The Power Day

The other day I was complaining to my sister about my daily difficulties as a mother. She told me that it would be better once I had a Power Day.

"What's a 'Power Day'?" I asked.

"It's a day every working mother has where everything just goes right. You remember everything, you accomplish everything you planned to accomplish that day and everything just gets better. And you feel like you could totally have another kid. It's a Power Day," she explained.

I thought the concept of a Power Day totally made sense; it gives you a point of reference. Like, if I've completed a marathon, I know that I can run long distances. So I can struggle through runs around Lake Merritt because, hey, I've run a marathon.

This is all to say that I have NOT had a Power Day.

In fact, I've been trying to have one so I can proudly tell my sister that I had one and so that I can feel, well, TOGETHER. Since I've gone back to work, I've gone to bed every night feeling like I have the next day planned out so well that it will TOTALLY be my POWER DAY.

Case in point:

On one of those rare sunny days in February, I woke up feeling good. Got the baby and myself ready on time. In fact I was in a new dress so I was feeling pretty cute. It was even above the knee, and NOT black. I even managed to remember to put on makeup. I got to work early and stopped by Starbucks. And I sauntered in my office, my purse on one arm, my nonfat chai latte in my had, ready to declare this the POWER DAY OF JAMILA.

And then I saw my boss in the hallway. She had on a suit. And suddenly my dream of a Power Day blew up.

See, my job is pretty business casual for the most part. But there's a policy that when we have meetings with the state or with our Board of Directors, we must wear a suit (or at least a jacket). I had forgotten that I was supposed to attend an important meeting with the state that day. And there was no way I could roll into the meeting in my cute little dress.

I was devastated. To the point, that in a meeting with my boss that morning I totally lost it and broke down in tears. That is BIG for me as I have a strict policy against crying at work. I don't know if it was the hormones or what, but I felt just so FRUSTRATED. Mainly because I felt I was really trying and I just couldn't DO IT. My boss, who has a 3 year old, told me not worry about it and said she expected I probably wouldn't have it together for another few weeks.

This morning, the moment I had strapped the baby in his carseat and put it in the car, I realized I had left his milk in my apartment. Then I forgot his pajamas too. My whole drive to work I just felt like such a failure - I know not wearing a suit or forgetting pajamas might seem minor, but it's really frustrating when you're trying to balance a full time job (in a highly competitive atmosphere), a baby, weight loss goals and the other things in life that bring joy, like my sorority and my social life.

My Power Day remains elusive.

Parking Sharks

I am firmly convinced that part of the reason that such a significant portion of the American population is overweight/obese is related to society's inability to accept a parking space that requires them to walk more than two feet.

I am so DISGUSTED by parking sharks. You know those people who circle the lot, like sharks, ready to pounce on an empty space like a bleeding swimmer in the Pacific. The moment you emerge with your keys in your hand, they follow your every move, subtly rushing you into your car. I hate these people.

This past Sunday, I reached my limit with the parking sharks.

I was at the mall on a Saturday. I did not realize what a popular mall it was as I arrived there right at the beginning of the Saturday mob's arrival. So I scored a pretty good parking spot in the covered parking structure, on the same level as the mall opening. All is well. Until, of course, it was time to leave the mall.

When I came out, with my child in a stroller mind you, the sharks were OUT! It's like the music from "Jaws" was playing, "dun-uh, dun-uh, dun-uh" . . .

So I'm parked in a spot that is labeled "compact." It's a decent sized compact space mind you, as I do not drive one of those toy cars. But I'm not driving a huge SUV either. So naturally, a huge SUV is waiting for my spot. This car is so big that it is blocking the way so that no cars can pass it to find other spots. And it (along with about five other cars that can't pass it) is just sitting there waiting. Waiting and watching as I put the baby in his carseat in the car. Waiting and watching as I unload my bags from the stroller and put them in the car. Waiting and watching as I open the back of the car. Waiting and watching as I collapse the stroller and load it into the car. Waiting and watching as I get in the car. And then of course I have to wait and watch as Jaws, the Monster Truck SUV - along with the five other cars behind him - has to back up so I can back out. As I drive away I glance in my rearview mirror: Jaws is having a hard time getting into the compact spot and the rest of the cars (who have multiplied by now) have to watch and wait as Jaws attempts to get his Great White behind into a space more fitting for, say a Tiger Shark.

It was even more disgusting to me as I left the parking lot and spied several other spaces open that might have been more appropriate for Jaws. However, they would have required a more than 10 second walk into the mall. And we all know that wasn't going to happen.

Bellydancing is Hard

Although I have never taken classes or been in any performances, I've been known to get my groove on. In high school, I did the appropriate dancing at school dances (I think the common term is "freakin"). I was never the girl in the middle of the dance floor on top of some guy, but I didn't sit on the sidelines. When I got older, I went to clubs and had a good time shaking my stuff and grinding my hips like most kids in their early 20s. And once I pledged a sorority, instead of one one one dancing, I joined my sorors in "strholling" around the party.

Then about 6 or 7 years ago, I retired my dancing shoes. I decided when I went out, I cared more about socializing than dancing. So if I went to the club with my friends, I would be the one posted up by the bar, accepting free drinks and flashing my smile rather than my dance moves.

This all goes to say that had I not retired, bellydancing would not have been so hard tonight.

Besides the fact that everyone was experienced, the instructor didn't use a mic and I didn't have one of those jangly scarves to wrap around my waist, this class was challenging because of the moves. And honestly a lot of them reminded me of some of the freak-dancing in high school, the club moves and the strholls I did while in college. It's all waist-based and had it not been awhile since I popped my pelvis or rolled my hips, I might've done better.

After class the only other woman who seemed to be struggling like me, said a few kind words.

"It gets easier," she said.

"Man, I sucked!" I told her.

"My first few classes I had a hard time, but I did feel it in my muscles after," she said.

"I guess that's good," I commented.

"Hope to see you next week," she called as I tied my shoes.

"Me too, " I replied, "I hope I get the courage."

Maybe if I get one of those little jangly scarves it'll help.

Being a Mom, Not Looking Like One

Although now I am someone's mom, I don't want to look like it. Now there are some tell tale signs that I can't prevent no matter what I wear - the spit up on my dark shirts, the wet spots when I forget to put in nursing pads, the ever present diaper bag, etc. But suddenly for the first time (ever I think), I've felt the need to step up my style.

I've never been super into clothes. Sure, like anyone I like to feel and look good. But I certainly didn't care a lot about label brands or the latest trends. In fact, historically, I haven't liked spending a lot of time shopping for clothes and shoes. There are about 5-10 other things I'd rather do than scour the mall or San Francisco for the best pair of black heels.

Since having a baby though - and especially during this time when I'm trying to shed weight - I've been feeling like I need to put a little more thought into my look. So I've spent a lot of time trying to find good fabrics and good fits and quality brands. I picked up InStyle magazine. I ventured into Nordstroms. I even found myself googling the term "stylist" in hopes that I would be able to find one to come in and analyze my closet.

With the kid here, I don't have a lot of extra money to put towards clothes. So we're not talking a whole new wardrobe or anything. But I think I need to be focusing on a few quality pieces rather than filling up my closet with items from the sales rack at the Gap. A pair of nice slacks this month, maybe a cute blazer next month. And a pair of designer jeans when I reach my goal.

I notice women of every size can look good - I can't wait until I reach my ideal weight in order to be stylish. So until then, I'm working with what I've got.