Natalie Whatley

I feel like I’m losing my mind. Bouts of irritability are on the verge of being full-blown two-year-old tantrums, and I’m suffering from CRS (can’t remember stuff). Jeff attributes my condition to older age. While I am turning 38 today, (Yes, I’m aware it’s Pearl Harbor Day… and, yes, I’ve been told I have an uncanny knack for waking sleeping giants.) I don’t think it has anything to do with my current afflictions.

I contend that external stimuli in the form of a home, three children, a dog, and a cat (Shadow is doing well; he’s currently convalescing from having his tomcat status removed.) combined with the holiday season is enough to send anyone on the hunt for some spiked egg nog, or a hot tottie.  Can I have both? December is to blame for my recent scatter-brained ways.

A mere glance at the calendar causes me shortness of breath and heart palpitations. (No, it’s not one of THOSE calendars; it’s a plain run-of-the-mill planner.) Not to brag, but my social calendar is quite full.  I was stressed over it for about a nanosecond before I realized how fortunate I am to have so many wonderful people in my life. Plus, free meals at nice places are involved. My sanity would be called into question if I declined.     

The stress was derived mostly from the fact that I don’t have a thing to wear to all these events. (We’ll pause for a moment to let the men folk complete their mass eye-roll.) I set out to remedy my fashion crisis and came home with some comfy pajamas and matching slippers. Give or take a few, I tried on about 5,000 ensembles and decided clothing designers and retailers have lost touch with reality.  How could such a thing happen in this age of focus groups and market research?

I bumped into Yvonne McMullen and Susan Freeman in a local store. They, too, were searching out attire for holiday events and gatherings. We held our own brief assessment of the market’s current offerings: Everything looks like maternity clothes! That’s swell if you’re expecting, but for those of us who aren’t … After having three children, my body has pretty much entered a perpetual state of looking about five months pregnant. Note to clothiers: Most women look for clothing that detracts from that area, or at the very least throws some sort of camouflage around it. I’m not looking to show off my belly! Ugh!

I have some suggestions for boosting apparel sales, and I hope someone in charge of something is paying attention. For starters, smoke and mirrors are as American as apple pie. Dressing rooms have mirrors; the apple pie is glued to my thighs. Where’s the smoke? If I can’t have smoke, could you please do womankind a huge favor?  Dim the lights and try some bulbs a little less harsh than fluorescent. The most flawless among us don’t look good in that lighting.

And, for heaven’s sake, get rid of the three-way mirrors! Had the good Lord intended for me to view my own backside, He would have placed my eyes in a different location or designed the human neck differently.  Hint to clothing stores: You’d sell more if I were able to at least parade around the dressing area thinking I looked far better than I really did. Merchandise wouldn’t be returned because my lights at home are dim, and I avoid cleaning the mirrors to attain that soft, filtered look only given to magazine cover models.  You’re missing out on sales, and labor costs for mirror cleaning could be saved.

Somehow, I’ll make it through the coming weeks. If a certain someone who I know is reading doesn’t raid my house and take all the hot tottie fixings, I’ll make myself a batch and hit the town wearing my new microfiber plush pajamas and matching slippers. I can get away with it…I’m turning 83 today.

Given the stress levels recently endured by the good people of this region, I laughed out loud when I came across “One minute to calm: 20 ways to beat stress in 60 seconds or less” by Denise Schipani.  I suppose there are people who can chill out in a matter of seconds.  I’m not one of them – been told a time (or maybe two) that I’m high-strung.  As life is put back together post Ike, my version would read more like “One minute to launch: 20 ways to get fired up over nothing and lift off in 60 seconds or less”.  The countdown is reaching its final moments.

It was almost effortless just after the passing of the storm to be calm and patient with those around me. While reflecting on that thought, I realized what was different:  I was literally unplugged (no electricity) from the world. My immediate surroundings provided the only sensory input available to me.  Now that we’re plugged in again and the pace of returning to normal (not that I really have a firm grasp on exactly what that is) has increased, I’m finding myself in a rather testy state. Small annoyances are acting as heated rocket fuel on the brink of ignition.

Out of desperation, and for the sake of those around me, I’m going to explore some of what Ms. Schipani suggested. However, upon further examination it becomes clear that sixty seconds of anything isn’t likely to bring back my usually sunny disposition. If I could stand to watch television for any length of time, I’m sure a pharmaceutical cure would advertise itself, but then I’d have a host of new complaints in the form of its side-effects. Oh well, I’ve got nothing to lose save a bad attitude.  I’ll share a few of my favorites.

Laughter is the best medicine. One sure way to achieve it, according to Schipani, is to put marshmallow Peeps (you know, the candy we used to see only around Easter, but are now mass-marketed for every known, and some unknown holidays) in the microwave and watch them puff up. At first glance, I was not amused. Then I recalled seeing an ad for personalized M&M candies. Did you know you can now not only have a tiny message printed on them, but also a photo?  I figure if the Peeps can be fashioned to resemble those causing my blood-pressure to rise, that method would absolutely be therapeutic.

The article also advises indulging in some dark chocolate as it contains a calming compound and mild stimulant. Then, I should “belly-breathe” – focus all my attention and irritating thoughts to my belly. First of all, there isn’t enough chocolate readily available in the United States to calm my frayed nerves. Secondly, if I ate all I could stand, and then had to concentrate on the area of new and profound girth I gained while trying to lose frustration via chocolate, I’d be doubly stressed. Those simply will not work.

Someone I consider a great friend gave some sage advice this week in regards to just one of the annoyances vying to send me into orbit: be patient.  It’s something I’m not very good at, but oddly enough it applies to every single thing getting my proverbial goat these days.  The agitators can have the goat; I prefer travelling with much better company.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley

There’s photographic evidence that I recently attended what has become an annual event for our family. I’ve blocked the memory from my stream of consciousness because my psyche needed time to heal.

Each June I have three days that are far more stressful in my imagination than the actual happenings, but I’m fairly certain the dread alone conjures up a case of post-traumatic-stress disorder. The nightmares of seeing red lipstick smeared on an expensive white costume are starting to decrease, and I’m hoping for a full recovery.

For those wondering what could possibly be so awful, I offer two words: dance recital. I know it sounds like fun, and I’m certain if you’re a member of the audience it’s a sight to behold. What’s not to love about tiny little dancers wearing tutus, and the deer-in-the-headlights look they get when executing that very first performance?

Because I’ve now attended for the fifth year, I know the dancers, instructors, and stage crew work very hard over many months to make it all come together.  I’ve also learned that chaos, in the form of bouncy little girls, can be organized, but I’m exhausted after doing it.  My involvement is actually pretty small when looking at the big picture, but rehearsal days followed by the real deal threaten my sanity each and every year.

A portion of the stress derives from the fact that it’s a special day in my daughter’s life, and I feel a need to adhere to some standard of dress decorum. More plainly put, I want to look nice too, and it’s no small feat while preparing a young dancer for the rigors of the stage lights. On a really good day, I can leave the house looking semi put-together, with hair done and make-up to boot – not so easily achieved when I have another female to gussy.  

When I look back at photos from the day, I’m not sure why I didn’t just get out of bed and go, because that’s exactly how I look at the end of the day. The black eyes have dual origins – I’ve not had much sleep, and my daughter elbowed me in the face as we attempted to put tights on sweaty legs.

One great thing about recital is the camaraderie amongst all the moms in the dressing area. Need a bobby pin, fake eyelash glue, steady hand who can put red lipstick on tiny lips?  There’s someone within reach who’s willing to help, or just has a bag of “stuff” that was brought “just in case”.

The best part is when it’s all over. At that point I’m running on sheer adrenalin and a stick of sugar-free gum, but the after-glow is unmistakable.  It’s a great moment, as I’m as far away from the next one as I can be. A sizeable smile replaces my haggard look.   

I don’t mean to complain, and of course I know how incredibly blessed I am to have a healthy little girl up on the stage. I hope she has a daughter some day, and I get to sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. I’ll be there to provide the photographic evidence that she did indeed attend her daughter’s recital.

© 2008 Natalie Whatley