Tag Archives: Writing

by | October 7, 2016 · 7:05 pm

Guest Post: What Exercises Should You Do in Your Forties? by Kelly Wilson


Photo source: Unsplash.com/Dominik Wycislo

Photo source: Unsplash.com/Dominik Wycislo

Exercising becomes increasingly important as we age, especially when reaching 40-years-old and beyond. However, it is really easy to feel discouraged, especially when models in major magazines and actresses in our favorite TV shows and movies are about a size 0.

Achieving a size 0 is just not realistic for me, a 41-year-old suburban mom who drives a minivan and has a weakness for gin every Friday evening. I had to make my own personal exercise goals to ensure that I could still drink gin, stay healthy, and continue to be kind and loving to my body. Let’s face it, my body has done a ton of good for me, it deserves to be treated well. Here are my personal and realistic body goals for women over 40.

Do Not Reduce Wine or Gin Intake

This is very important to me. I feel like it’s self-explanatory. Once someone suggests that maybe once-a-week alcohol consumption may have something to do with my spreading girth, he or she is dead to me. Well, “he” is dead to me, because no woman would ever suggest it. Especially if she has a spouse, a job, and/or kids. Or simply lives life.

Make Side Boobs Fit into My Bra

Side boobs hang out underneath the armpit, and basically do nothing. They aren’t sexy like regular boobs. They don’t make clothes fit better. They don’t solve mysteries or relieve social anxiety by suggesting topics for small talk.

One way to deal with abundant side boob is to eat less and exercise that area to tone it up. Exercises incorporated into yoga or weight lifting routines can help reduce side boob.

Or you can just bend over, settle the ladies into the cups, and squish that side boob up into your bra, like I do. Believe me, you will work up a sweat.

Sun’s Out, Guns Out

My biceps are impressive, and one of my goals is to show them off without feeling self-conscious. I mean, yeah, my arm workout includes lifting weights, but it also involves lifting a heavy margarita glass back and forth from the tabletop to my mouth. If it’s a strawberry margarita, I count it as a serving of fruit.

Don’t Injure Myself

Because I deal with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, there are times that I find myself filled with rage. Trump has a lot to do with it lately, and his face precipitated the purchase of a punching bag. Because I wanted to punch it – his face, that is.

The punching bag hangs in my garage. I can slip on my boxing gloves and go a few rounds whenever I feel the need. However, I am also very interested in not injuring myself. I spent several hours on YouTube, reviewing how best to punch and kick my bag. I found myself fascinated by footwork and the new vocabulary and ways that I could spend my PTSD rage without injuring myself.

I told my best friend about my YouTube punching bag adventures, and she laughed. Hard.

“Only you would research the ‘best way’ to punch a bag,” she gasped. “I mean, it’s literally a bag to punch on.”

Well, I am a little sore from punching and kicking. But I’m not injured. So there.

Literally Do Anything

This Huffington Post article details the best exercises for individuals based on their ages. For those in their 20s, running and yoga are great choices. In the 30s, exercises need to include intervals and lift heavy weights. In the 50s, activities like hiking, dancing, and tennis are great. Those in their 60s need to focus on consistent weight training.

What happened to the 40s, you ask? Take a gander:

exercises-in-your-40s

Apparently we need to get off our butts when we’re in our 40s and literally do any exercise at all.

If you’re in your 40s, apparently the best exercises are anything. Anything at all.

I suppose it’s time to get back to lifting those margaritas.

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kelly-wilson-famKelly Wilson is an author and comedian who entertains and inspires with stories of humor, healing, and hope. She is the author of Live Cheap and Free, Don’t Punch People in the Junk, and Kelly Wilson’s The Art of Seduction: Nine Easy Ways to Get Sex From Your Mate. Her latest book, Caskets From Costco, has been chosen as a finalist in the 18th annual Foreword Reviews’ INDIEFAB Book of the Year Awards, the 10th annual National Indie Excellence Book Awards, and the 2016 Readers’ Favorite International Book Award Contest. Kelly Wilson currently writes for a living and lives with her Magically Delicious husband, junk-punching children, dog, cat, and stereotypical minivan in Portland, Oregon. Read more about her at www.wilsonwrites.com.

 

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Filed under Exercise, Guest Post, Humor, Life, Mental Health, Sarcasm, Writing

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by | June 8, 2016 · 5:25 pm

When Your First Kiss Causes a Full-Blown Panic Attack


By Ryan Moreno

Photo source: Unsplash.com/Ryan Moreno

Do first kisses usually cause panic attacks?

I don’t mean a heart-racing-weak-in-the-knees anticipation kind of feeling, either. I mean a full-blown, honest-to-God panic attack.

Thought I didn’t realize it at the time, mine did. The muscle memory is still with me. My heart is hammering my chest just from the memory. I remember the physical sensations, the thoughts that ran through my head and the emotional upheaval as clearly as if it’d happened only yesterday:

Sweat beaded my lip and brow, and ran its cool fingers down my spine. I was so flushed, my body was burning up. I hyperventilated and my heart beat so hard I thought it would jump out of my chest (due to a heart condition, when I’m having a panic attack, I can look down and literally SEE my heart pounding). It felt like I was on a roller coast (I LOVE roller coasters, but I didn’t love this one – it felt more like drowning), and the contents of my stomach were threatening imminent reappearance. This was my first kiss panic attack. I was 15.

It took him hours to wear me down. Maybe days. That part is kind of hazy. He was also 15, but either much more experienced or simply more confident than I. He was persistent and wore me down. That I was quite attracted to him might’ve helped to tip the scales in his favor. Even while we were kissing – French, of course 😉 – my heart ran a marathon. That fight or flight syndrome. I didn’t know what to do, how to handle the sensations running through me. I let him take the lead and he devoured me.

Kissing came easier after that. Until a few weeks later when I became uncomfortable with him slidding his hand up my skirt and attempting to fondle my breasts. He called me a prude. I’d never been called that before and had to find a dictionary. When I told my mother he’d called me a prude, she said I should be proud of that. At 15, I was just as uncomfortable with the idea of being a prude as I was with his hands on the covered parts of my body.

I don’t know if he really was looking to “score” or just wanted to fool around a little. After establishing my “prudishness,” he quickly lost interest. And I became a subtle stalker. I didn’t have the confidence to confront him, so I prank-called his house multiple times, wrote a lot of bad poetry, broke a few of my figurines, and cried. It wasn’t the first time – nor would it be the last – I cried over a male who didn’t deserve my tears.

I hated to say no to him…when I was younger I had that “want to please everyone” personality. I hated confrontation. It made me sick to my stomach. But at the same time, I was willful and stubborn. Great tug-o-war combo. I still sometimes struggle with wanting to make everyone else happy. But I’m less afraid of confrontation.

Something inside wouldn’t let me say yes to him…So I was a prude. Until I was 19. A guy I’d known for several years (my brother’s best friend, in fact), who was a couple years younger than me, said the right words, at the right time, and wooed me in just the right way…I let him in where another male hadn’t been since my CSA 15 years before (I talk about that HERE.) Eventually, this younger guy became abusive and the end of our relationship was a disaster and emotionally traumatic for me…but that’s another story for another time…

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Filed under Anxiety, Blogging, Life, Mental Health, Musings, Survivors, Writing

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by | June 3, 2016 · 7:57 pm

Guest Post: Write Whatever the Hell You Want by Lindsay Fischer


Photo source: Unsplash.com/Green Chameleon

Photo source: Unsplash.com/Green Chameleon

Right this second I’m lying on my love seat. It’s 85 degrees beyond my walls, with land-locked, staggering humidity. Frankly, I’ve never had any desire to be in a sauna. I’ve never rushed to one at the gym, never enjoyed the times I’ve been convinced to go in and sit in my own sweat, and I don’t anticipate this ever changing, which is why I’m inside right now, a blanket tossed over my legs while my bulldog, Frank, snores away the afternoon.

I’ve been writing more lately but that’s not saying much. More is a subjective term I’m tossing out to make it appear I’ve been useful. Just last month I barely let my fingers dance, my creativity abbreviated by life’s circumstances. Now, I’m pushing, resisting the urge to say I’m waiting for inspiration or some other garbage excuse for why I’m not doing what actually fills up my soul.

Last night I wrote a blog about what it meant to be real. It was my third attempt at a blog I was asked to write in early May. In truth, the first two sucked. They were both disingenuous attempts to appease a new audience, something I fight like hell not to do with my words, but when a new person wants my words on their page – well – I sometimes forget that my biggest strength as a writer is my voice.

It’s easy to get wrapped up in what we should be doing. Are my metaphors up to snuff? Have I sufficiently combined both long and short sentences to avoid monotony? Are my darlings dead?

So easy, in fact, it’s really difficult to keep your voice intact when you’re trying to write the next great American anything. I mean, honestly, why do we have to believe our writing is worthy of such praise anyway? Can’t we just let it be what it is and reach who it’s supposed to?

When I started writing my first (and only, right now) memoir, I convinced myself I needed to prove I could write a damn-good book to my former colleagues, my former students, my haters. Instead of writing in a stylistically complimentary way, I did what I thought I *should* do, and it took me 6 months to remove my head from my ass.

And I doubt I ever really “proved my prose.”Lindsay - Self Sabotage

That’s when I realized something:

My talent isn’t in using elevated language or literary devices. It’s in speaking to my audience as if they are sitting on this couch with me, fuming at the thought of having their bangs plastered to their foreheads the second they step outside, certain their upper lips will sweat instantly, too. They hear which words are emphasized because I’m serving up stories like a sermon. They trust me because I’m honest, and that, my friends, needs no fluffing.

My truth, my realness, and my unapologetic stance on just being me is what sells me, not only as a writer, but I’m fairly certain it’s what brings amazing people into my life, too.

Instead of sitting still and telling myself I can’t get good enough words out, I’m talking about it, writing this post like it’s exactly what’s meant to come from me today. No other words matter, no other projects take precedence.

We all deserve to find our strengths as writers and play to them. It doesn’t mean you can’t learn and grow through writing more, but if your fear of being inadequate freezes up production then it’s time to go back to your roots and remember why you fell in love with writing in the first place.

For me? It was catharsis: a chance to purge emotion and connect with others who understand.

Self-sabotage is the old friend we haven’t let go of because they’ve been around too long. You might know it doesn’t serve you but you can’t cut ties because you’re bonded. Trust me on this, that shit is toxic and turns you away from the things you love most.

Divorce it.

Dig deep.

Write whatever the hell you want.

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Lindsay Fischer HeadshotAfter surviving domestic violence (and three years of trauma therapy), Lindsay Fischer saw an opportunity to use her voice against abuse, blogging as Sarafina Bianco since 2009. She revealed her identity in 2015 when her memoir, The House on Sunset, was released, and she now speaks on behalf of trauma survivors on national stages.

Website: http://www.survivorswillbheard.com

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/linsfischer

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/survivorswillbeheard

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