PHOMSITHI'S PLAYGROUND

(With a post title like that, it’s inevitable that I’ll misspell multiple words in this blog entry.)

(I just Googled “misspell or mispell” to be certain that my first misspelling wasn’t eleven words in.  It wasn’t.  I was right.)

(I nearly typed, “I was write.”)

In high school, I was a lot of things.  Most of them weren’t enviable.  That whole “valedictorian” title was nice, but at the same time it just cemented the “nerd” label I had inadvertently spent the previous decade working to create.  During my senior year, I was voted “Most Courteous,” “Most Dependable,” and “Most Studious.”  Had the categories existed, I would’ve also held the titles of “Most Boring,” “Most Likely to Win the Spelling Bee,” and “Most Socially Awkward.”  (Honestly, those are still the titles I’d hold if there was a Who’s Who of Adults competition.)

The ladies who counted the votes my senior year said that I had almost won another title, too, although they swore me to secrecy, as no one was supposed to know the final counts.  It’s been nineteen years, though, and that’s a pretty long time to keep a secret.  You’re hearing it here first:  I was one vote away from winning “Most Athletic.”  Because teenagers are mean.

Suzanne Moudy won the title of best athlete that year, and she deserved to.  She was a track star.  I, on the other hand, was asked by the track coach to drop the team in favor of helping little kids open milk cartons in the cafeteria after I threw a discus in the wrong direction and it nearly took off his nose.  Also, Suzanne Moudy was a whiz on the basketball court.  I played in grades five through seven and came away with a record of negative-one points — one free-throw for us and a two-point basket for the Plainview Panthers.

I did have one redeeming athletic moment in my childhood, though.  When I was twelve, my parents sent me to camp where I led my bunkhouse to a victory on the tug-of-war field.  That’s right, I slipped in the mud, and my weight created the momentum we needed to pull the flag across the line.  Hey, we won!  And I helped!  The fact that my heftiness and clumsiness were contributing factors to the trophy shouldn’t matter, right?

Clumsy, awkward, and overweight … some things never change.

You know one thing I did change recently, though?  This past Wednesday, I celebrated the one-year anniversary of giving up soda.  I still miss Coca-Cola, but the soft drink was my drug, and I dropped it.  Yay, me.  When I was bragging about it — and there was a lot of bragging about it — a friend asked me what my next project was.  Hmmm.  Hadn’t thought of doing anything else.  A few minutes later, the Today Show played a bit about a woman who committed to go to the gym every day for 100 days, and it was then that I had a plan:  100 Days of Exercise.

I sat my mini-me down with some scissors and construction paper, and she made me an awesome visual reminder of how many days I have to go.

We’ll cut a ring off every day.  (I’m trying not to let the fact that the rope is twenty-feet long make me sad.)  If I start this today, I’ll be finished on April 20.  There are a lot of reasons to remember April 20 — Hitler’s birthday, the whole 4:20 drug reference — but I think I’ll focus on the fact that it’s the day my nephew Will turns five.

And with that, I suppose I’ll go look for my sneakers.  I hear Richard Simmons calling my name (and Jillian Michaels laughing hysterically).

I made a lot of resolutions this year.  A whole lot.  I seldom make resolutions, and this year, I quite possibly made more than I’ve ever made before in all the years of my life added together.  Most of them are for other people, though, because I’m helpful like that.  I’ve put them into actual, made-up-in-my-head dialogue, too, so that they’re easy for others to just pick up and claim as their own.  Again, helpful.

For my twelve-year-old son:  “I swear that I’ll shower daily in 2014, even on weekends.  And sometimes I’ll hit the shower more than once a day, especially any days including itineraries with the words ‘football’ or ‘practice.’  I promise to shower because I like girls, and, according to my mom, girls like one kind of boys:  clean.”

For my five-year-old daughter:  “I won’t spank people I don’t know this year — no fellow gymnasts, no cashiers, no school administrators.  I can’t promise to keep my hands off other kindergartners in the lunch line, though, but I know them, so it’s okay to hit them when Mrs. Anne isn’t looking.”

For Kim Kardashian:  “I resolve to, like, practice more safer motorcycle safety and stuff.  Next time I jump on the bike with Kanye, I’ll wear an animal print helmet.”

For my bosses:  “We promise to award employee awesomeness with stipends this year.  Large stipends.  Lots of zeroes on those checks.”

For my husband:  “I swear I won’t wear my black sweater with navy blue pants again.  Also, I’ll change the toilet seat — the one I promised to change thirty-three months ago.  And I’ll stop growing long fingernails on my pinkies.  I don’t snort drugs, so this isn’t a cool look for me.”

For my animal-hoarding neighbors:  “No new animals in 2014.  Also, we plan to gather the goats, guineas, cats, dogs, horse, and assorted poultry that spend their days pooping on my sweet neighbors’ front lawn (and occasionally on their front porch) and give away whatever is socially unacceptable to kill and eat.  We’ll eat the others before Valentine’s Day.”

For Mother Nature:  “I vow to blanket the beautiful Arkansas River Valley in many inches of powdery white snowfall.”

For Minute Maid:  “We will release a calorie-free apple juice in 2014.”

For my husband (again, because I’m seldom organized):  “This year I’ll take my lovely wife on dates that don’t include the words ‘casino’ or ‘Sam’s Club.'”

And finally, for myself:  “This will be the year that I learn to embrace being an introvert — not because I think it’s cool, but because I’m thirty-six and still can’t start a conversation with a stranger.  Well, I can if I’m drunk, but I don’t think resolving to become an alcoholic is responsible parenting.”

I recently served on an interview panel at school.  My boss was across the table from me, peers surrounded me on either side, and at the front of the room a potential employee taught a short lesson.  There was a break in the conversation, but not for long.  My Brain isn’t a fan of silence, and it often whispers seductively to my Mouth, “Say something, honey.  It’ll calm your nerves and relax your guests.”  (It says this because Brain believes everyone in my presence is a guest.  The sad part of this admission is that it clearly reveals my unwarranted egotism.  On the plus side, though, I tend to be pleasant.)

Mouth listened.  It said aloud, “What was that film Dan Quayle made about global warming?”

No one said, “Do you mean Al Gore?”  No one said, “I don’t remember him making a movie, but Gore made An Inconvenient Truth.”  No one said, “Bless your little heart,” or even, “You’ve lost your ever-loving mind.”  They did tilt their heads and make sad eyes at me, though.  I felt like a dog who kept rolling over whenever her owner said, “Sit.”  I knew my people weren’t pleased, but I couldn’t figure out why.

Then fifteen minutes later, Brain remembered that Dan Quayle was the veep who thought potato was spelled with an “e.”

It was this incident that I contemplated on ten-minute drive home from work.  “Potatoe,” Brain thought.  “Like vegetables with appendages.  Or, rather, one appendage — just the ‘toe.’  If it was really spelled this way, I’d probably avoid it like I steer clear of carrot cake.  Vegetables don’t belong in baked goods.  Is zucchini cake a real thing, too?  Seems like it is — or maybe it’s zucchini bread.”  About five minutes out of town, I began to wonder if dates are a nut or a fruit; I can’t ever remember the answer to this.  I decided to turn on the radio to calm my Brain and because it was really quiet in the car.  Unusually quiet, really.  And then Brain whispered, “Turn around, sweetie.  You forgot to pick up the kids.”

But, hey, on the bright side, I was only halfway home when I remembered.   The day before I’d driven up to the mailbox, gathered the mail, and turned to hand the bundle to my son before I realized the kids were missing.  My misfiring Brain has cost me a bit of gas, and a lot of embarrassment, lately.

In bed that night, I came clean to my husband about forgetting the kids twice in as many days.  “I’m only thirty-seven, I said.  This shouldn’t be happening.”

He patted my hand and said, “Honey, you’re thirty-six.”