Okay, Abba....
"I work all night. I work all day,
to pay the bills I have to pay
Ain't it sad!
And still there never seems to be
a single penny left for me
That's too bad!
In my dream I have a plan
If I got me a wealthy man
I wouldn't have to work at all, I'd fool around and have a ball...Money, money, money... Must be funny...In a rich man's world."

Enough of the Abba lyrics.
I saw this hill by my new home.
It's my goal to run, yes, run, not jog, to the top.
Doesn't look like much, right?
So, today, I ventured up the hill...
three times...only climbing.
Twice coming down
Jogging backwards.
No, I did not fall once.
A proud achievement.
Although I do believe I have swallowed a year's worth of protein...if mosquitos count for protein.

I am gonna run this baby!
I-Phone is secure!
It's not muddy.
Okay, I walked it to start.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
If I got me a wealthy man
he wouldn't make this any easier.
Well, unless he carried me.

Okay, going backwards now.

Challenging myself is the new me.
It's amazing when you go though life,
marry, have babies, create businesses....
create and build.

Then life dismantles your plans...
makes you go, well, backwards.
At least you think it's backwards.
Then you find yourself running up that hill,
again and again.
Only this time you know where to look and what to expect...or so you think.

Okay, this looks a whole lot easier than it is. Welcome to TRX. Have no idea what TRX stands for other than finding yourself in the most awkward, inhuman positions while trying to strengthen your core. This pose was the only one I dare post. But I have to admit, it becomes addicting once you figure out how to get your feet in and out of the straps without looking like a turkey being prepared for Thanksgiving dinner.

So, as I prepare for the next leg in my "self-improvement" journey, I have the TRX class as a MUST DO. Now here is something I must NOT do...

The weather here in Wisconsin has once again turned nasty, wet, windy, and cold. In less than an hour, the temperature went from a balmy, beautiful 78 degrees to 45 degrees. Frightful, especially since that means my exercising routine once again must head indoors. Determined to keep my schedule up today, I went to the gym to meet my personal trainer. I always try to get there a little early to run a quick mile to warm up. So, I hopped on the treadmill ready to sweat away some of the 50 hours of work stress I have already accumulated this week, knowing full well I have another 8 hours at the computer tomorrow. I cranked the tunes, set my speed at a pretty fair clip, and made the incline as steep as I could manage. You ever hit that place where you feel like you are really doing great? Look at me...I can do this! This is awesoooooommmme....half a mile in, there goes the I-Phone...hits the treadmill and flies off at record speed. I punch the STOP button and turn to retrieve the device. Whoooaaaaa!!! Yup, apparently I didn't hit the STOP button hard enough. One leg goes under me in a direction I didn't think possible...Whammmm...on my butt flying in the same direction as my I-Phone. Good news is I landed right next to it and not on it. Bad news? Well, you ever have one of those moments where you want to crawl under a rock? One where you are just praying no one saw how completely foolish you made yourself look? I picked up my I-Phone and looked up slowly, and, yes, I was in that "turkey being prepared for Thanksgiving dinner" position. To my chagrin, another trainer stood there looking at me along with other well-intentioned onlookers. This man has been my trainer in the past and after realizing I was suffering from only wounded pride and nothing else, allowed himself to chuckle. Note to self...secure I-Phone and don't get too carried away next time. 

I am leaving your mom, not you.
I am leaving the home.
I am leaving your daily life.
I will show up on occassion, maybe.
I will be there when you need me, maybe.
I love you.

I am leaving your mom, not you.
I'll start to forget what you like.
I'll start to forget what it was like to read you a story at night.
I'll start to forget how it felt to hold your hand when you were afraid.
I'll start to forget that it all really mattered.
I'll forget that you need me.
I'll be happy in my own new life.
I love you.

I am leaving your mom, not you.
I awake from my selfish slumber. 
You are grown.
You don't return my calls.
You forget what we had when you were little.
Dad, you didn't just leave mom,
you left me too.
Do you really love me?

If you have ever known someone diagnosed with breast cancer, you know there is a myriad of consultations with multiple doctors one must go through prior to any treatment plan is devised. Who knew there were so many ways to "create" a boob!   I thought this appointment was just a sit down consultation.  Oops...there I go assuming again. 

"Here's a robe.  Undress from the waist up," the young, perky-boobed, assistant says matter-of-factly as she ushers me into an examination room.  Before I could protest or explain to her I was only there for a "consultation", the door closed. Unlike all the previous doctor appointments I had, all the women working in this office were gorgeous,
tall, thin, made-up, and just a little scary.  This was a world I never thought I would enter.  The robe is even a nice green fabric with the company's logo embroidered on it...like a spa...weird.  So, I wait for the surgeon, who is rated one of the top plastic surgeons in Wisconsin.  

Dr. Creepy, as I have since dubbed my plastic surgeon, whisks in and immediately gets to things, describing the several different ways to recreate a breast.  I won't get too detailed, but suffice it to say, it can be a very complicated procedure with muscles taken from other parts of the body...the stomach or back....or...oops, forgot I said I wouldn't get too detailed.  To make recommendations, the surgeon must measure me and the girls (my boobies).  

Now, talk about awkward.  I didn't know there were so many ways to measure a
breast.  In discussion, the doc at one point said, "Well, when I am dealing with
such large, droopy breasts like these..." I stopped him.  "Whooaaa," I exclaimed
with my hand up, half laughing, "Now, Dr. S, is that a medical term?"  Stunned, he clearly became embarrassed at his own detachment and ever so offensive remark.  At that point, the meeting took a much more comfortable turn and far less officious. 

I noticed he had his degree from USC on the wall, so we were able to discuss California as he continued to measure my breasts with a device that looked vaguely like a protractor combined with a vice grip.  So, for an hour and a half I once again got fondled in "OH" so not the way I was wishing for at this age.  

At first I was excited that I might get to have my tummy tucked at the same time, but that procedure actually takes muscle from the stomach and is more dangerous, a longer surgery, and causes longer downtime...I'd rather opt for losing weight and doing sit-ups. 

Today, no more large, droopy breasts. But in the almost 2 years since my bi-lateral, I have often wondered why people choose to have boob jobs. The surgery and resulting complications have clearly made it something I wouldn't think anyone would willingly subject themselves to. What price beauty?