Are You Sure I Can't Take the Couch With Me?

For months, I've been saying I'm going to get back into the habit of going to the gym. I've been looking at my jiggly thighs and flabby arms and thinking, "damn, I  really need to do something about that."

The weight loss efforts (now that they're actually happening) are helping, but no amount of point counting and calorie watching is going to firm up those triceps or rid me of my cellulite.

Nope, to make that happen, I'm going to actually have to move my butt. Away from the couch (and preferably in the direction of the gym).

I've started a few times, but something always comes up. A sickness. Or a deadline. Or a convenient snowstorm. Or a good TV show. You know. Stuff.

So I just went and signed up for a 5K (sorry, mom).

Now, I have bad knees. Make that horrendous knees. Running is probably the very last activity I should be engaging in. But you know what? I love running. I'm not very good at it (in fact, I suck rather badly), but there's nothing quite like the feeling of freedom that sets in about halfway through (in between the I-really-don't-want-to-do-this and the oh-my-god-is-it-over-yet phase).

So I'm going to try again. I'm going to get through that whole dang Couch to 5K app that I downloaded for my iPod if it kills me (and it might). I know I can do it - especially since I just told you guys I'm going to.

So, on  Saturday, May 1, you'll be able to find me at the starting line of the Coach Hep  Cancer Challenge.

And if I don't make it? Well, then, I just made a $35 donation to a good cause. That's not so bad, is it?

The Birth of a Family Vacation.

Summer Vacation. Growing up, that phrase was never uttered without the capital letters. Because in our house? Summer Vacation was a Very Big Deal.

Once a year, my parents would pack the whole family up (including the St. Bernard, and yes, even Fuzzer the cat), and we'd hit the road. And these were no short jaunts we embarked on. Nope. The average trip was 18 hours or more, over giant bridges and through towering mountains, all on traffic-clogged, construction barrel-littered highways.

I'd spend the trip getting slobbered on by our 180-pound dog while my mom cleaned up Fuzzer's repeated bilious protests (she vomited so much we called her Faucet Face) and my dad swore at the traffic.

By the time we arrived, I'd be so carsick I could no longer stand up straight. My dad would be snarling at the world. I'm not sure what my brother was doing (by this point, we usually weren't talking), but my mom would be cheerfully assembling sandwiches and snacks, sure that once we had food in our stomachs, everything would take a turn for the better.

And you know what? She was right.

A lot of my fondest childhood memories stem from Summer Vacation. I remember cannon-balling off my dad's shoulders, shrieking with joy. I remember playing in the surf with my mom, laughing as yet another wave threatened to tip us over. I remember watching the fireflies dance, and playing Yahtzee, and chasing down pelicans.

For that week, my brother and I were always the best of friends. We'd spend hours playing in the waves together, catching hermit crabs, and making sand castles on the beach. At night, we'd take turns roasting marshmallows, and at bedtime, we'd giggle together in our sleeping bags until my dad threatened to make someone sleep in the car.

Every vacation had its share of mishaps (for instance, there was the year our cat got kidnapped by raccoons), but in my mind, those memories are surrounded by a soft golden glow. They're also accompanied by the smell of salt, the feeling of sand between my toes and the sound of waves crashing on the beach.

Because our Summer Vacation? Wasn't a vacation at all unless it found us playing on an ocean beach.

So now that I have my own little family, I'm dying to have a Summer Vacation of our own. One that involves an ocean, a car trip, and maybe even a little swearing.

My husband is trying to talk sense into me. There's no need for a 14-hour trip down I-65, he says. After all, we'd probably pass about 12325475824 perfectly good lakes on the way. Lakes where we could swim, build sand castles and make memories.

After all, he points out, she's still too young to really remember a vacation. And our last car trip? The one home at Christmastime? Was made 1,000 times longer by the soundtrack of screams that issued from the backseat.

These are all good points. Points I really can't argue with. But my desire for an ocean-oriented vacation has nothing to do with common sense. It's a hunger that comes from somewhere way down deep in my soul.

In the depths of this endless Indiana winter, I need something to look forward to. I need to know that sometime soon, I'll hear the ocean's rhythm again. I need to believe I'll see the pelicans circling again. I need to be able to daydream about showing Tori how to make a sand castle, snuggling on the beach with my honey and watching the dolphins dance in the surf.

I need to know there's a Summer Vacation in our future. Is that so much to ask?

Things That Make Me Happy: The Award Edition.

When the days get short and the temperature plummets, it's easy to lose sight of the good things in life and focus on the negative. Lord knows I'm guilty of that particular sin. In fact, I was in danger of falling into just such a funk when my friend the Mommyologist gave me an award.

And not just any award. This is an award about happiness:

When you get it, you're supposed to list ten things that make you happy. And that is, ahem, something I'm happy to do.

My fireplace—my office is kept at about 20 below zero, so when I come home, I'm freezing. Enter the gas fireplace and its lovely instant flames. Nights like this find me, my dog and both kitties crowded in front of that precious spot of warmth.

Flannel pajama pants—My husband hates them. Hates them with a capital H. And I know they're pretty much the opposite of sexy. But really, is there anything more cozy on the face of the planet? I don't think so.

Sally's Spa—It's a game for the iPod Touch I got for Christmas. And it's completely silly—you just run around trying to give people facials and pedicures and things—but also strangely addicting.

New running shoes—I'd been making do with the crappy ones I bought before I got preggers. But my feet grew during pregnancy, so my toes were constantly bumping the top, giving me blisters. Then last week I finally broke down and bought some new ones.  My feet haven't stopped thanking me yet.

My daughter's laugh—I'm pretty sure there's no better sound on the face of the planet than a baby's laugh. No matter how bad my day has been, that little giggle never fails to make me smile.

A really good F-bomb—I know the f word is not a nice one to use. But when you're really angry? Nothing's more satisfying than a really loud "what the F***, you f'ing f'er! That f'ing sucks!" Am I right? I am, I know it.

My husband's cooking—If it were left to me, our weekly menu woould consist of baked chicken, pork chops and stuff out of a box. A great cook I am not. Luckily, he is something of a foodie and amateur chef, so our meals are much more adventurous. Not to mention yummy (who me, sucking up? Nah).

Flannel sheets—Kinda like flannel pajama pants, but better because they cover you from head to toe in coziness. A much better alternative to cold cotton sheets in the winter, don't you think?

The return of funny TV—I don't know if you noticed, but John Stuart and Stephen Colbert were gone for three weeks. Three weeks without the Daily Show makes me a sad panda. Thankfully, they're back now, and I can once again be lulled to sleep by their sarcastic jokes.

Dropping numbers on the scale—Okay, I haven't seen that yet. But I just did the first run of the Couch to 5K program, so it's only a matter of time.

I know. That's a pretty random list. But heck, it's the little things.

Now as part  of this award, you're also supposed to pass it on to ten other blogs. But you know what? You all make me happy. So consider yourself awarded!

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It Ain't Easy Being Green.

For the first half, heck, three quarters of my life, my motto was something like "blend in at all costs." I wanted desperately to fit in. To be a cool kid, a social butterfly...a rock star.

So I tried.

I bought the right brands of clothes. Used the right words. Drank what everybody else was drinking. Did my very best to become one of the Borg people.

I really did try.

But you know what?  It didn't work. I am none of those things. I am a square peg in a sea of round holes. A redhead in a world that prefers blondes. To put it bluntly, I am a geek (your first clue? I know what the Borg are).

So I decided to change my motto. These days, it's pretty simple: Be yourself. Or at least try.

It's remarkably freeing, that motto.

It's allowed me to start wearing the clothes I love for the first time since I was a kid. Things like swingy polka dot dresses on warm summer days. Skirts and tights instead of jeans on comfy Saturday afternoons. Mismatched socks (when forced to wear socks), because, well, why not?

It's made it possible to finally admit that, all things considered, I'd much rather stay at home and read a book than hit the bars. After all, the action between the covers of a book? Is generally much more exciting than anything that happens while crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with stinky strangers in a club.

It's even helped me accept my wallflower status. Because let's face it. Some of us aren't meant to be the life of the party. Besides, if there weren't a few of us hanging back watching the action, there would be no audience for those who need one. And then what would they do?

It's not easy being green. But it's a heck of a lot easier than trying to change your spots.

This post was written as part of this week's Writing Workshop over at Mama Kat's. The prompt I chose, in case you haven't guessed yet, is 2.) What is one of your life mottoes? There's lots of other brilliant writers taking part this (and every) week, so head on over there and check it out.

Date Night Resurrected.

Last week marked Tori's eight month birthday. It also marked the eight month anniversary of our last real date night (you know, the kind where you actually leave the house). And eight months of at-home date nights? Adds up to a lot of takeout.

So, we decided the time had come to take the plunge and re-enter the outside world as a couple.

To make it happen, we arranged for our daycare provider's teenage daughter to watch her. But since our dog is somewhat anti-social (and once nipped one of their kids), instead of the babysitter coming to us, Tori stayed with the babysitter.

No big deal...just a little unorthodox.

With Tori taken care of, we took ourselves out for a nice dinner. At the kind of restaurant where there are cloth napkins, wine glasses and real silverware. I had filet mignon. He had rack of lamb. But the main topic of conversation? Was Tori, and how weird it felt not to have Tori around.

We had gone to dinner straight after work, so it was strangely early when we were finished. We could have gone downtown to hit the bar for a while, but...it's Christmastime. And shopping with a baby? Sucks.

So we went shopping instead. That's right. Our first date night in eight months found us at the mall. Exciting, huh?

We finished off the evening at my favorite place in the whole world - the bookstore. A place I hadn't been in, you guessed it, eight months. I went a little crazy. In fact, at one point I had eight books in my arms, fully intending to plop myself down at a table and browse to my heart's content.

But just as I was getting comfortable, Brian started looking antsy.

"It's getting late. Do you think maybe we should get going?"

Secretly glad that he was the one to say it first, I just nodded. We paid for my much pared down pile of paperback goodness and headed to the car.

The time? 9:15 p.m.

Yeah. We're a little rusty. But hey, it's a start!

Discovering Joy.

This weekend was nothing special. Nothing exciting. Just an average, ordinary, every day kind of weekend in the Page household. We ran errands. We cleaned. We did laundry. All the usual things.

But when I went to bed last night, it was with a warm glow in my heart. I laid there, putting off the moment I gave in to the sleepiness that was tugging at my eyelids, just so I could enjoy the moment a little longer.

This, I told myself. This is what you need to remember when the Darkness looms, threatening to take your hope away. This is what it feels like to be happy. The warm tingle in your toes. The lightness in your limbs. The bubble of sun in your core. This is worth cherishing.

Why was I so happy? I don't know. There wasn't one particular thing. It was just a perfectly ordinary weekend, filled with itty bitty moments of joy. Moments like...

Bouncing a giggling Tori on my lap, swinging her over to daddy for kisses before covering her cheeks with smooches of my own.

Stealing a kiss from my husband as my dog, woofing his little heart out, struggled to get between us.

Petting a purring Oliver as he draped himself around my towel-wrapped, fresh from the shower shoulders.

Flying a grinning Tori over my head in the middle of a store, stopping an impending temper tantrum with that one motion.

Watching as that little girl stole the heart of the salesperson who stopped to see her with one gummy grin.

Discovering a fantastic new book and losing myself in its pages for a little while on a rainy afternoon.

These are the moments that made my weekend fantastic. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary, just every day, garden variety happiness. And I can't think of anything better than that.