40 and Fired had a better ring to it than 39 and Layed Off--thus the title and impetus for a blog. I'm a freelance writer living in the mountains of Colorado with my husband, children and high maintenace pets. I'm over the whole turning 40 thing, so this is now more about my humorous/sarcastic take on life, excercise and our daily adventures.



Wednesday, August 31, 2011

What's Wrong with Canned Soup?

Well over a year ago, I made the declaration we would no longer eat canned soup. Between lengthy ingredient lists containing soy, dairy, gluten and copious amounts of salt, I decided to unearth my domestic roots and sweat it out over a 5-gallon stock pot. I'm sure you can guess how long that experiment lasted. But, while I stopped making soup on a regular basis, I still refuse to buy it in a can. We've had no shortage of chili over the past twelve months, but chili isn't what I crave when my nose is dripping, my head's clogged beyond belief and it feels like an extended family of Irishmen is River Dancing on my chest.

Which is exactly how I felt today.

After awaking from a four-hour feverish nap, made worse upon discovering I had a 100lb dog spooning against me, all I wanted was soup. We literally live in the middle of nowhere, and there wasn't a can of soup to be found. And, sadly, the solution to my dilemma felt like an early Julia Childs episode, 'first you take a chicken....'. Which is exactly what I did.

The pot was soon full of organic chicken, organic veggies, parsley (which actually turned out to be cilantro-of course) from our meager container garden and rice--I wanted noodles, but figured this was already about a $20 bowl of soup, and wasn't about to add another $5 of gluten-free pasta to the mix.

And then, I dosed off again. I awoke to the smell of cinnamon. Seems in my feverish, famished state, I'd brilliantly put a cinnamon doughnut in the oven. Boy did it taste good. This is no time to examine the hypocrisy of keeping frozen pastries on hand, but not canned soup.

Once my steaming salvation was ready, I inhaled bowl after bowl, and it was worth the effort. Even better? When I mustered the energy to shuffle up the garage to put the left-overs in the freezer, I discovered soup. Lots and lots of frozen, homemade soup.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Isn't Yoga Rejuvenating?

When I first did yoga fifteen years ago, I recall peaceful music, gentle moves with kind corrections and a sense of relaxation. And I liked it.

But now it all seems so agro. Hot yoga, spin yoga and flow yoga to Lady Gaga. By the time I make it to the aptly named Corpse pose, I'm usually so relieved and exhausted, I fall sound asleep. I'd done Downward Facing Dog a few times, usually on the way to other poses, but it's been the base/rest pose for the last four classes I've attended. Call it what you want, but when my arms are shaking uncontrollably and sweat is dripping from my nose, I'm not relaxed.

The intentions I set for the class should be larger than me, but instead they've become desperate prayers to survive each class without hurting or embarrassing myself.

I have no shame in going to child's pose, for the entire class if necessary, but that's when the gentle corrections turn admonishing. "Rest until you catch your breath," quickly becomes, "you can rejoin the group at any time...how about now."

My last class, the one involving Lady Gaga, came complete with a teacher that counted how long you had to hold the pose, much like a new age aerobics class. Because that's restorative.

I've made a pledge to myself to attend class once a week. The past four weeks have been at four different studios. Sure, there are many types of yoga, and perhaps a bit of education would help. For now, I'll keep broadening my yoga experiences until I find the right fit.

Namaste.