family

Guess the Smell

It’s 7 am on a Sunday. Time to hit the field for day 2 of a tournament. You are in a hotel that thankfully has a bedroom and an open area meaning there is a room with a door that closes. You remain on the open space side for many reasons.

At 7 am you open the door to bedroom to gain access to the bathroom and poof. You are immediately stopped in your tracks with the smell. The scent of sweaty socks. The aroma of a uniform that baked in the heat the day before. The lingering stench. Oh so awful. 

These items are doused with spray to make it another day in the heat wave. On the same body that drenched them with sweat the day before. What will the outcome be at the end of today? Let’s start with a dripping wet uniform and socks that must be immediately removed and placed in a bag to be sealed and put in the trunk for the entire ride home. 

You see the car ride is a whole 12 hours from this tournament. The stink must be contained or we may possibly die of the fumes while in motion. Let’s also note this is not just the uniform and socks. I have yet to get to the bag. The bag which was in the car all night that has cleats and turf shoes in it. One pair is new one pair is old. It simply doesn’t matter. Once the shoe is worn once the stink is embossed in the shoe. Another level of nasty. The foot stink of an elite athlete. Is there anything worse?

I thought my brother’s hockey bags were bad as a child. I thought my gym bag was awful growing up but I have met a new level of gross. My child’s sweet nasty funk. The lingering stink that will turn your stomach. The nasty uniform that you must retrieve from that sealed bag to launder. The socks that were new but now look like they have been worn for weeks without washing. Can bleach even help?

At my house we use laundry detergent. We use bleach on the items that can be bleached. We then use a sports powder to soak away the nasty and it does as the water definitely turns black or grey. We trust in Downy to freshen up what it can. We move on. We repeat this numerous times over a 10 week summer season. Over and over again as somebody thought it was a good idea to use the jersey for games as a pinnie in practice two days a week. 

That means that poor stinky jersey sits in the nasty gym bag fermenting for two days between the weekend of games in which it is then sealed in a plastic bag. I don’t know how this jersey doesn’t grow mold. This is such a disgusting topic but one I know I’m not alone with.

Stinky shoes. Stinky feet. Stinky jersey. Is there a reward with all the stink? I think not. However, I have the pure joy of watching my child do what they love at an elite level while chasing dreams. When I put that perspective into the mix I undoubtedly say the stink is okay with me. Although I will be fumigating my car and anything in close proximity to the infamous bag or uniform pronto.

No deep breaths today. Lots of mints in my mouth to inhale the scent of mint to get through yet another day. What’s your worst stink story? Can you relate to my stinky experience? Can you smell this post?

adventure

Tennis Flop

I had a match to play on a Friday night after a long weekend with my partner. It was a little cooler outside than normal and it was late. I wasn’t really sure if I needed pants or a skirt. Long sleeve or short sleeve. The evening seemed so wishy washy.

I started dressed in layers. I slowly peeled them off. One cheerleader arrived. Then two. Then three. Then four or five. It was overwhelming in a way but good in another. So many folks came to cheer us on. The unfortunate part was we were doing awful. A comedy of errors was leading to poor performance. 

Down by one. By two. By three. Four. Five. And then it was 6-0. Just like that we lost the round. We were stomping our feet. There were some chuckles. Some apologies. Some cursing. Some blaming. Some frustration. Some smack talking. It was still a game so onto round two we go.

It was a bit closer but we just couldn’t seal the deal. Deuce. Add out. Deuce. Add in. Deuce. Down by one. Down by two. Get it together ladies was the theme of the evening. More uh oh moments. More you should have hit that. More why didn’t you move fast enough. Is this really happening? Four to zero. Five to zero. Let’s get this one.

We ended the day with another 6-0 finish. The goose egg. The other team skunked us 6-0 and 6-0.  I am sure it’s a first for me not to have earned a point but as you can see above I still laughed hard. A deep belly laugh. No matter how down in the dumps you are performance wise, you can still laugh it off and be light hearted.
We had so much fun sucking today. We let our friends see us at our worst. We will hit the repeat button again tomorrow as we saddle up for a new match on the same court. Will history repeat itself? I hope not. If it does, I guess I’ll have to take another walk of shame.

Losing is part of competing. Losing gives you a taste of humble pie. Losing gives you opportunity to grow. Learning lessons about loss is important. Every true athlete knows this. In the moment and after the sting subsides. The work starts again. Train harder. Think smarter. Challenge yourself. 

It’s even funnier to lose when you realized you signed up a level higher than you should have. I guess one will see if we can get better playing at a higher level even if a lot prematurely. I have grown to love tennis. It’s an easy way to get some exercise. It has the competition element. It’s fun with friends. It’s cool shoes and cute skirts some days too. 

Speaking of days…enjoy yours!

perspective

Observation Overload

I was thinking about a title for this post for a few days. I wasn’t sure how to title it. Being stumped is not something that normally happens for me when it comes to titles. I’m a headlines girl for sure. Wonder why this one stumped me?

Nevertheless I found the title. Now I have to explain it. The observation deck can have multiple meanings for me. For some it’s a view point of sorts. From higher ground. Maybe it’s a skyscraper in a big city with an observation deck. Maybe it’s an observation point hanging over the Grand Canyon. A perch of sorts where one observes people, places, things, sports, and so on.

Recently I was at a tennis match and there was an observation deck filled with spectators. The elevated viewing area offered a different vantage point on the games as compared to ground level. This had me thinking about perches, overhangs, elevated surfaces which I might classify as an observation deck even if not elevated. An observing point for me. The list was endless.

The exercise bike on the second floor at the gym is a perch in my world where one can silently people watch. The bleachers at my kids’ sporting events. I always seem to pick the highest row to see the best view. Then I thought about other perches that may not be so elevated but that I would still consider an observation deck or platform in my life.

To give an example I have this photo below for you to visualize.

The bike view. Can you think of other moving observation platforms? A car. A plane. A train. A motorcycle. While moving what can you see different or up close to? Do you really need to be in a nosebleed section of the baseball stadium to observe the game?

I guess whatever platform or observation deck you have is fine. That’s why I named this Observation Overload. One thought spun in a million directions. For the purposes of this post, my observation point was ground level. Oddly enough I was in the muck of it all when I started observing busted biscuits. One here, one there, another over there. There were no Slim Jims just busted biscuits, the girl nearby noted. What on earth could I be talking about? People. Girls. Females. Fitness enthusiasts. Fun seekers. All with busted biscuits in different variations.

I was observing a bunch of girls, ladies and mature women actively participating in a movement activity outside. All from different backgrounds. Some thicker than others. Some more toned than others. Some older. Some younger. To my surprise, they all had busted biscuits of sorts. I didn’t coin the term but I’m sort of in awe of it at this point. A little distraction of sorts when I was served biscuits at the restaurant I was at the day I wrote this. 

One gal had busted biscuits thanks to all the beers she drinks.

One had busted biscuits because of child rearing.

One had busted biscuits because she recently lost a lot of weight.

One had busted biscuits due to settling over the years. Pretty sure she was in her 70’s. 

So many life reasons for the excess baggage also known as busted biscuits. Interesting odd way to phrase things but I was intrigued. I dazed off a bit in observation mode. Thinking. Wondering. Being curious in general.

Who cares about the busted biscuits? These ladies were moving. Some faster than others. Some with more giggles than others. Amazingly what they all exemplified was beauty. Beautiful stories. Beautiful memories. Beautiful people behind the busted biscuits. Beauty of being a woman with lived-in skin.

As a southern transplant one knows what busted biscuits look like. The container that opens up and oozes out with biscuit dough. I mean a southerner makes biscuits from scratch but a transplant can opt for the container or can of biscuits. The ones that ooze. 

Most people can’t get enough of a good biscuits. Well as a thick girl myself, I have busted biscuits. You know that troublesome area that seems to hold only all your bad choices, stress, aches and so on. Normally right below the belly button. Some call it a pooch. Some call it flab. Today somebody referred to it as busted biscuits. The term made me giggle. Why did I never think of that. It truly is busted biscuits. But nobody throws away the biscuits when they ooze out. They prep them for baking. They enjoy them.

Then I thought to myself I have busted biscuits. But so does every other woman out here. And that’s what is beautiful. Each container of busted biscuits oozed out their own way just the the special person carrying the extra ooze. They didn’t get thrown to the side. They were living their best busted biscuits life in their own skin.

As I drifted in the mind this day. I thought how much I like my busted biscuits. Unique to just me. How lucky am I? How cool is it that all these women get together, busted biscuits and all and just move. Just move that body in the fitness kind of way. Just because you have some extra biscuit ooze upon you doesn’t mean you can’t move or you’re not athletic. 

It just means you have a body that’s lived in. We are all made in different shapes and sizes. Everyone should embrace their appearance whether you are a Slim Jim or you carry busted biscuits.

Hope you enjoyed this lighthearted post about biscuits and observations.

family

The Busy Week

It’s Monday night. A long day at the office already. It seems like it should be Friday but the week has just begun. The busy week. As if every week isn’t already busy, this one is extra busy.

Three games for the teenager. 5 days of carpool or riding in circles as I call it. Work. Consulting. Research. Taxes. Oh how the list goes on and on. I wouldn’t be happy sitting idle but a breath of fresh air is good for the soul. As the workday ends, I go into the Monday mist.

As the sun sets the air becomes chillier. The rainy mist on this Monday made it just a bit cooler outside than I like. I was off to game one for the teen this week. I didn’t mind at all. A good break from the crazy. A chance to catch up with and socialize with other families. Just a night in the community with good people.

What makes my evening special is I get to watch and observe my youngest hit the field in a sport she loves to play with some of her favorite pals. Sometimes even playing against pals from across town. The big stage. High school varsity sports. Which at her age is a big life experience. I enjoy being her biggest fan.

I watch her run. I may giggle when she falls. I silently smile when she makes a big play. I celebrate her without looking all crazy in the stands. For a teen it’s not really cool to have that mom who stands out in the stadium. It’s better to just be in the stands, present. Sometimes the silence is what’s needed. No directions just support. I love to be her support in the stands. A security blanket of sorts for the times she gives the stands a glance, if at all.

I have already watched her evolve. I’ve watched her conquer fears. I watch her handle adversity and difficult situations. I watched her smile and cheer on her team. I see her potential. I am super proud of her.

She has talent.

She has guts.

She has strength.

She has fun.

The season has just begun but she is growing through her experiences. She is adapting to whatever is thrown at her. She is training consistently and her efforts are paying dividends. I can’t wait to see where she pushes herself in the years ahead.

I will be watching. I will be cheering. I will be celebrating her. Oh how thankful I am that she can enjoy this season in the midst of pandemic life. One game down for this busy week. Two more to go.

I am and always be her #1 fan. I am always ready for the next game. 

#fangirl

friendship

The Athletic Supporter

Sometimes I come along for the ride. Someone asks me to be there when they have a big day. When they’re competing.

For this enneagram 2, a helper at heart, this is music to my ears. I live for these moments! Put me in, coach! Some might ask, what do you do all day at CrossFit competition if you’re not competing? Why spend weekends sitting in sweltering lacrosse tents at far flung venues? What do you do with all the down time? Why are you there?

Lots of reasons, really. Here’s just a few.

I’m there to cheer. I’m there to take photos of moments big and small. To capture the day so you can see how amazing you are.

To be a clothes hanger for wardrobe shedding right before the big moment, to carry the bandaids and tylenol, to bring the good snacks and the right color gatorade, to apply the oils to aching muscles.

To provide chairs and blankets and hats. Or sunscreen and water and sunglasses, depending on the season. And umbrellas, always umbrellas.

I am a holder of phones, a fetcher of things from the car when you don’t want to get up from your seat. I am the scouter of porta-potties, or just going along for moral support. I am the counterbalance for quad stretches.

I am the bringer of cupcakes for birthdays or Galentine’s day or just because you like cupcakes. Or bagels. Or whatever you like. I am the maker of signs and shaker of pom poms when the need arises. I am a surprise engineer.

Need scissors? No problem. Sanitizer? Got it. Extra socks or tank top or leggings? Check, check, and check. Plates, spoons, knives, paper towels, Everything but the Bagel on cucumbers? Of course!

Sometimes I am screaming, to be that voice of encouragement you hear above the voice in your head. Sometimes I am wrapping you up in a blanket, hugging you and walking you around in the parking lot as your body temperature and heart rate come down. Sometimes I’m just here to listen to what it was like for you, in that moment. What went wrong, what felt good. The lucky sounding board for all of it.

I’m there for the podium pictures and the postgame meal. For the high fives and the hell yeahs.

Still, some of the most important parts of my day are spent in silence, just witnessing your efforts and achievements. Seeing any moments of doubt and staring at you until you look over and see me, telling you with my eyes, you got this. I believe in you. Being a part of it is amazing. Sharing in the memories, the “team mom” as someone recently said. To be a part of supporting someone I care for deeply. This is my purpose.