I Wear Many Hats

On a recent trip to Walt Disney World, I had fun trying on many of the fun hats. My teenaged daughter rolled her eyes, but I had fun anyway. The truth is, though, that I really DO wear many hats.

In my personal life I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, friend, niece, stepmom, grandma, and reluctant dog groomer.

Professionally, I am a lawyer. I am an optician.

As a self-employed lawyer married to a self-employed eye doctor, sometimes I am a medical biller. I am an adviser, an advocate, sometimes a photocopying maniac, file clerk, janitor, courier, and receptionist.

I wear many hats.

Some of them are more elegant than others.

Some of them fit more comfortably than others.

Some of them make people a little uncomfortable.

When we wear many hats, it’s important to recognize that sometimes we put on the police hat when someone really wants the chef hat, or the nurse hat. Having been taught to think like a lawyer, I approach problems differently than many people. When I hear someone else talking about their problem, my first inclination is to try to help them solve it, or at least to give them some idea of what they may be facing. Sometimes that’s not the hat they need to see.

I have a friend who is a psychologist. She told a story, once, about going to see her sister, who was having a bad day. My friend listened to her sister rant about the bad day. Before deciding what to say next, she paused. “What do you need from me today?” she asked. “Do you want to know what I think about what happened? Do you want me to tell you what I think that you should do? Do you want me to hug you and tell you that everything is all right? Do you want me to tell you that you’re right and they are wrong?”

Tell me what you need.

Tell me what hat you need me to wear.

That’s the problem when you have too many hats! It’s difficult to decide which one to wear. One goes with your outfit, but it’s too dressy. One will keep the sun out of your eyes, but it clashes with your shoes.

My lawyer hat is not warm and fuzzy. I’ve spoiled a couple of budding friendships by bluntly delivering my legal synopsis of a situation when really all that person wanted was for me to listen to them.

When a potential client comes to see me, they get “the talk,” in which I explain that my role as their lawyer means that thy may not like what I have to say. It’s my job to be realistic and tell them their options and the consequences. If they want someone to make them feel good about themselves and their situation, they need to go see my friend the psychologist.

I’m getting better at keeping track of my hats and wearing the right one. It’s not always easy wearing many hats.

The Bus of Shame (or, The Saddest Ride at Walt Disney World!)

Posted by BecomingBetty

Last Sunday, I had the great pleasure of participating in RunDisney’s Princess Half Marathon at Walt Disney World Resort. I lined up at 4:30 a.m. in a parking lot at Epcot Center with about 15,000 of my fellow runners for the happiest half marathon on the plant.

On the long walk to Corral “N,” we passed a large truck with the label “mass casualty response unit.” This was more than a little disconcerting. Still, although the air was chilly and I hadn’t had my coffee, I lined up and excitedly waited for the first group to be released at 5:30 a.m. As you may have gathered, it takes some time to release nearly 15,000 runners on a course. Consequently, I was still waiting to begin my run for another hour. I spent that time reflecting on the journey that had brought me to where I was.

I thought back to the day in March 2014 when I took my first steps in several years on the treadmill. I was elated when I finished my first mile. Soon I traveled to a running store and purchased “real” running shoes and downloaded an handful of running apps. Although I often felt slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter, I kept going.

A few months later my lovely “bonus daughter” (also a runner), told me she was planning to run the Princess Half Marathon. Although I knew it was a lofty goal for me, I registered and began training. Over the course of 2014 and early 2015, I logged over 400 miles. Sometimes life got in the way, and between unexpected life events and illnesses, I missed out on several significant blocks of training. As the race date approached, I knew that I could go the distance, but my times were still slow, and I knew it was questionable whether I would be able to maintain the required minimum pace, although I was doing well on my training runs on the nice flat, climate-controlled indoor track.

I obsessively checked my training times, read blogs about the wicked “balloon ladies,” (the pace group for the 16 minute/mile). I crafted my tutu, packed my bags and felt moderately confident that I wouldn’t be “swept” and have to ride the “bus of shame” back to the finish line instead of running through the happiest finish line on earth.

By the time my corral was called, I was cold and my feet hurt from standing in one place. My timing app wasn’t working right, my glasses were fogged and smeared so I couldn’t read the screen anyhow, my earbuds were malfunctioning, and I had absolutely no clue what my pace was. I just knew it felt slow.

I had a blast running among other “princesses” (and a few princes) wearing tutus (the princes, too!). I pumped my fist as I ran by the speakers playing the theme from Rocky. I sang along to “Don’t Stop Believing” and I smiled my way into the Magic Kingdom. As I passed through the park, I remembered the long, long lines at the porta potties I’d passed, and I popped into a “real” bathroom. Still blissfully unaware of my pace, I readjusted my tutu, washed and dried my hands and popped open a packet of caffeinated jelly beans.

As I joined the pack of princesses, I heard the news – the balloon ladies had passed by. My trip to the bathroom had cost me precious minutes, and now I had to try to fight my way through the pack of princesses to catch up. I flew through Cinderella’s castle and as I exited the park again, I spotted the balloons waaaaay up ahead of me.

I tried my hardest to pick up the pace. The news filtered through the pack that we had until Mile 8 to catch up, or we would be swept – transported to the finish. I tried hard to weave through the other back of the pack princesses. I could see the balloons getting closer. We passed by several security people and I overheard one tell the other, “the race is over for these ones, whether they like it or not.” I passed by a woman sobbing loudly. I asked if she was okay, and she answered through tears that she was okay, just devastated that she wasn’t finishing.

I pushed harder even though I knew I was wearing myself out with 5 miles left to go. I could see Milepost 8, and I could see the balloons. As the balloons passed the mile marker, two large buses pulled across the road. Medics were there to help those who needed assistance, and we were asked to board the bus.

The driver told us each, “great job.” The ride back to Epcot seemed to take a very long time. There wasn’t a smile to be seen. We had been swept. We were on the vehicle that had been dubbed “The Bus of Shame” by numerous bloggers. My heart sunk. My Facebook was broadcasting my splits to my friends. I really thought I could do it. I had failed to reach my goal. I was sad.

As we exited the vehicle, some of the wonderful volunteers staffing the event met us with high fives and medals. Although we had not finished the 13.1 miles, they draped a shining medal around each of our necks. They showed us where to get our bananas, our drinks and our snack boxes.

I wandered over to the “real” finish line for a few minutes and watched the crowd cheer for those who were finishing. My heart sunk into my shoes, and I moped my way back to the bus that would return me to my hotel for a much needed shower.

I called my husband, and told him I’d only made it 8 miles. I posted on Facebook that I’d only made it 8 miles. I waited for my bonus daughter (who finished! Yay for her!!!) Then, I took a nap.

Naps fix almost everything – especially attitudes.

My high school friend, Lyle, posted one of my statuses from early 2014 on my wall – one where I was overjoyed that I was able to run for a handful of minutes without stopping. It was at that moment that I realized there was absolutely no shame in having been swept after 8 miles.

I thought back to my first 10K race in September. I finished dead last, but I was thrilled to have finished. That race was only 6.2 miles. My Disney run was 2 miles longer (more if you count the long hike to the corrals before it even began!)

Since I started running in March 2014, I’ve completed four 5K races and a 10K. Yesterday I finished my 500th mile. I’ve run on trails and tracks and through parking lots. I’ve had scores of wonderful experiences and only a handful of negatives. Best of all, I’ve lost over 70 pounds, I’ve regained the ability to physically do many things that I couldn’t dream of for a number of years, and I’ve made new friends and reconnected with old ones.

Although that bus ride was still the saddest ride at Walt Disney World, there is no “Bus of Shame.” Every back of the pack princess on that bus was someone who set a lofty goal and spent many hours training getting to mile 8. While I apologize to the runners who had to fight their way through the pack in order to pass me, I’m so glad that I tried. I’ll be back next year, and I may even wear a tiara.

Don’t Be Ashamed of Your Story

Posted by BecomingBetty

I didn’t come up with this title on my own. It hit me smack between my eyes first thing this morning as I reviewed my Facebook feed. I thank Kara Louisell for sharing it. Check out her FB page for lots of inspiration. https://www.facebook.com/karalouisell?fref=photo

I shared this image on my own Facebook feed this morning. I’ve made a lot of changes in my life in the past 10 months or so. As a result, I’ve shed a bunch of weight. I’ve run over 350 miles. I’ve learned new ways to deal with sadness. I’ve begun reaching out to others, learning to delegate, and being kinder to myself. I’ve chronicled those changes and shared them here and on my Facebook page along the way.

I’m not normally an attention-seeker. I’m a little bit uncomfortable being in the public eye. I like to work behind he scenes. I’m the person who doesn’t generally strike up a conversation, but I enjoy it immensely once given the opportunity to engage. I’m naturally quick to discount a compliment and I still don’t like the way I look. I’m my own worst critic.

I’ve become one of those annoying people who “checks in” at the gym on Facebook. My nike+ app tells my friends when I start a run and how far I go. I’ve posted pictures *eek* spandex, covered in sweat, painted up, covered in colored powder, and generally having fun while being less than necessarily “proper.”

A long-time friend posted something recently about people who stay the course without need for praise from others as opposed to people who do things half-way and seek applause. I pray that I’m not the person that friend had in mind. I share these changes because many have shared privately that I am inspiring them to change, too.

I am very uncomfortable being anyone’s inspiration. I know how fallible I am. I know how often I stray from my health diet and eat potato chips. I am very aware when I skip a workout to go shopping or watch TV. I’m imperfect. I’m still overweight. I mess up. I don’t FEEL very inspirational.

Perhaps that imperfection – the humanity – is what inspires? I have lost 75 pounds through sheer determination despite going through down spells, having injuries, and just feeling grumpy some days. I’m not a fitness model. I haven’t reached my goal weight. I finish last at most races that I run. My flaws are myriad – but my sincerity is real.

When people started telling me that I INSPIRE them, I wanted to tell them not to be absurd. But, just as I learned to accept a compliment graciously, I’m learning to accept that I have no right to tell another person what (or who) is “good enough” to inspire her.

My story is complicated and colorful. I’ve been through a lot of challenges, and despite it all I’ve managed to carry on. I’ve made decisions that I’m not proud of, but I am proud of where those decisions have brought me. Perhaps that’s why I have been given the gift of being able to inspire others.

I’ve made a decision not to be ashamed of my story. It’s mine to tell – all mine. It’s different from your story. Perhaps it will inspire you to change. Perhaps it will inspire you to block me on Facebook. I just write what I know.

A Clean Heart (and the Cone of Shame)

Posted by BecomingBetty

Once upon a time, I had a little cat and a little dog. They were sworn enemies. One day the little dog gave chase to the little cat and caught her. Little dog created two tiny punctures in the little cat’s side. We washed them and treated them with antibiotic. They scabbed over and nearly healed, but they must have begun to itch. Little cat ripped off the scabs and the little holes became a little bigger.

We cleaned them again and they began to heal. They were looking great when little cat once again ripped the scabs off and the holes became even larger. This happened once again, and the two holes became one large gaping wound. There was still no infection, but it was a scary looking wound. We took little cat to the vet and he said that he couldn’t stitch it because the risk of infection would be too great. Instead, he fitted her with the cone of shame.

The cone of shame worked its trick. She stopped picking at her wound, and the wound got smaller and smaller until it healed once and for all.

Yesterday I spent a lot of mental energy dwelling on something someone said to someone else that wasn’t even directed at me. My child brought home an illustration from class that I thought was inappropriate. I posted it on Facebook and garnered support from my friends and began to feel self-righteous. I presented my point of view in an email to the person who originated the distasteful example and went to my “zen den” to try to let it go.

The joy of sitting in a darkened room lit only by candles, listening to soft sounds and wrapped in the warm embrace of a soft blanket is that in the stillness, God can speak to our busy minds. Last night I had such an experience. As I watched the thoughts drift in and out of my mind, a bit of scripture turned into song came into view and stayed long enough to stick.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and renew a right spirit within me.

-Psalm 51:10

I did not dwell on that thought last night, but the subtle experience made its impression. My husband came to find me and we watched some television together and slept peacefully.

This morning I received an email in reply to my message. The person who used the example that upset me failed to understand where I was coming from. The peace I had found in my private sanctuary last night dissolved, and I experienced, once again, the sting of perceived rejection.

I got ready for work, leashed Jimi the Wonderdog and drove to the office. My office is in disarray right now. I’ve been trying to fit too many things into too little time while worrying about too many things. I realized that no meaningful work could happen until I took care of the piles and restored proper order.

As I tidied piles and washed dirty mugs, the psalm/song came back into my mind. Sometimes we need to take a moment to clean our heart so that we can get back to work, too. Holding onto resentment allows us to go back to it time after time, picking and picking until the wound becomes larger and larger. I asked God for help to forgive and forget and to renew a spirit of tolerance, kindness and forgiveness within my heart.

I really don’t want to wear the Cone of Shame.

Love and Light,

*Be*

Everybody has a story

Posted by BecomingBetty

I’ve never attended a twelve-step meeting, but I’m familiar with the one day at a time concept. I have often used it, or variations (one semester at a time, one month at a time…you get the idea) to deal with difficult or stressful events. I got through law school 16 weeks at a time. I told myself that I could do anything for 16 weeks, and having resolved to do so, I finished on schedule.

I started making some big changes in my life in March. There was no plan. I was afraid that I was going to die. I had a couple of scary medical events. I was hypertensive, morbidly obese, and full of excuses. With a thyroid disorder, a busted up leg, severe arthritis, COPD and likely close to type II diabetes, I was a mess and convinced that my sedentary lifestyle and obesity were beyond my control.

One day in February I was in a meeting in my conference room and the room began to get black around the edges while a ringing in my ears got louder and louder. I didn’t pass out. The event passed and I lived in far that it might repeat itself. Soon thereafter, I was walking through the grocery store with my husband when I broke into a cold sweat. I could feel my heart beating, and I couldn’t wait to get back home to crawl into bed and see if I lived until morning.

This pattern repeated itself a few times over the course of a few weeks. I did not seek medical attention because I was convinced that my physician would scold me about my weight. I had a gym membership that had been unused for at least 9 months. Several times I got dressed for the gym only to have a panic attack on the way there and scream at my husband until he drove me back home. I was convinced people would stare. I was convinced people would laugh. I was convinced that people would find me disgusting – and tell me so.

One day, I hit rock bottom. My health was scaring me. I was short-tempered, my family was bewildered, and I was depressed. I went to the doctor. He added a prescription for an anti-depressant to my list of meds and told me I needed to lose weight. I said I would (like I had each time I saw him over the many years before), and scheduled my follow up visit.

The next day, I decided it was time to “get busy living, or get busy dying.” I dusted off the treadmill (we won’t talk about the thickness of the dust layer) and took a step. I don’t remember how long it took me, but I walked a mile that first day. I went back the next day and tried jogging a little bit. I was thrilled when I was able to “sprint” 2.5 mph for 30 seconds. Day after day, I went back to the treadmill, and was amazed at the difference those 20, 30 or 40 minutes made in my attitude.

I began to share those little successes with my facebook friends. I found a iPhone app that tracked my runs. My feet starting hurting, and I asked my facebook friends to help me pick out a pair of running shoes. I received scores of comments and suggestions from runners and walkers who are scattered all over the country. Boosted by their well wishes, and filled with a sense that this time would be different, I entered a running store and plunked down $120 for my first pair of running shoes. On that day I posted a photo of my new kicks and decided “I am a runner.”

Having found the confidence to walk into a store for athletes without being met with scorn or laughter, I resolved to try the gym again. Armed with my new shoes, I made it through the door and through a circuit without anyone laughing, pointing, or (to my knowledge) posting a picture of my backside to their flickr account.

I have a hugely supportive circle of family and friends. They have “liked” and commented on my runs (which makes my phone cheer), they have put up with me posting photos of myself in spandex, shining with sweat and holding up a medal. I began posting for accountability’s sake, and along the way I have received many messages telling me to keep posting because I have inspired my friends to make changes in their own lives.

As I share my story, those friends keep telling me to write a book. I love the idea, but didn’t know where to begin. I finally know where the book is coming from. I am a survivor. I am a fighter. I am a listener. I am changing my life one day at a time, one step at a time, and one mile at a time.

My name is Betty. This is my story. It’s still being played out. I want to help you become the person you were meant to be. I can’t tell you how to do it, but I can tell you how I’m going about it, and perhaps you will find inspiration to do the same.

Every story has to have a beginning. You may see parts of mine in flashback, but for now, we’ll start here: “Once upon a time there was an unhappy woman who was scared of life. She was sick, and tired, and didn’t know where to turn. This is the story of how she took her life back.”

Cutthroat Chopped! – Family Dinner Edition

Posted by BecomingBetty

My husband and I are fans of cooking competition shows. We especially enjoy Chopped! and Cutthroat Kitchen on food network.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concepts, on Chopped!, a panel of contestants are given a basket with several mystery ingredients, each of which much be used in a dish that they have 20-30 minutes to create. They also have use of a pantry stocked with beautiful produce, spices, and staples.

Cutthroat Kitchen works much the same way, but instead of ingredients in a basket, the contestants are assigned a dish and given 60 seconds in the pantry to shop for ingredients. After they have selected their items, the other contestants bid on opportunities to sabotage them with handicaps, such as stealing ingredients or cooking with one hand tied behind their back.

The food is rated by chefs, and contestants are eliminated or allowed to progress to the next round and the winners are rewarded with cash.

My household consists of my husband and I and two boys (26 and 14) and a girl (18). As busy as we all are with activities, work, etc., we still try to have a sit-down family dinner at least 3-4 times per week. As the best cook and the mom, preparing that dinner nearly always falls to me.

Some days dinner prep at my house feels like a combination of these two shows.

The rules of the Cutthroat Chopped! are simple:

Get dinner on the table with ingredients on hand in the pantry (fridge/freezer/cupboard)
You must serve an entree that everyone will eat
You must not use processed foods in preparation
You have 60 – 90 minutes to accomplish this task
Incorporation of kale is an automatic loss

Your sabotages are:

Your dish must be gluten and dairy free
There is a distinct possibility that one of more of the ingredients that were in your refrigerator yesterday may be missing or unusable
The judges are picky eaters, so no shellfish, mushrooms, big pieces of onions, olives, big pieces of tomatoes or vegetables other than carrots, peas or corn may be used
Occasionally there may be a guest judge (a grandchild or friend) with their own dietary sensitivities or dislikes – these must also be accommodated
You have to fit your workout (and a shower!) in during this 60-90 minutes
One of the judges will be at boy scouts, work, or track practice. You must anticipate the judge’s arrival time so that everyone can eat at once and the kitchen can be clean before bedtime.

Bonus points are awarded for

accommodating all judges’ preferences
correctly anticipating the missing judge’s arrival time +/- 10 minutes
any meal involving beef

The (nightly) competition begins. Of course, since I didn’t plan ahead, my proteins are all frozen. I get them in the microwave to thaw, change into my workout gear, and run to the treadmill for my warm-up. Next, I prep the meal and get back on the treadmill while it bakes, stews or braises. Exhausted, I shower, serve dinner and wait for the judges to comment while making witty dinner conversation and asking the judges about their day.

The judges critique the flavor, texture and presentation. After the judges have all commented, the head judge gives the meal a rating.

The rating system is simple:

I would eat this at least once per week (this is reserved for roasted chicken thighs and baked tilapia)
I would eat this at least once per month
This was not a hit, but you may prepare it occasionally if you enjoyed it
Shrimp and grits territory (my family hates shrimp and grits). This is the worst rating in our system and involves ordering pizza or reheating leftovers so nobody goes hungry.

The prize? I am invited back to the next round to do it all over again, and I never have to do the dishes or clean the kitchen. Since I hate kitchen cleaning, this is a win-win. I am a survivor.

Author’s note: My judges knew I was writing this post and have blessed the fact that I am poking fun at them. They mean the world to me.

justwritewhatyouknowdotcom

humor

I Wear Many Hats

The Bus of Shame (or, The Saddest Ride at Walt Disney World!)

Don’t Be Ashamed of Your Story

A Clean Heart (and the Cone of Shame)

Everybody has a story

Cutthroat Chopped! – Family Dinner Edition