Survival of the Freshest

My kids were bad today.

The kind of bad that makes you start scanning want ads for job openings and considering an illustrious new career as a sanitation specialist—knowing you have all the experience it unfortunately requires. The kind of bad that makes you consider running out for cigarettes and never coming back even though you don’t smoke. The kind of bad that makes crazy people look like good parents making necessary decisions.

And when kids are this bad, there is little that you can really do about it. If you try to talk rationally, they counter with high-pitched irrationality. If you whisper, they scream. If scream, they implode. If you ignore them, they stalk you. If you turn on the tv, they fight over where to sit and how to adjust the volume—and let’s not even mention the heated debate on the choice of program. If you feed them, they spit their food. With every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction—just as the universe planned it, well before these tiny demons were a devil’s tail on my behind.

When I am faced with a day like today, I don’t want to answer the phone, the door, the email, all I want to do is build a fire in the yard and send a smoke signals to the ghost of the parents who have come before me. And ask them “Why?”

Why didn’t you warn me? Why would you let me walk down a path that leads to such misery? Why put up with this insanity and allow someone else to do the same? Why let the cycle continue and the mayhem prevail?

Is the survival of the species really worth it?

I have recently come to understand that the champion version of early man who outlived all the others is the Homo Sapien. He accomplished this incredible feat through the gift of communication. He prevailed where the others failed because he learned to talk and to work together and to share information and build a culture.

It is a curious victory from my perspective.

Because today, I would say that the entire success of the species, in particular my two very naughty offspring, lies squarely on a complete and utter ignorance. A total lack of communication, or perhaps a brilliant omission—but anyway these little ankle-biters exist in no thanks to our ancestor’s verbal prowess. It is not an abundance of information, which made me do it. It is safe to say, that nobody told me there’d be days like these.

No, they exist because I had no bloody idea what I was getting into. And they continue to survive because as rotten as they are, I can’t imagine a world without them.

Mocha, please.

Exactly where in the universe is it acceptable for a mother of two to brave the gym after 9 hours stuck in a blizzard and four hours more of driving home? Needless to say: nowhere.

But it seems I live in a world where my very own sister-in-law is stranded on a highway with her mother, husband, and two children under 5, and she does the unthinkable. She suffers and then she inflicts even more suffering because clearly the universe didn’t rain on her parade enough for the day. And my concern…”Did you cry?” My first question in fact!

Because all I could visualize is the wet, puddle of emotion that used to be mother, daughter, and wife to the company in that vehicle that is now soaked with my self-pity. Lord knows that a mighty river would be flowing from my eyes—assuming that I was properly hydrated, and the weather didn’t promptly freeze tears directly to my cheek.

Yeah, I immediately knew I couldn’t handle it.

If God truly delivers only what we can handle, than there is little chance of me ever being in Lynne’s shoes. There is an obvious reason it was Lynne stuck in that blizzard and not me—she is unsinkable. Clearly, there is reincarnation—Molly Brown has surfaced. The mere thought of it drove me to drink like I was trying to wash away a miserable memory that never actually happened.

The kicker to the whole thing is that Lynne, in a moment of hysteria or heroics, drops off her mom at 4;45am and heads to the gym. What possesses a human to endure such an ordeal and mock us all by going to the gym afterwards?

I already shrunk in face of her discipline and self-control to lose 40 pounds, and now I am totally humiliated by her strength and resilience during a blizzard. Rest assured that if I am stuck in anything for more than 2 hours with my kids, I’m headlong into a chocolate, cheese and wine shut-in that will last for as long as it takes. Don’t call me.

I suppose we each have our own way of coping or possibly prevailing over a situation, if we are lucky enough. I am still searching for the “gym” which provides my soul a calm in the storm.

In desperation, I recently bought “The Secret”, a book about the power of positive thinking, in hopes of finding the answer to my fears. It is a book that asks for an open mind and willing heart, which to my thinking is a ledger begging for totally mockery.

Yet as a grown woman, I have learned to control my skepticism for a cause. So, when I read about a woman who beat breast cancer with a comedy movie blitz, I held my tongue. And a man who went from reading glasses to perfect vision in three days, I reserved judgment. Yes, it is filled with miraculous feats of mind over matter and wondrous stories of health and well-being. Who was I to doubt?

I decided that I couldn’t dismiss the fact that my mind is likely a powerful creature without proper house training. And thinking happy thoughts can’t really be a bad idea; I mean nobody GOT cancer from being positive.

The book also gave step by step instructions on losing weight, the process is just vague enough that you couldn’t really hold anyone accountable but yourself for not becoming super-model slim.

I thought I should try it. And seeing as how I lack Lynne’s eleventh hour enthusiasm (read: insanity), there was no risk involved. I have a whole ‘nother brand of insanity which I am marketing. I am currently repeating myself like a broken record, “I am 155lbs…I look great, I feel great, I am my ideal weight.” If you spooked me at any time in the last four days I might have shouted it at you, like a nut-job.

Now, as cock-a-hooey as this whole process sounds, some freak things have come about. First of all, my repeated thoughts of being my ideal weight and visualizing my pre-marriage-skinny-ad-agency-self has remarkably left me less than hungry. It is a little surreal to go from months of wondering what should I have for lunch, what would make a good snack, and how will I face dinner to a serene…hmmmm, food---what do I want? I am calm, satisfied and freakishly unaware of the food issue.

Now, how is this possible? Are positive thoughts the Nabisco-100-calorie packs of the conscience mind? Am I channeling an ultra-depressive, quasi-anorexic version of my former self? Has putting a 155 post-it over the display on my scale actually tricked me into thinking it’s true? I can’t really answer that question.

I can tell you that I have lost over 3 pounds in the week since I started telling myself that I am 155. Like an idiot I keep repeating it. I am truly not sure that I am damaging my brain by lying to it, but I think I can’t be any more nuts than Lynne. And my way involves a lot less sweat and dirty laundry.

On the other side of this positive thinking has been a simple, unfulfilled request. They recommend starting with something small, like a parking space, or cup of coffee. The minute I read “coffee”, I imagined a steamy cup of mocha, with or without whipped cream (I am not picky.) And I thought, how great! A cup of mocha is on its way. I can practically taste the whipped cream (oh, I guess I am picky.)!

I have spent as much time lying to myself that I am actually 155, as I have spent dreaming and expecting that damn mocha. The mocha has not appeared. And that is the part of the positive thinking that I actually believed would come true.

This whole experiment has led me to the following realizations; I am motivated by lies, just like the teenage version of myself. It turns out that my lies, lies read in a book, or lies by others all have an equal opportunity to blur, alter or reengineer my reality. Not only do I get amped from a seductive lie, I am disturbingly satisfied from it. In summation---feed me a lie and I don’t have to eat for days.

The other realization is that positive thinking is a bit like Starbucks, the environment is enticing, the staff is attractive and always high, there is a deep, irresistible pull to be a part of that crowd, but they are confusing, and almost creepy, the cost is excessive and that mocha you just ordered ended up in the hands of the hyper-guy in front of you who apparently can’t read the name on the cup or care to look. Laws of attraction be damned!

The bright spot in the mocha department is Dave. He said to me like Obi-Wan Kenobi might have spoken to a Jedi in training, “Honey, maybe the universe isn’t sending you a mocha because I bring you coffee every morning.” And that is when I realized that positive thinking pales in comparison to actual miracles.