I have a secret… Somewhere, way, deep, deep down, in my heart of hearts, I believe that Bethenny Frankel and I are soul-mates. Given the opportunity for a chance meeting, I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that we would quickly and forever bond over our many shared interests: fashion, yoga, cocktails, and of course, our families. My new BFF and I would chit-chat late into the night like long-lost old friends, all the while sipping Skinny Girl Margaritas, my convenience cocktail of choice, which I discovered this past summer on holiday in Healdsburg, Sonoma County, California (the heart of wine country), when the thought of another Zinfandel, as delicious as they are in those parts, just didn’t cut it. Ahhh, the Skinny Girl over ice, savoured while sitting in the sun with the Russian River floating by… But I digress. Anyone who has read my blog in the past knows that I have been absentee over the past year or so. I took on a part-time contract – you know, a day-job, career-oriented kinda’ thing – that ballooned into something all encompassing. I have lost all balance. No writing. No yoga. Sadly, no fun. But then, just the other day, like a beacon calling to me from out of the blue, I received an email from…you guessed it….Bethenny Frankel! Okay, not her exactly, but someone in her PR camp. And because of our destined-to-be-friends-forever-starting-someday-in-the-not-too-distant-future relationship, I thought I would pass the link they sent me along to all of you. It reminded me not only to find a little time for yoga, but for all of those things I love that I have let slide, like this blog. So please, pour yourself a glass of Skinny Girl and check out the following link, and then step away from the computer, like I plan to do, and go do something for yourself that you haven’t done in far too long. http://www.everydayhealth.com/fitness/bethenny-frankels-secrets-to-staying-fit.aspx
I eat too many pistachios. This is the thought that repeats in my head as I stand at my kitchen counter, stomach rumbling, mouth salivating, hand immersed deep within my pistachio jar. Again: I eat too many pistachios. I look at the brimming handful of delectable, bright green nuts that I am attempting to extract through the narrow opening of the jar and swallow in anticipation, wondering if I will successfully convince myself that the mass encased within my fingers is equivalent to ten nuts, roughly, maybe eleven, close enough. Why ten? Didn’t you know? Ten is the maximum number of pistachios we are supposed to eat within a 24 hour period. I read this once in a book on diet and exercise, something related to Pilate’s if I’m not mistaken, and if I read it, it must be true.
I am lying awake in bed in the early hours of morning, my husband lost in dreams beside me while darkness shrouds the spring-time day soon to explode outside my window. I am sleepy-eyed and cozy and still in that blissful, transformed state that occurs only when you’ve just woken from a deep and restful sleep and the details of daily reality have yet to flood back into your consciousness to shock you stupid. That’s when I hear it. Like a phantom menace from my daughter’s bedroom emerge the sounds I have come to dread most: Cough-cough, sniffle-sniffle, cough, sniffle, cough-cough. “Please God, please,” I silently pray, “Please, don’t let her be sick again.”
My prayers fall on deaf ears. By the time I reach her bedroom the coughing is intense. Her child-cum-young-lady’s body is convulsing in rhythm to the spasms in her lungs, her cheeks, flushed and warm to the touch, and her face contorted in an expression that screams “Help me, Mom.” She is twelve. I am not new at this. I should be able to keep her healthy. I should be a better mother.