Fashionista Mommy Part II - the Running Skort

This year, due to a wrist fracture back in March, I have not been able to golf.  I needed to do something to stay fit, so I decided to join a running group.  The physical results have been astounding.  I am firmer and more energetic than I have been in months and running with a group motivates me to get out for a good workout at least three times a week.  

Like golf, running requires special attire.  The right shoes are, of course, the foundation of running success, but these need to be combined with various items of clothing specifically designed for running.  Among the necessary items are a good running bra,  the right socks and short- and long-sleeved shirts, as well as shorts and pants, made of special fabric that wicks away moisture.  

I went through my own drawer of athletic gear to see what I needed.  Unfortunately, I was about two sizes smaller when I purchased most of my stuff, and so there wasn't much there. I tried on one pair of shorts and discovered (in the privacy of my bedroom, thank goodness) that even the stretchiest fabrics have limits.  I needed to make a trip to the athletic gear store.  Two-hundred and fifty dollars later, I emerged with all the attire required to make me a successful marathoner.  Among the items was this year's absolute "must-have" for women - the running skort. 

Like the golf skort, the running skort is a pair of shorts and a skirt combined into one.  I listened eagerly as the sales clerk explained that they have all of the advantages of hi-tech shorts, but with a more feminine, neater look.  

"Everyone is wearing them" she said, gesturing to a copy of Runner's World magazine featuring a runner in a skort on the cover.

I was sold.  I rationalized that in a month or two, I would look just as good in my skort as the hottie on the magazine cover, despite being about twenty years older and blessed with my father's "man legs". Besides, having the right gear would increase my motivation that much more. Surely, my continued health and welfare were worth $68.00 plus tax.

On the next running night, I donned my new shirt, socks and skort and assessed myself in the mirror.  We were scheduled for a solid 45-minute run and I was pumped.  I looked like a runner.  About five minutes into the run, however, I started to question my skort decision.  The skirt part of the skort kept riding up.  In and of itself, this would not have been that much of a problem, as the "shorts" part of most skorts are designed to protect from over-exposure.  Unfortunately, the "shorts" part of my skort was behaving more like a thong, leaving my "Wal-Mart special" panties - adorned with tasteful pastel flowers - exposed for all to see.  As a result, I moved to the back of the pack and slowed my pace.  

After the run I washed the skort and left it on top of my dresser for a few days, deciding what to do.  While I suppose that running eight kilometres and holding the back of my skort down augmented my workout somewhat, I couldn't think of too many other advantages of wearing what I now thought of as the running "skank".    In the end, I decided that I didn't want to be known as the "cougar" of the group and I gave the skort to my babysitter, who, at fifteen and being extremely thin and tall, looks fabulous in it.  As for my own running attire, I wound up going to Wal-Mart and buying some cheap polyester running shorts. They are black, nondescript and certainly not trendy.  And they work just fine.     

Sweet Little Lies

There are few who would disagree that unless it's an occasion that calls for scrupulous honesty (like where you are a witness in a trial or when your best friend is about to go on a date with a wiener), it is perfectly acceptable to scrimp on candor to avoid unnecessarily hurting the feelings of others or embarrassing your date. Doing so doesn't signify a general lack of integrity and may, in fact, help you to "win friends and influence people." Face it, most of us would rather not hear that our kids are ill-mannered hellions or that we look like an overstuffed sausage in our favourite cocktail dress.  We take much more kindly to comments like "your kids are so energetic" or "that dress has been a good investment for you!" Little white lies make things more cordial for all of us.

I have failed to teach my kids many things.  They have messy rooms.  They have little concept of table manners, although they do use utensils and generally keep their food either on their plates or in their mouths.  They eat pretty well where and when it suits them, and their father and I have become short-order cooks at dinner time.  They generally remember to say "please" and "thank you", but I suspect this is due largely to the bevy of paid caregivers and teachers who have had them in their charge over the years, rather than my own parenting skills. All of that said, their father and I have taught them that telling the truth is important, and that lying is bad, and, consequently, they are very honest.  That's a good thing, but it makes it hard to explain the etiquette of white lies and why sometimes, lying is the only good choice.

I can remember very clearly the day I learned about "white lies".  I was in grade 2 and my teacher, a beautiful young lady named Miss Paul, explained to us that if we told a fib to spare someone's feelings, it wasn't really a lie.  It was good manners, and this is why it was called a "white" lie.  (She never did tell us what colour the "bad" lies were, but I always imagined that they were black or red).  In any event, the upshot was that nice girls just didn't say mean things. If, when asked, they honestly couldn't say something nice, they said something dishonest, like "Of course I like tomato aspic, Mrs. Smith". 

Miss Paul was lucky to live in a time when children - especially girls - were still being raised to be compliant and to not question what those in authority, like teachers, said.  None of us questioned her and, frankly, what she said made perfect sense.  Who wanted to be known as mean or nasty?   Miss Paul was nice and we wanted to be nice, too.  White lies could help us be nice.   Today's parent, however, does not have the same advantage as Miss Paul did.  My kids question just about everything, and they are particularly relentless in trying to reconcile inconsistencies in the rules.  The whole "do as I say, not as I do" thing has never really taken off in our house (nor should it).  If I swear, speed or jay-walk, I know I have to brace myself for the inevitable lecture from Janet and Daniel that follows.  So, explaining why lying can sometimes be a good thing (and I do think that the white lie has its place) is tricky.  

I've been able to avoid it for a long time, but after wanting to die from embarrassment on a number of occasions as Janet remarks to people that their houses smell or that she really hates what they've served her for dinner, I  have come to the realise that I cannot put it off any longer. She has also brought to the attention of one or two estheticians that, in her view, they wear too much eye shadow or perfume.  She is brutally honest with her opinion, both solicited and unsolicited. When I admonish her for her comments, she looks at me accusingly and says things like "What?  It's true".   How do I argue with that, unless I have filled her in on the whole white lie thing?

Still, I do not relish explaining it to her and having her force me to retrace my steps on honesty during her shrewd cross-examination, when she will no-doubt point out to me that my position doesn't make any sense.

"So, you're saying that nice girls lie.  Does that mean that honest girls are not nice?  Really Mother. . . "

I can hardly wait.

The Mentos Incident

While on holiday, the kids were let loose with the video camera.  This is what they produced.  Not bad!

The dog is my dad's and when Daniel put the Mentos role on the ground, the dog, who loves anything that is "stick" shaped, stole them.  It seems that he kind of stole of the whole show . . .

Golden Oldies - And Lessons Learned

While on holiday last week, I found a number of treasures in a CD bargain bin, including compilation entitled The Best of 1976. Priced at $6.97, I couldn't resist buying it just to see if my memories of "the best" of that year matched those of Universal Music.  I am not disappointed.  Among "the best" are "The Rubberband Man" by the Spinners, "Muskrat Love" by the Captain and Tennille and, of course, "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart" by Elton John and Kiki Dee (the woman who led some of us to think, oh so briefly in the mid-1970s, that Elton had switched teams).  For me, however, the song on the compilation that really takes me back to 1976 is "Beth" by KISS.  

"Beth" reminds me of the first real party that I ever attended. There were no parents until at least 11:00 and we had a magnum of Baby Duck to share amongst 12 young adolescents. It also brings back memories of the heartbreak of my first real crush.  Contrary to my hopes and dreams, my feelings were not shared by my crushee and I watched helplessly and with an ache in my gut at the junior high dance as the object of my affection awkwardly groped his own heartthrob with "Beth" ringing out from the DJ's sound system.  Sigh . . .

Today as I faced mountains of laundry and other domestic chaos, I put my new acquisition on the stereo and soon found myself crooning along with KISS.

"Do you like this song, Mommy?" Janet asked.

I smiled back at her.  "I love this song, Janet".  I went back to singing along wistfully.

Janet raised on eyebrow.  "What's he singing about, Mommy?"

I opened my mouth to explain and then I closed it.  What is it about, anyway?  It seemed so simple back in junior high, but if we strip it down to the basic elements and take away the romantic melody, it's kind of ugly.  It's about a guy who is trying to make it in a band.  He and the boys are playing, but unfortunately, they just can't find the sound.  He needs more time, but he has pre-existing plans with Beth.  He is torn.  The poor bunny - what can he do?  Ultimately, it seems that he decides to just tell her to quit being such a demanding bitch and advises her that he will not be coming home at all that night.   

And millions of adolescent girls in the mid-1970s sided with him and his band mates, manipulated into thinking that Beth should just suck it up and count her blessings when he finally did come home.  We never asked ourselves if Beth had, perhaps, chosen a very special wine and then spent the day preparing a lavish feast for her beau.  In all likelihood, she took the afternoon off of work to do it, and spent at least some of the time cleaning the house so it would be just right for the evening.  Then, she sat there, waiting with the candles lit until the telephone rang.  She was probably pretty pissed, and justifiably so.

What would I tell Janet?  I figured that she's a little too young to appreciate the finer points of a discussion about "Beth" from the feminist perspective or even a Cosmopolitan-esque lecture on the Top Ten Warning Signs that Your Boyfriend is a Wiener.  I did, however, feel compelled to tell her something and in the end, I decided to turn it into an etiquette lesson.  It's a song about a guy who had missed his play date with Beth and he was really sorry.  He did not have good reason to miss the play date, though.  He missed it because he wanted to play with other friends instead.  That is just plain bad manners, so Beth was pretty mad and probably didn't invite him for any more play dates after that.  

Still, the guy's pretty good.  Have a safe trip back to 1976: