to get good dollar value and support out of a LaS***a brazziere.

And WHERE are all the LARGE size panties?

I must have looked through six hundred pairs of panties today, all size medium or small. Take a look around sister. There are not many women over thirty in the 'x-small' and 'small' panty pile. So WHY are they the only ones I can find. (Up until I said it outloud I hadn't even considered that maybe we already bought them all.)

But even the 'larges' I did find, barely look big enough to fit my 13 year old daughter.

What a crying shame that we, full grown beautiful women that we are, must obey the whim of fashion and succomb to the trends that are developed and modeled on fourteen year olds on the runway.

I'm on the hunt for sexy real woman panties. When I find them - you'll be the FIRST to know.

Until then....

P.S - I finally settled on three pairs of cotton with a hint of lycra, boy cuts in charcoal, grey and black. (YAWN) And I will say that when I try to forget about the up-the-butt-fit and suck in the overhangy pooch, they feel okay.

Never underestimate the impact of something very small.

For days my seven year old daughter, who is a ball of fire, has been begging to join me on my next run. My exercise time is my 'me' time. I try to fit it in where I can. Sometimes before everyone is up, sometimes at the end of the day practically in the dark. Always quiet, rhythmic, running, me time.

But tonight, it seemed to work out. We donned our runners at about 8:15pm. Too late for her, especially less than a week before school starts. But I thought a half hour would be alright.

I'd be bloody lucky to keep up to her. The little minx.

I was surprised. (Mom actually tired her out. Mind you its a long way for little legs.) We started to run and she kept pace pretty well. She's tiny and wiry and I am tall and... well, shaped a little like the Jolly Green Giant. But slowing my pace or altering my running rhythm would work against my stamina, so I decided to run as normal and slow when she needed to. Which wasn't too often.

We ran on the sidewalk, and along the street and on the paved park path. We stopped to watch a beaver at the lake munching a chowed down birch. His third within about fifty feet of each other in less than ten days.The town had set a trap which he had NO plan of entering. In fact, he had unintentionally jammed his tender log under the edge of the trap. Even if it fell, it wouldn't catch him. And so he munched, completely carefree, not one bit scared of the growing crowd of passers-by. We continued to run. Under the trees, in the cool clean fresh air. Down the hill near the lake in the shade where it was really crisp and moist in the early night air. Up the hill past the farm yard with the sheep.

When we walked we held hands and she talked my ear off. In that lovely little high sqeaky seven year old full of wonder way that makes a heart delight.

She must have thanked me forty-seven times for allowing her to come and run with me. It was obvious that it was a really special thing for her.

Something so small.

Meant so much to that little girl.

Talking. Walking. Running. Appreciating. Marvelling.

She won't soon forget it.

And neither will I.

All that in under 40 minutes.

In my head, I'm one hip chick. Between good genes, an awareness of the benefits of a healthy and active lifestyle, and a Sex-in-the-City mentality, I think I am one well-rounded woman.

I'm only thirty seven (and I was saying that for a good six months before I turned 37 - so I'm hanging onto 37 a little longer on my next birthday - just so you know). Logically, I know age means nothing. It's how you feel, how you act, how you think... your attitude to and your involvement in life that determines your 'age'.

I can be a child at times, even though I am the parent. I feel playful and kittenish although I am more likely coined (and I dislike this term immensely) cougar. When some young handsome fellow holds the door for me and says 'You're welcome M'am' I think 'Who the hell is he talking to?' I half think he's flirting with me, and he thinks he's being a good boy, holding the door for someone that reminds him of his mother.

In my head, I'm about twenty five.

Now, I act mature. I mean, it's not like I am coming onto the stock boy at the grocery store. I wear age appropriate clothing for the most part. (Although I will say this thirty-seven year old mother of four is stuck somewhere between Suzy Shier and Tan-Jay; too old for one, not old enough for the other.) And although I am on the backside of thirty, I feel like the best and most productive years are in front of me, not behind me.

But there are fleeting moments of betrayal.

I was at the pool the other day with my husband and two young daughters for public swimming. As I sat shivering in the paddling pool (can't think of anything I truly dislike more than a chlorine filled pool of tepid water), I was watching my handsome husband playing with the girls. He is lovely to me. He has terrific skin, and dark hair. But, I couldn't help but notice while he was all wet, how thin his hair is getting in a very large area on the top of his head.

For a split second, I was half horrified, that I was married to an old guy. EEeww. (poor thing, he's 43) The feeling passed, but there are moments since then when it returns and I have to remind myself that I am a grown-up, too.

Now please understand, I realize we are 'not that old', however somewhere inside of me, my mother is eternally 36. My own dad passed away at 42. So, for me to be thirty-seven and forty-three is older than my parents!!! You see?

Sooooo.... I am washing my face last night, leaning over the sink, scrubbing furiously with my trusty Dove beauty bar. I rinse emphatically and grab the towel blindly. I finish drying with the towel, lean into the mirror and open my eyes to ensure I've removed all the make-up. And that's when I notice it. The loose chicken-ish skin around my cheekbones and under my eyes.

Not only is it sagging slightly, hanging forward, drooping as I lean into the mirror to get a better look. But I can't help but notice, it looks faintly like a cracked, dried up lake bottom... a mish-mash of fine lines, going this way and that way. Crow's feet. Laugh lines.

I snap away from the mirror, stand up straight and try to get a better look.

From a distance I look like me.
The age-less me.
But up close, I feel betrayed.

Part of me still had plans to become a movie star when I grew up.

Like I need something else to consume my precious hours.

Anyone else addicted to facebook?
I am trying to keep it to a minimum of 1/2 hour a day. It isn't working.

Do you know what I like most about it?

Sure, seeing old friends on facebook is neat.
I've been hooking up with and talking to people who've found me or I've found them, but I haven't seen or heard from them in 20 years, that's pretty cool.

The instant gratification, yup. Love it. The sweet little garden gifts Penny sends me... adorable.

But I must admit, it is the voyeuristic sdie of me that is really caught up in facebook.

Once you connect with someone, you're able to click into their profile and see how many friends they have, read their conversations, look at their photos. It is really neat to see how people you knew so long ago have grown up and changed.

But there is a tiny piece of me, the eternal nerd, that reverts back to a high school popularity contest. So and so has more friends than I do. She was always more popular, funner and cooler than me. She still looks fantastic...

Wierd hey? That after all this time there could still be this fifteen year old neurotic teenager inside of me, measuring myself up to everyone else?

'I only have nine friends and SHE has 154...'

How annoying.

I wonder if, no matter how far in life you get, how much personal success and growth you achieve or how you change and metamorphasis, there will always be this awkward kid inside who comes out when you least expect her to.

I highly doubt Hillary and Oprah have spent a flick of their time or energy worrying about where they rate on Facebook.

But Belinda Stronach has over 6,000 friends.

See where I have been WASTING my precious time?
How else would I know that?

My goal this week: MUCH less facebook.

I can't say 'NO facebook'.
I'm not ready to say goodbye yet.
I really am hooked.

I've been avoiding the topic of 'men' and more specifically, my husband, since I began blogging. I was concerned about several things. I don't ever want to man-bash. Oh, hold on... I CAN bash. I'm only human. And there are days where I might bash, just a little... but not in public. However, sharing the good stuff through Real Woman on the Run is what it is all about. And he gives me lots of that to share.

Most days, we take each other for granted. Career, finances, parenting, committments. He rushes in, I dash out. We put each other on the 'back burner' while we 'put out fires'. I've discovered when we haven't connected emotionally, on a deep level (as in rebuilding the importance of our FRIENDship within the marriage), and we've bypassed the needs of the other (for physical closeness and communication), I usually start to feel like, 'What the hell do I need him for? I am SUPERwoman!!!!!'

And then my superhero cape snags on the heel of my Steve Madden stiletto and I totally crash and burn.

Then guess who dutifully, with a great deal of love and tenderness, picks me up, dusts me off, and straightens my cape?

Yup. You guessed it. My good man.


Exhaustion plays a lead role in my demise and when I finally crash and burn emotionally, it isn't pretty.

What happens when I 'crash'? Mostly I am bloody tired. It starts with endless weeks and even months of working, living, parenting and WORKing some more, without much time for relaxation or connection. Eventually my body and mind says... ''I've been trying to get you to slow down and rest, but YOU'RE NOT listening TO ME! So I'll do it for you."

And then it starts. (usually at about 11:36pm)

I bawl.
I babble.
I make no sense.
I wipe my nose on my shirt.
I become a child.
I am irrational.
All of my fears and old crap comes up.
I sob.
I worry.
I use run-on sentances that cover eleven topics.
I get mad at myself.
I get mad at others.
I feel frustrated.
I mourn.

When I hit bottom, I am PURGING EVERYTHING.
(Isn't that the only way to come back ready to move forward again?


And there is my good man.

Listening.
Reassuring.
Calm.
Rational.
Supportive.
Patient.
Gentle.
He rubs my back and tries to calm me down.
He hands me Kleenex and doesn't get grossed out over the boogers.
He tells me how proud he is of me.
He tells me how much he loves me.
He tries to balance out all my worries.

He has heard ALL my stuff before. Some of it NUMEROUS times. He is smart enough to let me crash and be a real wreck, knowing full well that when I am done doing what it is I need to do, I will pick myself up, dust myself off and start moving forward again.

In the everyday moments, when work, kids and life takes over our marriage, it can be easy to forget why I am so lucky. And then, right when I need him most, he comes through and reminds me how blessed I am that he loves a total freak like me...

I mean...

He reminds me how blessed I am. He loves me like no other ever could. I couldn't find a better match for me, even if I searched the whole world over.

My good man.

I'm addicted...

To Anthony Robbins Personal Power CD collection. It's a little embarrassing. I play his CDs in the van while I am driving my daily miles. I answer his questions, talk to myself and do his silly little change in posture exercises. Everytime I pull up to a traffic light and stop, some big roughneck oil guy next to me watches me like I've got a third eye.

Yes, I am a hopeless self improvement junkie.

The premise of several of the 'courses' over ten days have been determining what your beliefs are. About life, career, yourself, etc. and whether those beliefs serve you well, or not. Long story short, everything people do in life is in order to accomplish one of two things. One: gain pleasure and Two: avoid pain.

The interesting thing about humans is... we will do FAR more to avoid pain, than we will to gain pleasure. I agree with this. Unfortunately, this pattern keeps us bound to alot of stuff that we would be better off chucking with yesterday's trash.

In one of the last exercises, he asks the listener, in their homework, to determine which of these emotions would they do ANYTHING to avoid feeling.

a) Frustration
b) Anger
c) Physical Pain
d) Humiliation
e) Depression
f) Embarrassment

(I'd like to add stagnation here, but he doesn't so I won't. I can't stand stagnancy. Explains alot about me actually, but I didn't discover that until I started these exercises.)

Back to the exercise - which would you do the most to avoid?

For some it might be anger. For women, I wonder how much stifled emotion is anger because good girls don't get angry? (Did you know that when a woman cries, it is most likely from anger, not sadness? It's true.)

For others, maybe it's embarrassment. Heaven help you if you bend over in the checkout line to lift out your laundry soap and let one rip!

My guess is that physical pain is the last one on most people's list. I don't know why I think that. I guess it's because the other emotions can produce unpredictable results (for example: other's reactions) but we feel secure knowing we can measure and manage our own pain.

For me? It's depression, hands down.

When I look at the list, the one that signals terror to me, is that blue black dark deep abyss of depression. And I will do whatever it takes to ensure that I do not move towards that long and lonely road.

It is interesting though, Mr. Robbin's insight about humans working harder to avoid pain than to gain pleasure. My attempts at avoiding depression or my success at evading depression is due to all those things I do to avoid it at all costs.

Routine exercise.
Eat right.
Avoid lots of sugar (yes, I find when I eat a ton of sugar, I get low).
Try to sleep enough.
I stay creative.
Avoid the news and high intensity television and movies.

The list could go on.

What do I do consciously to gain pleasure?

Well, thankfully my days have pleasure because I love my life, my family, my friends, my work. But truthfully, I don't do much to just specifically gain pleasure.

Except maybe sex. Or read a good book in a hot bath. That is a major indulgence. Hmmm, which do I like more?...

What is it that you would do anything to avoid? What do you do to avoid it?
Some women stuff it in or down. With food. With shopping. With smoking. With booze.

What are you trying to avoid with the things you are doing?
Because I pretty much guarantee you aren't eating, drinking, going into debt and wrecking your lungs because those things give you immense pleasure.

Ouch. Truth hurts, hey?
Sorry. I just thought it was interesting.