Fear Trips Us Up

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I like WordPress.  Have done since the leader of a seminar I was attending encouraged all of us to write a blog as one step toward building a platform.  At the time – this was about three years ago – I was only beginning to understand how our lives were being impacted by the growth of social networking.  I’m certain I didn’t understand how to set up a blog (although I had fumbled around a bit with Blogger) and I hadn’t grasped the long-term influence blogging might have on my writing future.

But now, thirty-six months later I’m quite comfortable spilling my inner demons for the world to read.  I’m happy to share the struggles of an aspiring writer.  Let me correct that.  I’m not aspiring to be a writer.  I am a writer.  I’m aspiring to be a “successful writer”.  What is that?  How do we judge success?  Is it the first paycheck?  If it is – well – I managed that last year.  Or maybe it’s finding an agent.  Am I not a success if an agent wants to spend time selling the words I lay down on paper?  Ah yes, but I know it won’t be enough.  The book will have to be sold to a publisher.  And even then I won’t be happy until I’m on Oprah.  Or listed in the New York Times.  Or win a Pulitzer.

I dream – as the cliché goes – big.  I can see how long the road is, and, since that first and only paycheck just about filled my CRV’s gas tank – I can see how far I have to go.

So – getting back to wonderful WordPress:  as part of their commitment to the “post a week” concept they’ve been providing suggestions for topics.  I’m generally able to come up with my own – case in point my lambasting of the Yoga Journal Conference in my last two posts.  But today’s suggested topic intrigued me:

What’s the most important thing you’re putting off?

And why haven’t you done it yet? What do you need to make it happen?

I’ve been putting off making the kind of commitment it takes to be the successful writer I know in my heart I have to potential to be.  I blame my insane schedule.  I blame my raging hormones.  I blame my age – I really should have begun all this fuss earlier in life.  I blame the day of the week and the fact the sun shines on my computer screen at an awkward angle.  But none of those excuses are credible.  This is what it boils down to:

fear

Not fear of failure – I’m had plenty of failures.  I know how to brush myself off and climb back into the saddle.  I’m talking about fear of success.  What do I do then?  What happens if I actually succeed?

In the past, when I’ve thought about what success looks like, it has always involved being over-committed, flying back and forth to New York, rushing about.  Having to find my inner extrovert.  The pressure of always being good enough.  That’s the picture I painted in my head of success.

What if I paint a different picture?  What if the picture includes being able to afford a home of my own and a secure retirement?  What if the picture includes a schedule that allows me to teach the yoga that I love but also gives me solid days of secluded writing.  What if the picture includes – wait for it – a yearly vacation?

I feel better already.  Now I’m motivated.  But the question remains, how will I make it happen?

By taking the first step.

The Beautiful Business of Yoga and What I Did in My Spare Time

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Ferry Building San Francisco after the 1906 Ea...

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I love the architecture of the Hyatt Regency on Embarcadero.  A cross between Logan’s Run and The Poseidon Adventure (after the rogue wave), it’s all sharp angles, shafts of light and heavy concrete.

The last time I was here greenery trailed from each floor like the Gardens of Babylon.  But this year, in an attempt to brighten a dark winter, a thick fringe of white lights hang from the ceiling ending about twenty feet above the atrium restaurant.  The effect is dizzying.  Seizure inducing if you’re of that ilk.

The good news.  I woke at 5:30 with a new game plan.  Galvanized.  Hopeful.  I jotted down a few ideas before they melted away, drifted back to sleep and woke again to see the red sunrise reflecting off the Bay Bridge.

After a shower I walked over to the Ferry Building, enjoyed a non-fat latte and strolled among the fruit and vegetable stalls.  Yes, I strolled (those of you who know me know that I do not, by nature, stroll).  I sampled fermented carrot (an acquired taste) and pickled okra (yummy even on an empty stomach) from the Cultured Pickle Shop and then made my way back to the atrium restaurant for breakfast.

I may have been a little harsh yesterday.  There are plenty of wonderful reasons to attend the conferences Yoga Journal hosts around the country, month after month, on and on, forever and ever Amen.  Ooops.  I think I meant to say “Om”.

Give me a moment to contemplate these reasons while I dig into a bowl of steel cut oats large enough to provide sustenance into next Tuesday.

Right.  Sorry.  Can’t do it.  Trying to defend these conferences is a little bit like me trying to defend chiropractics.  While I know having regular visits to a chiropractor resonates with plenty of people, it doesn’t with me (for the record, I’m a fan of acupuncture).  And I know there are attendees here who are being opened to new ideas, new ways of thinking, new poses.  New ways of being.  And, with all sincerity, that is wonderful.  But I’m not.  Because in the back of my head there’s a little voice whispering, “this isn’t what yoga is supposed to be.”

I think the epiphany arrived as I worked through a rack of organic bamboo/cotton blend/75% spandex yoga trousers woven by Blind Monks from Tibet.  Or maybe Alabama. The clothing was very beautiful and very, very expensive. The tag suggested that wearing the pants would change my life.  I’d find freedom.  Liberation.  Breathtaking beauty.  Wearing that particular brand of clothing pretty much guaranteed powers of levitation on the way to Nirvana.

I understand that we pay a price for what we love and that in the 21st century Yoga is Big Business.  But can we try to make it a better, more beautiful and honest business?  One of the reasons I support Jason and his Three Minute Eggs (see yesterday’s post here) is because he doesn’t promise Enlightenment.  He doesn’t suggest I’ll be more wonderful than I already am if I use his eggs.  He simply made a good prop better.  You have to admire his ingenuity while slapping yourself on the side of head and saying, “why didn’t I think of that?”

As far as teachers go, that’s why I admire Paul and Suzee Grilley and Gil Hedley.  They teach from the heart, with humility.  Yes, I pay for their teaching the same way I pay for Jason’s blocks.  But they share their knowledge with loving generosity.

My life challenge is jealousy and envy.  So I suppose there is always the possibility that these feelings of cynicism are coming from that dark place.  Would I feel the same way if Yoga Journal asked me to teach?  Am I jealous that I don’t have a book to hawk or a clever prop to demonstrate?  Maybe.  Maybe not.

Or maybe the truth is my heart is weary of watching the thing that has given my life depth and character being demeaned by the competitive marketplace in front of my eyes.

And maybe I learned more than I thought this weekend.

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The Ugly Business of Yoga and What I Did in My Spare Time

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I decided to attend this year’s San Francisco Yoga Journal Conference mostly because Jason Scholder asked if I would help out at his Yoga Market Booth.  Jason is the inventor of the Three Minute Egg – my favorite yoga prop.  And I say that it’s my favorite prop not because Jason is a nice guy – although he is – but because it’s a versatile little piece of mandorla shaped foam.

But I digress.

I decided to attend the Yoga Journal Conference because Jason asked me to help. In exchange I’d be given a free pass to one or two of the classes being offered over the weekend.

Since classes were going to be free, then it just made sense to splurge on the conference rate rooms at the Hyatt.  And so I did.

One big problem.

I have a deep dislike for the business of yoga that only intensifies when I’m in an environment dedicated to the business of yoga.

Still, I could set that aside for ninety minutes of Yin with Sarah Powers and a morning of Yoga Nidra with Richard Miller!  I could drop my attitude and enjoy the gift.  Except both classes were sold out with no hope of my sneaking in.  But what about the other classes?  Yeah.  What about them? I had my heart set on Sarah and Richard. Everything else had a sort of “been there, done that, why bother?” ring to it.

So what’s a girl to do with a paid for hotel room and twenty-four hours to kill?

I floundered.  I checked emails.  Opened the mini-bar and quickly closed it again.  I turned on the television and took off my shoes.  The sun slowly settled as the buzz of a Friday night in San Francisco began to build.

In a reckless moment I considered ordering room service – something I’ve always wanted to do (I’m easily thrilled) but I came to my senses.  I left my room and rode the elevator down to the restaurant on the atrium floor.

Which is where I am now, enjoying a beautiful grilled shrimp and scallop salad with avocado, mango and shaved ginger.  Oh yeah.  And a glass of chardonnay as velvety as amaretto.

Today has changed from being the beginning of an exciting yoga weekend to being the start of a disappointing weekend.  But I can’t let that happen.  So I’m turning it into a writer’s weekend.

When I return to Room 408 I’ll crack the window in order to freshen the stale air that has a fetid base note of sour milk and pull on my jim-jams and wooly socks.  I’ll crawl under the stiff sheets of my king sized bed and do what I never really had a chance to do over the holidays.  Regroup.

Things happen for a reason.  The Universe tricked me into this downtime.  Thanks, Universe.

The Fat Content of a Fifty-Two Year Old Woman and other News

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It's corny, but in 2011 I 'heart' ME!

I know. Why do I need to spend money on a health club membership when all I really need to do is strap on a pair of sneakers and head for the great outdoors?  Except that really isn’t my thing.  I enjoy nature’s wondrous beauty standing still, not riding a bike over the Santa Cruz Mountains.  Instead, I crave stats.  I need to know calorie counts, miles tread, a hill’s gradient.  I need an elliptical.  And so, today, I returned to the place I forgot I loved.  The gym.  I confess.  I was nervous. I knew my fitness assessment was not going to go well.  And here’s the bad news:  thirty-two percent of me is fat.

But there’s good news, too.  My fitness level tests in the ‘good’ range for a woman my age.  Barely.  In other words, I can hit my maximum heart rate and still carry on a conversation, but I can only do two and half push-ups.  My flexibility is good (it better be) but I have postural imbalances that need to be corrected.

What went wrong?  Simple – like many of us, I stopped paying attention. I stopped packing healthy lunches and began grazing at the local Whole Foods.  And just because the food is from Whole Foods doesn’t mean it’s wholesome.  The hot bar has plenty of empty, fatty calories to choose from.  And I convinced myself yoga was enough.

And how can I fix it?  Easy. Mindfulness. Now where have I heard that word before…

I believe in Yoga.  I know it has helped my bone density, kept me as flexible as women half my age and helped me to manage stress levels.  But the style of yoga I love and the one that contributes most to my physical and mental health does not, unfortunately, contribute to cardiovascular health.  To do that, statistics vary, but most suggest thirty minutes of vigorous exercise five days per week.  In other words – I need to balance my Yin and Yang.  I need to regain some equilibrium.

I’m going to let you in on a secret.  I have a silly wish.  I’ve always wanted a lean, muscular body that shouts HEALTH.  It’s not about narcissism – it’s about how being fit makes me feel.  Which is fantastic.  Unstoppable. Confident.  Once – for a few years – I managed to maintain a decent enough fitness level to run 10-K’s on a regular basis. And to have been there and lost it is incredibly frustrating – especially since being physically fit is one of the best feelings in the world.

So I think I’m on the verge of doing something a bit crazy.  The trainer who conducted my fitness assessment today was good.  And I know enough about the body to know who’s good and who isn’t.  I want him to be my personal trainer.  How can I afford it?  I’ll cancel Comcast.  Or something.  I’ll figure it out.

The thing is, I’m tired of talking myself out of life.  Saying ‘no’ to the things I want because as long as bad things happen in the world I don’t deserve good things in mine.

Today the hosts of this blog, WordPress, suggested we write about our personal highlight of 2010. But how can I compare witnessing a Congressional Gold Medal Ceremony, or seeing my mother for the first time in twenty-eight years to joining a gym?  Yet making this commitment to myself – basically admitting that I am worth the effort – will impact my life more.  After all, I’ve heard it said you can’t love another until you love yourself.  Maybe it’s finally time for me to embrace that idea.

And now I have to ask.  What are you saying ‘no’ to? What’s your silly wish?

Day One

A tape measure.

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1 January 2011

I slept in until 7:30 this morning, climbed out of bed and while the kettle boiled for tea practiced 5 Golden Seed.  As the tea brewed I stepped on the scale, took note and stepped off.  I found the tape measure hiding under some old bottles of nail varnish and wrapped it around my chest, then my waist and finally, my hips.  I took a deep breath and recognized the truth:  I need more exercise.  But to be honest, the only thing convincing me to get off my bottom and into the gym is the very fact that the last thing I want to do is get off my bottom and into a gym.

It all began with the first manuscript about the Women Airforce Service Pilot (still languishing in a drawer awaiting re-writes, by the way).  I sacrificed trips to the gym for writing time.  Why trudge all the way over to the local Y when I can just throw on my trainers and jog around the block? Turns out that didn’t work out so well for me.

(By the way, I’m deliberately not divulging my weight and measurements.  This isn’t a debate about body image, it’s about health.  Let’s just say it’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be, but it’s bad enough.)

I was full of excuses and I lost the goal of entering mid-life in peak condition around the same time I found Facebook.  Besides, I teach nine yoga classes a week.  Isn’t that enough exercise?

Sorry.  No.  It’s not enough exercise.  Yoga will keep me flexible.  It will keep my joints mobile.  But cardiovascular?  No.  My style of yoga won’t touch it.

And so, just last week, knowing my day of reckoning would arrive with the New Year, I dragged my sorry, flabby body to my local Jewish Community Center and signed up.  Tomorrow I meet with a personal trainer to find out how dire my situation is and next week I have an hour introduction to the Pilate’s Reformer.  In between, I’ll reacquaint myself to the elliptical and maybe check out the class schedule.  Didn’t I used to love Spinning?

Listen – I know this isn’t going to be easy. I know it’s going to hurt.  And I have concerns – how will I do it all?  How will I juggle classes, private clients, writing AND find time for thirty minutes of cardiovascular exercise five days a week?

I’ll keep you posted…

Of course, the diet needs a major overhaul as well…

 

 

A Full-Spectrum Year

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Oh, I get SO excited on December 31st!  It’s like changing the sheets on your bed and looking forward to that nice, crispy clean, sun-dried feeling when you nestle under the blankets.  That’s what January 1st is like for me – it’s like I’ve changed my attitudinal sheets (I’m not really certain ‘attitudinal’ is a word – but I’m going with it).  You can accuse me of being a Pollyanna but I’m not.  I am certain there will be disappointments in 2011.  There’ll be sorrow, too.  But what about all the moments of uncontainable joy and happiness ahead for us?  I can’t wait.  I don’t think I’ve been this excited for a new year to begin since…uh…December 31st 2009.

WordPress, the host for this blog, has challenged its writers to either post daily or weekly during 2011.  I’m taking up the Post Weekly Challenge.  Wish me luck, while I wish you a wonderful, full spectrum, roller coaster thrill ride of a year.

Happy, Happy New Year to Everyone!

Thirty-Six Days

Previously on “Peri-menopause is Not for the Faint of Heart”…Threatened by a raging hormonal surge of epic proportions our heroine Mimm was doomed to a mid-life of surly retorts and bitter regrets.

Trapped in a manic nightmare, could her moods stop swinging long enough for Mimm to find her way back from the edge of reason?

Thirty-six days is about right. My cycle is more or less consistent. Women at my age typically experience the opposite as their cycles become increasingly erratic.  But I’ve always been contrary. So while I was all over the calendar in my twenties, now I can count on a dramatic shift in my view of the world every six weeks or so.

Shortly before Thanksgiving the shift destabilized me to the extent that I sought help through yoga and acupuncture with herbs.  Reminding myself that I am in control of my changing body and my hormones – not the other way around – makes me stronger, and I believed that finding help was taking a proactive step towards health.

One cycle later, how am I doing?

Yoga: There’s no doubt about it.  Yoga makes me feel better.  With the first down dog of the day I experience a dynamic change in energy.  I can step on my mat in the most foul mood and step off the mat with a smile on my face.  My Yoga for Peri-menopause emphasizes supported back bends to open the heart, a slow flow of standing postures for strength with emotional stability and long held Yin floor work to settle the nervous system.

Acupuncture: I knew that in order for my acupuncturist to do her best healing work, I had to be honest about the symptoms I was experiencing. I knew that if I tried to tell her in person, on the day of my appointment, I would gloss over their severity.  We’re all guilty of it.  The symptom that feels catastrophic as it happens suddenly seems silly as described to a healthcare professional.  So instead of telling her in person and risking diminishing their importance, I sent an email. Having a concise list of my symptoms before our appointment supported my practitioner’s instincts and helped her diagnosis and treatment. She suggested herbal formulations and in the past six weeks I’ve had two ‘needle sessions’.  It would be wrong of me, however, to expect an immediate change.  Acupuncture – in fact most Eastern medicine and complementary therapies – is subtle and paced.  And I feel this is how it should be.  Acupuncture is gently encouraging me to move toward balance.

I know what you’re thinking.

So what about Rolfing? Those of you who keep track may remember that I began seeing Rolfer Michael Murphy – an innovative leader in the field for thirty years.  I have one more appointment with Michael and then an appointment booked in February with a ‘classic’ Rolfer who also happens to be a woman.  I intend to keep these appointments but my instinct is telling me that structural integration is not what I need now.  I also must confess that Rolfing is simply cost prohibitive.  Besides, treating symptoms with a variety of approaches makes it impossible to determine which of those approaches is most effective.  And so, after my appointment mid-way through my next six-week cycle, I’ll let go of Rolfing – although my belief in the importance and efficacy of body therapy is not diminished.  It’s just not the right time for me.

The bottom line is we all have a different set of symptoms and different constitutions.  If follows, then, that complementary therapies will resonate at different frequencies for each individual.  So while a combination of yoga with acupuncture keeps me at a somewhat even keel, it may not be the correct combination for you.

Besides, there are other considerations.  If moods were charted on a bell curve mine would still be considered ‘left of happy’.  While I’ve improved and have gained control, I’m still miles away from my usual perky self.  And so, I have to ask myself:

What am I missing?

Diet and exercise. Why haven’t I worked harder to consider nutrition and fitness?  The answer is simple:  it requires too much personal investment. It requires motivation.  Self-belief.  Faith.   If I want to affect permanent change I need to make a daily commitment to my health.  But am I strong enough?

I won’t deny that the choices I’ve made these past thirty-six days have improved my outlook.  But the next thirty-six days will require a stronger personal commitment. Am I worth the hard work?  I think so.

The First Step:

When I began writing this post at six this morning, I believed asking other people to heal me spoke to my being proactive.  Fourteen hours later and I realize it’s not up to other people to make me well.  They can contribute and guide me, but the only person who can fully commit to my health is me.  And so, with a full day between that first sentence and this last one, I took the first step.  I made a commitment to myself…but more on that in a few days.

Resolutions

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I’ve had a few resolution free years.  Last year I deconstructed the whole process and rather than pre-determine resolutions on the last day of 2009, I took note throughout 2010 whenever I accomplished something that moved my life forward.  A good example is rising above my fear of driving with a solo road trip to Reno.  Abandoning my routine and everything familiar to spend two weeks at Yin Yoga Training is another example.  There were changes I wanted in my life that weren’t realized as well.  After several failed attempts I still do not have a regular meditation practice.  And I still haven’t managed to make climbing The Dish part of my fitness regime.

Nevertheless, I’ve always been a fan of setting resolutions.  They help me picture what I want my life to look like. And so, without further adieu, and for the whole world to see (which means I better manage to achieve at least one of them):

MIMM’S RESOLUTIONS FOR 2011

The Ridiculous Stuff that Means a More to Me than it Should:

Lose Ten Pounds.  Yes, this old chestnut is back.  I’ve been on a two-year-long Rumspringa that began the night of my fiftieth birthday celebrations in November 2008.  It’s time to return to the fold.

Join a Gym.  See above.

The Less Ridiculous Stuff

Remember that friends I can share a meal with and look in the eye are more important than Facebook friends. Sorry, Facebook friends…but really…who are we kidding?

Sing at an Open Mike Night.  As part of my continuing attempt to regain the confidence I lost during the disaster that was the years of 2006-2008, I want to re-acquaint myself with Fearless Mimm.

Remember that as much as I would like to be James Franco, earning multiple graduate degrees at multiple institutions of higher learning simultaneously – while holding down a full-time job – I am a mere mortal.  Seriously – the guy is a freak AND a geek:

“Franco reportedly has “an unusually high metabolism for productivity…a superhuman ability to focus”.[1] Dissatisfied with his career’s direction,[1] Franco reenrolled at UCLA in the fall of 2006 as an English major with a creative writing concentration. Having received permission to take as many as 30 course credits per quarter compared to the normal limit of 19[59] while continuing to act, he received his undergraduate degree in June 2008 with a GPA over 3.5.[59][1][60] For his degree, Franco prepared his departmental honors thesis as a novel under the supervision of Mona Simpson.[1][61] He moved to New York to simultaneously attend graduate school at Columbia University‘s MFA writing program, New York University‘s Tisch School of the Arts for filmmaking,[62][63][64][65] and Brooklyn College for fiction writing,[59] while occasionally commuting to North Carolina‘s Warren Wilson College for poetry.[1] As of 2010, Franco is a PhD student in English at Yale University[66] and will also attend the Rhode Island School of Design.[1]”

The Important Stuff

Submit to The Sun’s Reader’s Write.  Every month.  Without fail.

Remember:  Every word counts.  Set goals.  Submit queries.  Take a page from Barney Stinson’s notebook and believe in my own awesomeness.

Don’t say “yes” when your gut says “no”.  And remember there’s a difference between gut instinct and nausea from a bad shrimp.

Floss Daily…ok…try to floss a few times a week.

The Most Important Stuff

Contribute.

Teach.

Learn.

Give.

Be Gracious and Grateful.

Don’t Yell at Bicyclists that Run Stop Signs.

How to Give: Heifer International

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Irish Goat

Image via Wikipedia

I have the best clients.  In the world.  Ever.  Each and every single one is generous, compassionate, funny.  They all have fascinating life stories.  Many have been to war, some have handled life threatening illnesses with grace and humor and one even received a Congressional Gold Medal.  So to say that I am grateful they are in my life seems inadequate.  Let’s put it this way – they’ve taught me more than I’ve taught them.  I’ve learned how to share, how to tread lightly, how to rise above.  I’ve learned how to dream.  I’ve been encouraged, taken on adventures and, when I’ve felt out of my depth and overwhelmed, I’ve been comforted.

And today two of my clients gave me a goat.

They could have chosen water buffalo, camels, beehives or bunnies but settled on a little goat.  My Christmas goat will provide nourishment to a family in need. Some of her offspring will be given to other families in need, to offer them nourishment, too.  So my one special little goat is a true perpetual gift.

Until this morning I had never heard of Heifer International.  Established in 1944, the organization ‘has provided livestock and training in environmentally sound agriculture to those with genuine need.  Recipients also agree to Pass on the Gift of one or more of their animals’ offspring and training to others in need, creating an ever-widening circle of hope.’

You can find out more about Heifer International at www.heifer.org or by calling 1-800-422-0474.

 

Peri-menopause is Not for the Faint of Heart

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Looking back, I showed considerable restraint.

“Why don’t you just go to a doctor and get a pill?”

This coming from a man who has never been and is never going to be the poster child for good health.  Besides, what does a man know about it anyway?

Some women flush, some sweat.  Others deal with insomnia while some unfortunate souls juggle all three with swinging moods thrown in for good measure.  For me, peri-menopause – otherwise known as the “Transition” seems to be all about my mood.

Life was so simple just a few short years ago.  How I long for the time when I enjoyed seven simple days of general malaise followed by my flow – and the wonderfully manic high that followed as my hormones swung in the opposite direction.

But my formerly light yet lengthy pre-menstrual tension had, over the past twelve months, boiled itself down like an over-reduced sauce to forty-eight hours of mournful hell.   Seriously. You really did not want to be a bicyclist running a stop sign during those two days if I was on the road.

Yet my body had one more trick up its sleeve.  Just as I was growing accustomed to Mimm’s Evil Twin making an appearance every thirty-days she was traded in for a hormone storm of such ferocity that I could not fathom there would ever be an end.  I fell into Alice’s dark rabbit hole.  I fell and fell for days until a breakdown during my writer’s group (we’re talking mild hysteria, twitches and unstoppable tears) made it clear to me I needed help.  I was losing my peri-menopausal mind, and I wanted to find it again.

This is usually the moment when one of my wonderful, older clients chimes in with, “Menopause?  I sailed right through menopause.  Don’t even remember it.” Of course she doesn’t remember.  It was thirty years ago.  While she was peri-menopausal, the rest of the world was watching Dallas and trying to figure out who shot J.R.!

I guess the truth is, some women do ‘sail through’.  But not me.  It’s embarrassing.  I’m a yoga teacher, for Pete’s sake.  Things like a few hormone fluctuations shouldn’t bother me.  I wish. Even though I have a reasonable diet and a daily yoga practice I know that it will take more to manage my symptoms.  But hormone replacement therapy is a last resort.  For now, I have a three-point plan of attack:  acupuncture with Chinese herb chasers, Rolfing and, of course, Yoga.

I have another ten days before my hormones take a swing toward the dark side and so it is too soon to know if my complementary approach is useful.  I can tell you that, for now, the black mood is gone.  This post is proof that I’m writing again – I’m functioning.  But will I crumble again on December 20th?  I’m not planning on it, but the truth is I just don’t know.

 

And now, the disclaimer.  I’m single and childless and can indulge my whims.  If you’re suffering – see a doctor.