Let it Go

Too much work, too many tasks, too many things to keep in check.  Obligations, deadlines, stressors, and drama, albeit some imagined and others real.  Sound familiar? 

“Let it go, let it go
Can't hold back anymore
Let it go, let it go
Turn away and slam the door”

Yep, a day at the beach is a good way to let it all go.  I feel better already.

Now the reality of getting out the freakin’ door, much less slamming it, is upon me.  Medication or Bandaids to cover the angry, raw exzema outbreak on my daughter leg before it hits the bacteria-laden waters of Lake Michigan?  Will the peanut butter sandwiches get smashed in the flimsy lunch bag once it gets jammed into the wire bike basket for the couple-mile bike ride to the beach in the heat?  And of course, the age-old good cop/bad mom debate of whether I can justify REALLY letting it go and finding room for the sole cider beer that’s been chillin’ in the fridge for the past few days as a companion for the PB&J and butterscotch cookies.  Realizing I’m just making things harder than they need to be by even giving the Woodchuck tagalong a second thought in regards to propriety,  my 5-year-old and I hit it into the sunshine. 

The fact that an hour and a half has escaped between idea conception and clicking on the bike helmets is neither here nor there.  But when the toe jam from the flip flop I’m wearing separates from the shoe’s base, causing me to lose my balance when I hopped down from my bike at a Lake Shore Drive Intersection, and roll my bike, as well as the attached ½ bike where my daughter was perched, proud as a peacock, was another story.

“The wind is howling
Like this swirling storm inside
Couldn't keep it in
Heaven knows I've tried.”

Dammit!  Is my daughter OK?  Check.  Did we fall into the street?  Nope.  The bike’s still in tact, but the day school field-trippers on the lakefront sure got their laugh for the day.

Back on the bike, pedaling the last few blocks to the sandy getaway, my almost-kindergartener tells me she was embarrassed when we fell. 

“Let it go,” I tell her.  “Do you even know what that word means?”

Finally, we see the beckoning baby blue sky meeting the deep azul of the very active lakefront,  and troubles are forgotten.  Get.  There.  Now.

Happy as a clam, plopped in the middle of a striped beach towel, shielding the sandwiches in our hands from the grit of the sand being blown by the wind, I’m confronted with the obvious.

“Mom, will you swim with me?”

I hadn’t thought of that today, on the first beach trip of the season, with the thermometer barely hitting 80 degrees and the extreme warnings from friends (and meteorologists) ringing in my ears about the cold water temps this year due to the extreme winter be just crawled out of, and how we won’t be able to enjoy the summer.  I looked at the goose bumps on my arms and then back at my daughter’s beaming face.

“Mom, please, it will be so fun…I can’t wait!”  

Begrudgingly, I walk to the edge of shore and dip one toe into the surf.  Death-defyingly frigid.  Then my child ran at full force into the lake, jumping over every wave and splashing me high and low along the way.  Oh for the love of Pete.

“And here I stand
And here I'll stay
Let it go, let it go
The cold never bothered me anyway”

After an hour in the sun and surf, the water actually felt warm.  We played, we paddle-balled, we wave-jumped, and we swam with full-body submersion for almost 2 hours.  It was by far, the best day ever.

“It's funny how some distance makes everything seem small
And the fears that once controlled me can't get to me at all.”


---Lyric quotes from “Let It Go” from Disney’s Frozen

Take This Bra and Shove It

“That’s as high as I can get them for you without surgery,” the expert fitter from the North Shore intimate apparel store offered me, in response to my concern that maybe the particular bra I had just huffed and puffed to get myself into, might not be offering my ta-ta’s the best lift that they deserve.

Huh?

“Maybe I should buy this one,” I thought to myself, since it fit the best of the five garments I had tried on over the last hour, naked from the waist up alongside Gabby, the matronly salesperson sharing the very close-quartered dressing room with me, who had just revealed to me that she had just turned 25.

As if she was reading my mind and trying to convince me, Gabby nodded her head in agreement.

But no matter how I tried to resonate with the purchase, the truth is that the $80 old-school brassiere she was suggesting didn’t do my boobs any favors.  The year-old, black over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder I’d walked in wearing, held them at attention a good inch higher than the bland beige contraption she’d had to finally hook for me because my own alligator arms couldn’t reach the 4th row of hooks across my back.

With deflated expectations, I left the dressing room and decided to order the ‘best option’ according to ‘as good as it’s gonna get Gabby,’ in my signature black before leaving the store.  The store had come highly recommended by numerous girlfriends who’d purchased bras for their own or other people’s weddings.  It was ‘the place to go’ in Chicagoland to buy the perfect underclothing for “the girls.” 

Yet I knew I could do better.  Nordstrom had never done me wrong.  I would go there.  They would help me find the perfect bra to wear under my own wedding dress.

After giving birth to my first child ten years ago, I remember walking into the intimates section of my local Nordstrom, where after explaining my plight of babies and breastfeeding and needing a new bra to help restore my puppies to their original height, the fitting specialist asked me, “Honey, are you even wearing a bra right now?”

I wasn’t offended or hurt by her words, but grateful for the acknowledgement that I needed help and confident that I was in the right place to get what I needed.  Within 20 minutes, I was out the door, $60 lighter in the pocket, and happy as a pig in shit because the big headlights that have not allowed me to leave the house without a harness since grade school, were shining straight ahead, and it make me feel good about my body.  I’ve actually felt good about my body image ever since that life-changing day.

I’ve gained, lost, and redistributed weight over the years, but I always believe in keeping the knockers up.  That one thing allows my clothes to fit better, my posture to more easily stay in line, and my self-image to stay positive.  So off to Nordstrom I strode yet again, to put Gabby to the test.  Within 25 minutes, I had compared and contrasted 10 other pieces of lingerie, at the suggestion of the perky and efficient salesperson, against the one Gabby had been trying to bully me into, and I walked out of the store confident yet again in my ability to project to the back row, with a few new pieces of underwire.

Happily, I called Gabby back and cancelled the bra order.  She wasn’t surprised.  Her voice told me she expected I’d have found a better selection and a better fit at Nordstrom.  Maybe that’s why she used the surgery comment to shame me into buying ‘the best option’ from her.  In any event, it just goes to show you that sometimes you should just stick with what you know, and I’m here to tell you I can definitely rise to the occasion without the need for breast surgery, at least for the time being.