White Privilege: A Misnamed Truth by Guest Blogger James Smith

Welcome James Smith, guest blogger and middle aged MAN gone wild.

 

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I define privilege as having something one should not have: a rich man’s son evading the draft, a powerful man evading prosecution for crimes he has committed. As a middle class (just barely) white man, I do not have this type of privilege. However, I do enjoy the basic rights and freedoms afforded me by the U.S. Constitution – I know how fortunate that makes me. Not because I have something I should not have (privilege) rather, because so many of my fellow Americans do not have these basics. Because of matters as trivial as gender, race, age, disability, sexual orientation etc. far too many Americans have a lesser subset of rights and freedoms, and this is wrong. Wrong not because of what I have, rather, because of what they do not.

Therefore, the phrase “White Privilege” is a misnomer. White Baseline is a more accurate term. Human Baseline would be better still. Sadly, for the time being, white baseline better reflects the truth of the matter. Even as a disabled vet clawing my way through the VA, I am emboldened in my battle by the knowledge that I have the basic rights and freedoms afforded me by the U.S. Constitution.

Resenting white people for having what they should have is wrong. Hate, and fight the system that does not afford you the Human Baseline. My fellow white people, please do not fail to recognize how fortunate you are, and never except a nation where your fellow Americans have less than you.

James Smith is a 55 year old father of three grown children and a disabled vet who advocates for other veterans.  He is active in the Denver amateur film scene in several roles and an avid photographer.

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Confession #33: Bible Thumpers and the Chosen One

I have been told I am one of the chosen people.  I question if they mean chosen for persecution and jokes about being cheap.  According to a group of born again Christians I met in high school, I was chosen for a more positive endeavor.  If I took Jesus as my savior, my destiny would be fulfilled and I could enter into a holy covenant with God.  I was skeptical but figured, I should learn more about it. What the hell, right? I mean, why not?

My introduction to the glee club of Jesus enthusiasts was a senior named Keith (names are changed so he doesn’t end up hating me) who is still the warm hearted welcoming guy I befriended in Latin class. Where better to get into the scriptures than in a class studying the language of ordinary Christians of the Roman Empire?

I was a junior at the time, not the most hated girl in my class but far from well liked.  In fact, I noticed the only time I saw my friends outside of school was when I initiated it and, as a test of their loyalty to me, I stopped calling all of them.   They proved to be as loyal as Brutus to Caesar.  I was drowning in low self esteem.

On my sweet sixteen, I took one of my sister’s razor blades (I’m not sure if she used it for shaving or for cocaine) and locked myself in my room, loudly threatening to slit my wrists. My father screamed through my locked door that if I was going to do it, I should do it in the bathtub so I don’t make a mess.  No friends, no compassion at home.  Like a prisoner who turns to Jesus when in despair, I turned to a friendly group of teen age born again Christians.

I had long one on one conversations with several of them about the Bible and proof of creation (if we can’t procreate with apes, how could we have descended from them? Duh, Darwin and Leakey). I delved into the myth that Jews have horns (some people still believe this) because of the Moses sculpture by Michelangelo and even had a meeting with a rabbi about this.  Keith confided in me he abstained from sex with his girlfriend, citing his reverence to God and the Bible. Another friend in the group said if you have sex before marriage you will be turned away from the pearly gates.  His analogy was that if you crack an egg to make an omelette and a piece of the shell gets in, the egg is ruined and you have to throw it away.  If we give into our carnal temptations, then we are like that egg and heaven can’t have a bunch of crunchy omelettes running around in it. (I have since then started picking out bits of shell every time a piece gets in when I crack an egg.)

Keith invited me to a weekend Bible study retreat in December. I don’t remember much about the activities, but I’m sure we talked about Jesus and sang songs.  I do remember being told by several people how lucky I was to be Jewish since Jesus was Jewish and so by default I was in some kind of higher category than the rest of them. I thought Jesus would view us all equally but what did I know.

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Even Christians had big hair in the 80’s.

The one thing I most clearly remember is that the retreat fell during one of the 8 days of Hanukkah.  I didn’t know the Hebrew prayer recited over the menorah and I didn’t have a menorah with me.  But I felt like if I didn’t do something I would be a traitor to my born faith.  So I found a candle and stepped outside by myself and said a prayer.  I think it was about hoping to find a way out of my religious confusion. I also apologized to God for not knowing the appropriate prayer for Hanukkah.  All I knew was Amen.

After the retreat I abandoned the Bible studies and Christian social functions and focused on learning about the Judaism.  It seemed the harder the born agains pushed to lead me to salvation through the Good Shepherd, the more I dove into Judaism. The following year, I fasted for Yom Kippur for the first time.

A zillion years later, I moved to Colorado, reconnected with Keith through Facebook and found out he is not only no longer a Christian but also an outspoken critic of Christianity.  He is also gay so it was probably more than respect for Christian values that kept him from sleeping with his high school girlfriend.

I needed the born agains during my lonely junior year of high school.  Jesus didn’t save me but in a way they did.   Wrapped in self pity, I felt like a loser, unpopular and unloved.  The Bible kids may not have succeeded with their evangelical goals, but unbeknownst to them, I was not seeking religion.  I was desperate for people to want to be around me. They may have had ulterior motives, but I didn’t care.  I’m still not sure if the Jews are the chosen people.  I’m just glad I chose to hang out with that group of Christians.

 

 

 

Is it Chic to Be A Jew on TV?

jewish mompicWas the Alex Rieger character in “Taxi” a Jew? There are a couple of allusions to his religion. What about Gabe Kotter in “Welcome Back Kotter”? He did say the Yiddish word  word “yutz” once on screen so probably.  While there might have been a reference or two to Jewish identity, it certainly wasn’t at the forefront of many of the shows back in the 70’s and 80’s.

Today, there are a slew of Jewish characters and storylines on television.  Think “The Goldbergs”, “Transparent” and “Difficult People” (a show I found difficult to watch).  As a Jew, I should be excited about this.  But I wonder – in some of these shows is it symbolic of Jews being more mainstream or are they just easier to make fun of?

Let me pick apart one of my favorite shows, “Transparent”.  I do love it but some parts irk me.  “Transparent” depicts a culturally Jewish, yet non-religious family dealing with the patriarch’s revelation he is transgender.  He has three grown children and an ex-wife played by the actually Jewish, Judith Light.  Ms. Light does an extraordinary job of portraying the mother as authentically neurotic as my mother (sometimes I cringed when her acting hit so close to home).  Yet, I started to get annoyed by her overuse of Yiddish words.  She used “oy gevalt”, “fakakta”, and “mashugana” in one sentence (or some variant of those).  It seemed overkill.  Almost like a schtick to get laughs (pardon my Yiddish).

I loved the scene when the rabbi, Raquel, played by Kathryn Hahn (who isn’t Jewish but should be) has a conniption as the eldest daughter, Sarah, tries to prepare a makeshift seder.  Raquel saw through Sarah’s quest for spirituality through Judaism as a sham and blows up at her, rightfully so.  Her outburst was one of the most genuine reflections on Judaism in the show.

Although there are moments of Jewish cliches in the series, they do show holidays and traditions up close.  I believe the religious facets are part of the story development, unlike some of the other series out there.  I offer my advice to sitcom writers – ask yourself are the main characters purposely Jewish to create a well developed and nuanced character or a vessel for easy jokes?  I don’t want to feel used by these writers the way Cindy from “Orange is the New Black” uses Judaism to get better food in prison.

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A Jewish family at the holidays – a matter of time before the fighting begins.

Seriously, is there a Jewish Renaissance on TV or a ploy for cheap laughs?  It just seems like it’s a more popular gag and people are getting on the bandwagon.  Oh! The Jew thing works!  Most shows focus on the Jewish kvetching and neurosis.  Maybe I need to watch more television (although my waistline says “I think not”) to find a sitcom that incorporates the culture and traditions.    Comedies thrive on neurotic characters.  Perhaps that’s why writers are naturally attracted to that personality type and Jews seem to have a monopoly on that market.

I’m not sure if I’m offended or simply more curious about Hollywood’s interest in Jewish-ness.  When I get curious about intentions, I tend to wander towards a negative train of thought which make me a skeptic.  Oh, how Jewish of me!

While I don’t balk at exaggerating stereotypes for the sake of comedy, it would be nice to see more than just exaggerated stereotypes.  It would be nice to see Judaism develop character and plot and not just be used to increase ratings.

You could say, I am slightly guilty of this ploy in my own web series, Mile High Nancy.  In episode five my on screen mother is nagging me about finding a Jewish doctor before I’m all dried up and undesirable.  In my defense, however, it was hardly an exaggeration.  You’ll have to meet her.

 

 

Confession #31

Taylor Swift and I finally have something in common. Unfortunately, it’s not a gazillion dollars in a bank account or a svelte waistline.  We’ve both been groped by men against our will.  I’m sure we’ve also been willingly groped by men which gives us even more in common, but this post is about the asshats who feel entitled to grab ’em by the “insert body part.”

Specifically, I speak to the epidemic of women silencing themselves when they are publicly molested or verbally harassed by men.  For some reason, WE feel ashamed when they unfurl their fingers and lay their hands where they’re not wanted.  While staying at a Buddhist temple retreat in Thailand years ago, I met an American woman who told me she was groped while riding a train in Japan.  Girls there face the daily trauma of predators groping them on trains.  Because of social pressure to remain silent, girls do not often speak out and accuse their attackers.   However, she wasn’t giving in to societal norms. She grabbed the pervert’s hand, raised it above his head and starting yelling “He’s groping me! He’s groping me!”  She turned the embarrassment on its head and HE ran off the train in shame.  I was so inspired by her story, I almost couldn’t wait until the next time I got groped so I could humiliate the deviant.

I didn’t have to wait very long.  While traveling in Vietnam, I took a boat tour through Hue, to see the imperial capital.  As a solo traveler through Asia, most of the men I met were respectful and harmless and I engaged with the locals as much as possible.  The tour guide seemed nice enough and he and I were sitting at the helm of the boat as we glided down the Perfume River.  During our conversation, out of nowhere, he brazenly placed his hand on my knee and squeezed it.  In my gut, it felt untoward.  I grabbed his hand, raised it quickly and yelled “You have no right to touch me!”  The other passengers stared and he stayed away from me for the rest of the trip.

I caused a scene! A woman made a big deal about unwanted touching.  Instead of internalizing shame I didn’t deserve, I placed it squarely on the degenerate who handled me without my consent.  I embarrassed the shit out of him and it felt great!  I didn’t beat myself afterwards like I had done in the past for letting the guy get away with it.  Why should women keep quiet, our cheeks flushed with humiliation, wondering how we could have avoided the situation? Or worse yet, accepting this is something we have to live with.

At first, Taylor’s mother didn’t want to bring attention to the incident because she wanted to protect her daughter.  I say bring on the attention.  Grab his hand as it’s on your ass or knee and raise it above his head or point at him like a misbehaving child and then yell at the top of your lungs!  It’s a reflex for women to be polite.   Like covering your mouth with your hand as you laugh.

But he made the choice to lay a finger on you and now he’ll publicly pay the price.  His ego is not more important than your dignity.  Men take it for granted we’ll downplay the sexual assault and talk ourselves out of confronting the assailant.

As Ashley Judd said today after being touched against her will by an airport employee, speaking up can be the resolution to the everyday sexism.   And if you see a woman speaking up for herself, support her – don’t look away and be complicit in her victimization.

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From this picture I notice Taylor is wearing red lipstick and I own red lipstick which is one more thing we have in common.

Thank you Nina Davenport

I recently watched a documentary by Nina Davenport called First Comes Love about her journey to single motherhood.  Even those who are not single mothers by choice (SMC – we get an acronym) would find it engaging and insightful but if you are a SMC it hits you on a personal level.  For me it was the trifecta of personal – 1. She chose to be a single mom 2. She chose a known donor  and 3. Her father told her to get an abortion when he found out she was pregnant.

This blog post focuses on the third fecta (I like to make up words). My father was born in 1926 as a Depression era baby.  It is from him that I learned that being in debt is akin to selling your soul to the devil and in this case, the devil is the credit card industry.  I didn’t know my grandparents on his side very well since they died when I was 7, but I remember hearing his mother was strict. I heard a story about how my grandmother slapped my sister across the face because she refused to give her a kiss on the cheek.  The lesson was either suck it up and let your grandma’s whiskers tickle you or love hurts.

After a childhood in poverty, he became a success by middle class standards – a not too “taxing” job as an accountant, a house in the Jersey suburbs, a wife and two kids. And while he is average on the scale of progressive for the GI Generation – doesn’t hate black people but didn’t want me to date one; doesn’t hate gay people but glad I’m not a lesbian, etc.., he has lived a conventional life.

When I was a little girl I wanted to be Pippi Longstocking when I grew up. I’m sure he would have preferred that to my being a single mother by choice. I waited until I was 3 months pregnant to tell him.  Since we live approximately 1,700 miles apart and he never travels, I probably could have gotten away with never telling him and trust me, I considered that option.  However, as much as I knew he would not be thrilled with my motherhood plans, I did not expect the depths of his negative reaction.

I heard a mix of “You’re dead to me”, “Get an abortion” and “You’re crazy” in rapid fire. Like a collection of bad song titles on a mixed tape (or your iPod for you youngsters).  As I mentioned, my dad is on the average side of progressive and is pro-choice – but I was disappointed he advocated abortion for his daughter’s planned and wanted pregnancy.

Soon after that call, he did follow up and tell me he didn’t mean it when he said I was dead to him.  But he did not recant his comment about getting an abortion. My mother, who divorced him when I was 15 and who accepted the circumstances of my pregnancy from the start, told me that my father told her on a few occasions he hoped I would miscarry.  I know his intent was not to be cruel. In this anomalous situation, he could not get a grip on how a single woman could choose single motherhood and the financial hardships that are linked together (unless you’re Angelina Jolie). He was scared for me.  But still, how he expressed his fear was beyond shitty.

I believe there was a sense of embarrassment that his child did not have a child through traditional methods.  He didn’t want me visiting him after my daughter was born because he didn’t want his neighbors to see me with a baby and ask him questions about it. Perhaps his unyielding array of old fashioned principles collided with any sense of unconditional love and humanity.

More than ten years later, my father has accepted that I have a child.  He does ask about her but he has never sent her a birthday card.  He’s spoken to her on the phone but has never expressed interest in meeting her.  I’ve decided I will not use vacation time to go to New Jersey.  He is set in his routine and long distance communication suffices.

While my apprehension about telling my dad about getting pregnant was enormous, my regret at not having a child would have been even more monumental.  I sometimes think single mother by choice should be more accurately called single mother by default.  However, for many women being a single mother is highly preferable to never being a mother.  How we get there is our choice and we can’t live our lives to placate others.

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Confession #29

When I was in college, I was friends with a racist.  Not on purpose.  I was naive enough to believe his derogatory comments about Asians, Muslims, black people and anyone else that did not look like him were simply jokes.  My home was not in hotbed of KKK activity or stomping ground for Neo-Nazis.  I grew up in Bergen County  in New Jersey just outside the racial smorgasbord of New York City and the liberal attitudes flowed into my suburban neighborhood.  I was sheltered from bona fide racism.  In fact, before I knew about the birds and the bees, I told my parents it was racist that two white people could not biologically produce a black baby.

My racist friend grew up not far from me but in a different demographic.  His town, while also considered a suburb of NYC, was more blue collar and lower socio-economic class. Or to be politically incorrect, kind of a white slum.

My friends and I have made racist, sexist, homophobic and other -ist and -phobic jokes.  If you think telling a racist joke, makes you a racist person, that is your opinion.  I don’t share that belief.  Harboring prejudices against people based on their skin color makes you racist.  I think if the intent of a joke is to show your contempt against people of another race, you might be a racist.  However, if your joke is simply funny, then I think it’s fine.  Then again, if you are around people that might take offense or beat your ass for telling a racist joke, then consider another option.

The final straw with my former friend came when we were watching tv together and a commercial came on with Sally Struthers asking viewers to sponsor starving children in Africa.  I believe Alyssa Milano has stepped into Sally’s role.  His response was there were enough niggers in the world and we should let them die.  Due to my naivete, I prodded him to renounce his words and tell me what I wanted to hear – that he didn’t really feel that way and he was just saying those things for the shock value.  He looked me in the eye and told me that is how he truly felt and he didn’t give a damn what others thought.

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It was then that I chose to end the friendship.  When he called me later that week to hang out again, I told him I couldn’t be friends with him anymore and I told him why.  If watching images of babies suffering from illness and hunger brings out your scathing comments about population control, you are not the type of person I can call my friend.  He was completely surprised by my explanation.

I’m sure he didn’t disavow his racism and I didn’t influence him to sponsor a child so I can’t say I helped someone to see the error of their ways.  It was a wake up call to me though, to be more particular in who I call a friend.  To really listen carefully, not just at their words but at the tone.  I shed a layer of innocence with the ending of that friendship.

Confession #28

Around the time my daughter starts her period, I’ll be ending mine.  We’ll both be acclimating to hormonal changes while my husband stands helpless alone in a sea of fluctuating estrogen and tempers.  Now is the calm before the storm, as my daughter is only 10 and I am theoretically still in childbearing years.

From the age of 10 to the age of 14 attitude can change from sassy to downright bitchy.  I’ve seen this ascent into unpleasantness from substitute teaching for grades 4 through 8, hearing it from my friend’s kids and oh yea, I was a pubescent girl once too.

Although my daughter has not yet hit puberty physically, her attitude sometimes reminds me of what I would call teenager-ish.  No matter what I say, it’s never an acceptable answer.  For example, the other day she had a physical fitness test in P.E. class and did 12 push ups.  She was upset because earlier in the year she did 19.  I literally debated what to say to her in my mind.  If I said “Twelve is a lot of push ups, you should be proud of yourself,” she would say I was lying because it isn’t good and I was just trying to make her feel better and not taking it seriously enough.  If I said “You can do better next time,” she would say something like, “Oh, you don’t think that’s good enough?” and tell me I’m rude for making her feel bad.  By the way, rude seems to be a trending word for 10 year olds.

If I tried to be clever and simply nod and say nothing at all, she would get mad and say I was ignoring her and that is rude too.  Sometimes when I don’t answer her, she’ll tell me I have a rude look on my face.  No honey, that’s my I have to fart face.

After deliberation, I made a strong choice and said “Oooh?” which was vague enough to let her continue talking about how mad she was at her friend for not telling her she was doing her push ups the wrong way.  Shifting blame is a great evasion tactic.

It occurred to me that I now know how my husband feels.  On the occasions I tell him something and I notice it’s taking him a while to answer, I realize he’s weighing his options.  However, during the few seconds he’s considering which response will keep the peace, I’ve assumed he’s ignoring me.  Who would’ve thought my daughter is turning into…well, me.

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                               Appreciate the quiet times.

Confession #27

I am as smart as a fifth grader.  Not because I went to college, but because I am a substitute teacher.  When it comes to math, however, I am probably as smart as a fourth grader.  Jumping into lessons plans at the elementary level can be daunting for someone new to common core.  To put things into perspective, when I went to school, teachers told us to sit in politically incorrect Indian style on the carpet.  I have no idea in which year criss cross applesauce became the norm.

Of course students pushing limits and outright lying comes with the substitute territory.  There are classes though, where all hope is not lost due to a few respectful students.  I’ve encountered a multitude of students – geniuses, autistic, smart but they don’t apply themselves, and low IQ.  What frustrates me are the kids that I know have the brains but choose to misbehave.

Typically, the low achievers come from dysfunctional households.  I can spot them a mile away now.  They’ll either be the next Bill Gates or living in someone’s garage. It’s a real toss up which way they will go.   I find a lot of these types of kids in Title 1 schools.

You feel the difference walking into a Title 1 school immediately.  You see it in the classrooms, with bare bone materials, run down equipment and even the lighting.  The lighting, you ask?  Yes, I say.  The other day I subbed at a non Title 1 school and the teacher used subtle multi-color lights instead of the harsh fluorescent ceiling lights.  It created a calming atmosphere, not a harsh institutional feel.

When I sub at a Title 1 school, I need my handy whistle at times to get the kids to focus at the front of the room on me (I never could figure out how to do the finger whistle).  The whistle was intended for herding the kids when their outside recess is over.  But I’ve found it works indoors to startle the children into silence so I can tell them what to do next.

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Only in Title 1 schools have I been told by a teacher, if said child wants to walk out of the class when he feels like it just let him or he might throw a desk at you.  Only in a Title 1 school have I heard tales from a second grader who was enmeshed in subjects beyond her years such as her drug addicted father she wasn’t allowed to see.

I am not saying family dysfunction does not occur in Non Title 1 schools.  I just notice the dysfunction manifests itself more overtly within the Title 1 schools with violent and disrespectful behavior.

As a sub, my job is to educate my class according to the teacher’s wishes.  Discipline becomes a huge part of that role when students perceive you as a pushover and/or family background obstructs academic achievement.  To be perfectly honest, there are days I leave a school thinking I feel sorry for the main teacher and for those kids’ parents.  I only had to spend 8 hours with them.  I can wash my hands of it and choose to never step foot in that classroom again.  But I also feel bad for the kid who is marginalized and criticized to the point where he has lost belief in himself.

Don’t even get me started on middle school and high school.

Confession #26 (Jewish Sasha Fierce)

I picked out my white Marilyn Monroe style wedding dress, the pearl baby’s breath hair pins, and an understated cubic zirconium round cut pendant.  My choices were more limited as the wedding planner presented my fiancé and I with a small menu of options for the bouquet, the boutonniere and the celebrant.  This was a fancy elopement – vows taken on a gondola in the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas.  We contemplated Elvis marrying us but neither one of us were big enough fans of the Pelvis to warrant that.

I’m Jewish and my husband is agnostic and since we were getting married on a Saturday, the rabbi wasn’t available (yes, they actually will provide one at the Venetian).  We decided on a civil  ceremony, and agreed to a secular sermon complete with phrases about the joyous union of two people and a man and woman facing the world stronger together. God was not involved.

Unfortunately, when we arrived at the designated meeting spot, the pastor asked me if he could say the word God during the ceremony.  I honestly thought he would mention God only once, maybe twice.  I hesitated, and against my better judgement said yes but he could not mention Jesus.  He snidely commented “Ok, I won’t try to baptize you either.”  At that point, I should have rescheduled the wedding but the gondolier called our name to embark on our journey to marriage.

Before the wedding day, I familiarized myself with the passages he would read.  However, as we floated down the fake Venetian canal on our wedding day, my head started to spin.  The pastor not only brought up God several times, he went completely off book and referenced the Bible and the Lord.  The pastor had co-opted my wedding!

I sat there torn between looking deeply into my almost husband’s eyes and pushing the pastor overboard.  I hated the fact that I was angry during my wedding ceremony.  I hated the fact that someone else imposed his beliefs on one of the most special days of my life.   I hated the pastor at the moment I was to profess my everlasting love to my fiancé.

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My husband and I with Antonio (I actually have no idea what his name is) before being double crossed by the pastor.

I sat there wondering if I should speak up but decided not to because I did not want to cause a scene during our wedding.  My husband had no idea what was going on in my head as this was the one time I stayed quiet while deeply upset.  I didn’t want to ruin our special day, yet I let this selfish pastor ruin it for me.

You might think, “how apocalyptic to say RUIN your special day.”  My husband said later “It’s not about the ceremony, it’s about marriage.” as I cried to him how disgusted I was with the pastor and insulted by his arrogance.  While I understand these sentiments, a bride has expectations.  She is the queen for the day and an insolent pastor has no right to fuck with that.  I complained to the wedding planner and told her she should never let that man officiate for a civil or non-Christian wedding ever again.

Four months later we invited a few friends to celebrate our matrimony at a dinner party.  Before the meal, each person took a turn to read one of The Seven Blessings, a Jewish ritual from ancient rabbinic teachings.

In reality, I am not a religious Jew, however, when the pastor turned my secular wedding into a Baptist oration, I felt betrayed.  I don’t keep kosher or stop writing on the Sabbath (I am writing this on a Saturday morning) but incorporating Jesus into one of my life’s key events felt like heresy.  My Jewish Sasha Fierce had arrived.

 

Confession #25 0r Fat, Happy Women

Disclaimer: This is not a political post. Recently, my platonic wife (middle aged term for BFF) and I “starred” in a partner workout video.  We attempted exercises normally reserved for people in good shape.  Not to say we are so out of shape that we can’t get out of a chair without help, but after doing a half chin up we would most likely need an anti-inflammatory and an ice pack.

Because my daughter did not weight 35 pounds in utero, I have not been able to get rid of the baby weight after 10 years.  I know that taking in more calories than I exert has something to do with my muffin top.  However, I still blame her for making me flabby.

After age 40, you do need to accept that if you’ve never had six pack abs before you’ll probably never get them.  I tell myself though, that once I win the lottery, I will be able to afford a personal trainer and a fat melting procedure.  Although once I’m rich, will I really care about how I look?

Anyway, as some of you may know, I create and act in a variety of short films and web series videos. I am constantly aware of that my curves are more like that of a snowman than a Victoria’s Secret model when I am in front of the camera. I carefully choose my clothing to hide the extra weight in my middle aged middle (caused by my childbearing).

However, I decided for the partner workout shoot to wear biking shorts and a form fitting tank top.  After seeing myself in the playback after our first exercise called the Ab Box (a more accurate name would be the Ab Torture Chamber), I was mortified at the fact that I looked 4 1/2 months pregnant.  I almost went for a costume change, but a little voice inside of me said “Fuck it.”

Vanity halted and I decided not to cover up my mounds of me-ness.  This is what I look like.  I’m 46, I have never participated in a women’s fitness competition and I’m thinking I never will.  I continued to film the video and we had a blast.  My husband who was filming couldn’t stop laughing and I knew it wasn’t a nervous “oh my God my wife is so out of shape what did I get myself into” laugh but a “holy shit, these girls are a riot” laugh.

It was kind of a relief, really.  To just enjoy filming and not care about what I looked like. A video about getting fit is the video where I decided I don’t care if I don’t look fit.  Oh, the irony.

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check out the video, Two Girls One Carpet

Two Girls One Carpet Workout