There are times in your life that the Universe decides to throw you into situations that leave you asking the “What Ifs”; What if I hadn’t moved to that city? What if I hadn’t said “Yes” or “No”.  What if I just ignored the rules or broke them, or, better yet, rewrote them?  In each of these scenarios, one enters a sort of dream (or nightmare) state, picturing what life would be like - followed immediately by a stiff-ass drink because you know your shit would be up some creek, and whether or not you had a paddle would be debatable. 
​
Being a staunch realist, only fraudulently living with a rose-colored optimist mindset, my brain thinks consequence first.  I naturally contemplate the worst possible outcome, assume it will be, and then act presently surprised when it doesn’t happen.  One might call that a pessimist…but in all truth, it seems to be to be as real as it gets.  What is the worse that could happen, and then dial it back about 73% and that is what you get. “So”, I ask myself applying a semi-neurotic sense of logic to the equation, “if only 27% of the worst will happen, why not just revive the rebel within me and break the rules”?  

Those of you that know me, know I push limits, boundaries, filters and every other possible proverbial line in the sand that presents itself, to its outer most limits…but I never violate the really important shit.  And why not?  Why don’t I act on impulse, explore the taboo, walk on the wild side?  Simple – plain, unadulterated guilt.  Sadly, thanks to the dominerring efforts of the Roman Catholic Church, guilt has overpowered my thoughts for the better part of my life.

Side note, I can't tell you how much that pisses me off to no end. Those lunatics have committed all kinds of fucked-up for centuries with little or no remorse and nobody seems to do damn thing about it, so why should I sit in judgement?  But that’s another rant for another time.
​
It’s kind of pathetic really - the guilt I would feel for breaking the rules would eat me up so much, it would outweigh any temporary pleasure I might get out of breaking said rule in the first place.  Which again, just irritates the fuck out of me because sometimes I REALLY REALLY want to bust out. But seeing as I am such a terrible lair, I can’t even succeed at lying to myself, let alone the rest of the world, so why bother? 
All actions have a subsequent reaction – a consequence for their actuality. Good or bad, everything has a consequence.  Some far greater than others, but all shape your life and existence as you know it.

That being said, this rule following June Cleaver shit is a whole new concept for me.  If you would have asked me 10 years ago to stop whatever I was doing to drop a bunch of acid and run naked through the neighborhoods of Black Rock City, I wouldn’t have hesitated.  Unprotected sex, reckless driving, cheating on boyfriends, jumping out of planes, bar fights (I am more of a screamer than a puncher, just so you know) how I survived some of my youthful mistakes is beyond me.  My Guardian Angels deserve a hell of a pension for keeping me alive.

Do I sometimes miss those days? Sure, I do.  Do I occasionally wish that I could just step out of Mommy/Wife mode, run away and reenact a scene out of Scarface – absolutely.  But would I? Probably not. Why?  Because even though that party girl will always be inside me, what’s at stake on the outside isn’t worth the risk anymore.  I am so blessed in my life, I have so much to be grateful for - I would be a fucking IDIOT to jeopardize it.  And honestly, I wouldn’t ever want to be the person that jeopardizes it for anyone else I care about either.
​
So, when the Universe decides to play its sick ass little games - testing you, tempting you, challenging your will, you have two choices – succumb or succeed.  You can choose your own adventure on this one, but do so wisely after heavily weighing all that you have to gain or lose.  For me, as damaging and disappointing and heartbreaking as it is sometimes, I am just too Type A to succumb.  At the end of the day, the winner takes it all – and I refuse to be a loser. 

At 5:30 am on Tuesday and Thursday and 7:00 am on Saturdays, I drag my Mommy ass out of bed and head to a studio exercise called Lagree.  The best way to explain it  - 45 minutes of voluntary masochistic torture that has you sweating so much, you literally rain perspiration - and honestly, it isn't perspiration, it's like pig level, took too much Molly dance in the desert naked type sweat.  The thing it...everyone who does it gets addicted  - and we all keep going back for more...week after week, month after month, year after year.

TheFighter introduced me to it a few years ago (I love and hate her for that), and I turned OverAchiever onto it a couple years ago. (Side note, if you don't know those references, check out the "PowerChicks" post from 4/24/18).  Anyway, it's gnarly and I hate my life the entire 45 minutes because no matter how long you have done it,  it absolutely never gets easier. As a slightly competitive control freak, that pisses me off.  But then, when I walk out the door, with my hair soaking wet, my legs giving out on me and my arms feeling like I should amputate them for relief,  I feel like a fucking bad ass.  And for a Mom of 40 - we need that every once in a while.

What's even more cool, is at the location and class times I go, everyone in there is a working Mom (with human and/or fur babies) and NONE of us - with the exception of a few (OverAchiever being one of them) is a size 0.  We challenge each other, push each other and then all collapse together at the end - feeling STUPID STRONG and realizing that we just KILLED THAT SHIT. 

Recently, however, the owners of our studio opened a new location in a super hipster part of Orange County.  Everyone who goes to that location is like 25 with long blonde extensions which for some reason they don't need to put into a pony-tail, has 2% body fat, does classes at like 10:00 am with their bestie and Farm to Table Kombucha and they must feel like they will die if they don't post on Instagram both walking into and out of a class.  For a while, it was fucking annoying.  In fact, even though that location has these incredible new machines that I wanted to try, I have never gone over there out of fear that my lack of filter would find me screaming at one of the little WooWoo girls, only to get myself arrested for beating them over the head with their glittered YETI bottle.

But something amazing happened today at 7:00 am.  There are a group of us that meet every Saturday in Lake Forest to get our asses kicked by one specific instructor.  We were sitting there, anticipating our fate, joking about how we love being there and were glad we didn't have to have make-up on to workout, and we realized  that at the end of the day, we are all #MomStrong - and friggen proud of it.  We could give a shit less about the other location - about the youth that is far behind us.  We friggen love ourselves, love our strength and love our super powers.  Millennials and GenZ be damned.  We GenXers have kids, jobs, husbands, houses, aging parents and all the other shit that comes with #adulting - yet we carve out the time to just remind ourselves how bad ass we really are.  It's glorious.  Everyone should do it, then encourage a girlfriend to do the same.

I wish I had a clever ending today...but I don't. The lesson here is that you must find your Super Power or things that make you feel like a Super Hero and go all in.  Do whatever you can to realize that being you and the strongest version of you is all you need to make it through all the bullshit that is going to be thrown at you.  We are all #MomStrong - and we should all shout it from the rooftops.  GO ON WITH YOUR BAD SELF SUPER WOMAN!  Have a great weekend.