Dressing for Success Teenage-Style

Why did we all dress the way we did as teenagers? I think we should all answer that question realistically, assertively, and with no fear whatsoever. Also, we should answer this question, "Who were you thinking about when you got dressed in the morning?" For that matter, maybe we should all answer that question referencing who we dressed for THIS morning. Today, I dressed for me. My exercise clothing would not entice the oldest or infirm of men.

When we were teenagers, let's face it, we wanted
            a - That cute guy to notice us.
            b - Our girlfriends to admire our fashion sense.
            c - Not to embarrass ourselves or be noticed for the wrong reason, i.e.
                accidentally wearing elf-slippers to school, forgetting your bra,
                wearing too tight pants that split open to expose bum. (Yep - I did
                all of those.)
               
Wanting to be noticed and at the same time NOT noticed was a heavy burden to bear. So we did what all teenagers did and still do:  follow the popular fashion trends. Come on. Admit it. What did you wear or do with your hair that was completely ridiculous? I myself will freely admit that I wore short skirts, platform shoes, huge earrings, extreme eye makeup and bangs hanging in my eyes. Was I insane?

First of all, there is a difference between what I would have worn if I had free choice and an unlimited budget, and what I wore because that was what my parents bought. Also, if you went to public school, the dress code figured in - for me it was dresses only until my senior year, then only slacks. I wore a combination of what my mother bought on sale (Shopping with her is a whole nother story), hand-me-downs from my older cousin (aack), and stuff I borrowed from friends.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I think we should all post a picture that shows us at our teenage fashion worst. Won't we all feel better afterwards? As a warning, I should mention that one of my husband's students got a hold of a picture of him with long hair and mutton-chops. It is still popping up on the internet and at award banquets when least suspected.

Who didn't roll up their skirt at the waistband before going to school? Who didn't spackle on make-up to hide breakouts? Who didn't shave their legs several years before their mom said they could? Who didn't pierce their ears with an ice-cube and a needle the minute they went away to college? Maybe that was just me...

Don't we all wish we could go back to the past and inject ourselves at age 13 with some common sense and comfort-ability in our own skins like we have now? Or put thoughts in our minds like "High heels give you plantar-fascitis." "or "Don't date that guy when you are 18."  "For the love of everything holy, please wear sun-screen!! Especially when you go to Lake Mead!!"

We can't, and what's more, it wouldn't do any good. I probably wouldn't have listened to me either. Thank goodness I feel comfortable in my own skin today. Now, excuse me, but I have an appointment to have my skin resurfaced, hair dyed, and brows tinted.

Susanne Evans
(whew, signed my real name, feels great to purge.)

My Dad the Spiderman

What are some great memories that I have of my Dad? That was the request made to all of us children on the occasion of his 85th birthday. Here are a few that immediately spring to mind:
    -Trying to wow him with something I learned at school. I never could. He always knew more about it than anyone else. Quite possibly more than anyone ever wanted to know. On the plus side, he was my ace-in-the-hole when I had a paper to write.
    -Killing the copperhead snake in our backyard with a shovel. This from a man who would carefully catch spiders in our house and take them outside (so they could live to breed another day), while saying, "Spiders are our friends." So I was impressed as well as a little bit traumatized. Sadly I did not inherit this gene. I kill all insect interlopers with no compunction.
     -Hearing his car drive up and turning the TV off, praying the little circle of light on the screen would go out before he came in the room and fanning the bulbs in the back so he wouldn't feel the warmth and know that we had been losing brain cells watching "The Man From Uncle" or "Get Smart."
     -Traveling with Dad, who transformed into "Vacation-man" as soon as we headed down the driveway. Armed with maps carefully plotted out during the year, he gleefully hit as many points of historical and geographical interest as possible that happened to intersect our route. Desperately trying to wake us up as we passed over bridges and landmarks. Singing crazy songs and biting on his knuckles so he could drive through the night to save money. I think traveling was when he was the happiest. That and:
      -Christmas. He was always jolly at Christmas time. A right jolly old elf. He always believed in Santa, and so we did too. My favorite Christmas was the year that just when we thought there were no more presents, someone found a little plastic Santa boot filled with baby items. That's how it was announced that my sister Linda was on the way. Best Christmas present anyone ever got! I think he had something to do with that one too.
     -In more recent years, I have admired his loyalty and tenderness to Mom during her illness, his dedication to gaining knowledge, his efforts to stay healthy, his transformation into a patient man, and his  willingness to support Susan in her projects and do homemaking chores. The latter is probably the most mind-boggling to me.
    -Last but not least,  I'm pretty sure he was entering 5Ks up into his 70's.  Because of that, I can't quit just yet. And here's a picture to prove it. 


His Favorite Oldest Daughter Susanne (not Susan or Suzanne) (last name "Black Evans," not "Evans Black."  When a man's head is stuffed with so many facts, he can't be expected to remember the details.

   

Stretching the 5K into a 6K

      Last weekend I entered a 5K with my two daughters. None of us were in great shape for it, but we were determined to do it anyway. Also, we paid the entry fee and wanted our money's worth. Right? We got it.
      My youngest daughter, whom I shall call "Belle" did not show up at all.  I picked up my other daughter,"Carrie", and we got there early. TOO early it turns out. This must be why my mother tried to teach us to always arrive with no minutes to spare.
      While we are pinning on our numbers, fiddling with my IPOD shuffle, worrying/grousing about Belle, they announce the starting of the race. Aaack! They've changed the race time to 10 minutes earlier! My shuffle won't work!! Stupid thing (or is it me?)!!! Now I have a worthless thing on my arm, and worthless ear phones, and no where to put them but in my sports bra (luckily there was plenty of room). We hustle over to the sign that shows our pace and assess the competition. We self-righteously notice that we are in better physical condition than the fat lady and the old guy, and immediately feel better. The horn signals the start. We cross the starting line feeling pretty cool.
     Carrie and I talk and laugh. We are jogging! We are in the cool race with our cool shirts on! People are cheering us! Then we come to the place where I thought the course turns left. Bummer! Apparently we are running over the hill that goes over the train tracks, and THEN turning left. Ugh. Ok. We tackle the hill. Did it! Booyah! Feeling kind of awesome now! And then.... hmmm....the racers are still heading south. No turning left of any kind. I begin to jog up to people and nonchalantly say (as nonchalantly as one can who is already wheezing), "This is the 5K, right?" "Guy one" looks at me like I have committed a serious breach of race etiquette, and says, "I entered the Half-Marathon." Whoo! Umm....I guess we all started together? I ask a large woman who is already walking, and she says the same thing, albeit without the glaring. She's too tired.      Up ahead I see to my dismay and mistake certainty, that the runners are turning right. This is definitely wrong. We are wrong. Yes, we are accidentally running in the Half-Marathon. Not only that, but "old guy" and "fat lady" are in better shape than we are.
      We do what anyone would do in this situation. We stop running, go into the Wendy's and use the bathroom.
      Feeling much better now, it's time for decision-making. Do we retrace our steps back to the left turn and try to rejoin our race, do we try to stay with the one we're in, or do we go back to the "race party" area and get the free breakfast and massages? Carrie is advocating the latter. I think I should finish the race, but I want her to talk me out of it. To win the argument, I meanly suggest that she cannot count this as one of her goals (to run three 5K's this year) if she doesn't finish the course. I win! And I lose. We head back to the missed left turn. I'm already pooped.
      Walking back, we see the 5K'ers up ahead, all turning left like I thought, in front of the hill. We try a shortcut to avoid having to go over the hill again. After trying two different directions, and seeing that homeless people do, in fact, live under the bridge, we realize that over the hill we must go. By the time we get to the turn-off, everyone has left us in the dust. Everyone. We can't even see a single person except the army-guy-wearing-camo's race official that is protecting the cones and pointing left so we won't accidentally go over the hill. Which we already did. As we ran by a mile behind everyone else, I said to him, "Don't ask." He looks a little frightened.
      OK, we're running again. We make a few jokes, which is our families method of dealing with our own ineptitude. We discuss Belle again. We stop talking. We can't breath. Laughing has lost us precious air molecules. We are running by the cemetery. I secretly envy the people resting peacefully who no longer feel compelled to run 5K's. Carrie says she can't run anymore. I weakly suggest we make it to the corner where we take the next left turn . We think we can. Besides, the cemetery inspires us. We can beat them at least.
      We make it to the corner. I triumphantly hit the cone with my hand! We did it! We can feel good about ourselves! We turn left. We....wait! We see two obese people in the race lane. They are walking. They can't be in the 5K.....or CAN they? We look at each other. We----can----take----them!!! We can pass them by walking fast! The competitive juices start flowing. We are back in the game! Half way there, Carrie starts to run. I join her. Wohoo! We pass them. They make a feeble attempt to run as we hurl by, but they can't touch this! After we put a little distance between us, we think we will walk some more. But then we see a woman with a 3 year old! We can't be beaten by a toddler can we? NO! We keep running. As we pass her we see that she is 7-8 months pregnant. We feel good about our decision. Up ahead we see more walkers. The die is cast. We must, in fact, pass as many of them as we can. Again, because we must. When you don't have the muscle or the lung power to do something, pure meanness will suffice. One female walking group we approached started to run as soon as we got there. "Oh no you didn't!", I said using the vernacular of the cool crowd. They laughed and said we had inspired them.  I smiled encouragingly.  "Rats!", I secretly thought.  They gave up before we did though, because we have that gene. The one that makes us try to win when we've got nothing left.
      Finally we see the big blue arch that signals the finish line. "Yea" I think. I also think, "I hope Carrie slows down to a walk now." I am dying. There's no one else between us and the finish, and the people behind can't catch us. Our chip times are screwed up and we can't even be recorded on the time board. What does Carrie do? She starts her kick! What we professional joggers like to call that "burst of speed" that we saved for the end. Can you believe her? Who raised her???? I did what any mother would do. I pulled my "burst of speed" out of my.....somewhere impolite.  Chu chu chu chu chu chu chu chu..... I can almost hear the sound from "Chariots of Fire". Oh yeah.....I beat her! HA! I am 30 years older than her!  I think there was a good lesson in there somewhere for her. We mom's do what we can.
         Also, Belle? If you're reading this, we beat you too.