Peace Be With You

Sometimes I tire over the constant chatter about fitness and nutrition. I get the importance of being healthy, but the mania and pressure of “high school skinny” - ehh. Been there, tried that, I’m ready to coast on common sense. I want to eat delicious, healthy food, as opposed to choking down powdery mixes, and I want to do workouts that make me happy, not the ones I dread more than a dental drill.

We all know it’s hard to fight off the pressure and comparison. In my life, I have been cursed, blessed, whichever, to have a slew of close friends who are inexplicably thin and fit. They work out like fiends and eat super clean every day. Explain that to me. There are no double chins, not even during their pregnancies, and bikinis always, even during their pregnancies. As if a fit exterior isn’t enough, these friends of mine are thoughtful, funny and supportive. I hate them.

I wonder if you are truly bonded with a friend if you can’t occasionally lament about the challenge of choosing kale over the #1 combo. If you’ve never muttered expletives at a scale or identified with a classic “Cathy” comic strip, you may not understand. My friends and I who have weathered Weight Watchers, paleo, keto, boot camps, wasted gym memberships, from couch to 5k programs and glorious binges followed by guilt - we’ve been through the trenches. “I’ll start Monday” is our battle cry and sometimes we really do start Monday.

No matter shape, size, cravings or physical prowess, something all my friends understand and agree on are leggings- follow me here, I have a point. We never thought we’d see leggings circle back from the 80s and become a wardrobe staple, but here we are with drawers full. The obvious reasons we wear them are that they are comfortable, much more so than jeans, and they’re versatile. They’re the antithesis to the bridesmaid dress that “you can totally wear again.” We wear leggings all the time: to bed, to work, to the gym, on a date. They’re as varietal as underwear, offering cuts, colors and fabrics to fit your fancy. They’re Superpants! Spandex by day, pleather by night! Note to user: Please bend over to test the transparency of your Superpants. The great Leonard Cohen once said “there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” He is exactly right.

The athleisure variety of leggings is a fan favorite. We know them as “yoga pants.” Though we may be unsure if a chaturanga is a Mexican dish or a pose, we reserve the right to call our leggings yoga pants. That name implies promise and intent, as if yoga is where we’re headed right after the Chick-Fil-A drive through. The Catch 22 with yoga pants, and most leggings, is that they’re like the friend who doesn’t tell you the truth for fear of hurting your feelings. Maybe you wonder if your constant snacking during the Great Quarantine of 2020 has taken a toll. Maybe your favorite shirt feels snug…is it time to wind down your Wine Wednesdays? But the leggings, bless them, they still fit! They’re as forgiving as priests, stretching to accommodate you just as you are, “come on in, extra 5 pounds, peace be with you.”

Leggings are our uniform, our go-to for comfort, style and fitness. They are fashion in 2020. It’s the biggest trend I can remember since low-rider jeans, when our butt cracks were on display for a decade. In a time when body image and comparison is such a constant, perhaps we should lean (or stretch? bend?) into leggings as stewards of acceptance. They’re really on to something- that bit of common sense we all need. They’re as much a symbol of fitness as they are of the “all bodies are beautiful” movement. Whether you’re 5 pounds up, 5 pounds down or could care less, leggings, like good friends, are supportive. Nutrition and fitness are so important, but so is sanity. Always remember the Superpants credo: “Get moving, give yourself grace and don’t worry…we’ve got your crack.”

A Spoonful of Juice Newton

I’ve always been big on singing. I sing to my kids, I sing in the shower, and in the car. I sang to my dogs when I was a little girl. I’d stand in the backyard and belt out “God Bless the USA” like a tone-deaf Miss America. In college I constantly serenaded my sorority sisters. No one ever said so, but I believe my renditions of ‘NSync and Shakira songs were paramount through the perils of freshman 15’s and Greek life mixers. These days I have a magnet for my minivan that reads “I’ve got the music in me!” It’s flair from my sons’ music class, but the message speaks to my soul.

My favorite time to sing is when I’m baking. I bake at night after my boys go to bed. I throw on an apron; I whisk, I measure, and I bust a lung, harmonizing to Pandora Radio. While my husband Dan supports my baking endeavors, he isn’t enthusiastic about my singing career.

When it comes to music selection, I admit my favorites are an obscure (slightly embarrassing) mix. I know lots of my girlfriends indulge in rap. While I’m not opposed to rap, I’m not hip to it either.  My wheelhouse is a blend of old country music, 80’s rock, and musicals. Give me Bonnie Tyler, give me Pat Benatar, throw in a hair band ballad and let’s fire up the oven.

I’ve been enthralled by musicals, like Bye, Bye Birdie, since I could talk (Ann-Margret, bless her, is her very own essay for another day). Though I know every song and blink in the movie, I really hit my stride with “A Lot of Livin’ to Do.” I just need you to know that. I usually follow Bye, Bye Birdie with another nostalgic soundtrack: Grease 2. Stephanie Zinone, my alter-ego. She is everything I’m not, until, of course, I start baking. When Dan asks me to lower my volume a touch, he sees his wife in flour-dusted pajamas, a knot of hair atop her head, but in my mind, I’m doused in black leather, tossing my mane wildly as I sing about my badass fantasy boyfriend. My most recent “Cool Rider” performance before an audience was after my baby shower in February 2015. I was 8 months pregnant. There was a kitchen barstool substituting as a ladder, laborious breathing, a cameo by Braxton Hicks, and cankles. The following night, I was in the hospital on oxygen for two hours.

As I continue amateur hour in my kitchen, I perk up when I hear my homegirls: Bette, Dolly, and Cher. My dream team. Years ago I had to choose between seeing either Bette or Cher perform live in Las Vegas- it was my very own “Sophie’s Choice.” I ended up at Cher’s show and was in such awe, I was rendered mute and couldn’t sing along. I watched her prance across the stage in leather and fishnets, my eyes glistening with tears, wishing I could turn back time and be a singer, or at least a glorified groupie. I would’ve been great at that.

While bouncing around my favorite Pandora stations a few months back, I discovered Juice Newton radio. I was instantly transfixed. One minute I’m Dolly, singing “I Will Always Love You,” (The original and best version. Let’s not make this a thing.), then I’m belting out a jaunty duet, “Islands in the Stream,” with my dear friend Kenny Rogers, wishing my apron had sequins and perky, umm…microphones. When a song ends, I eagerly anticipate what’s coming next and then - oh yes- “Lookin for Love” from the Urban Cowboy soundtrack starts to twang. Now, not only am I singing, I’m quoting the movie (Fine, forget it!), two-stepping, and sifting. Look at me multi-tasking! Dan passes through to grab a snack and I ignore his smirk. I am a country idol slash Betty Crocker goddess. Let me live.

Then, like an answered prayer, Juice Newton’s “Angel in the Morning” is humming in my ears. I float around the kitchen, checking to see if the cake is rising as I sing “just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby…” I have so much conviction, you’d wonder what I’ve been up to when not corralling toddlers. Yes, it’s a risqué song about a one-night stand, but I’m a performer - maybe not a method performer, but I embrace my lyrics. Do you think Reba McIntyre knows what it’s like to be a hooker named Fancy? Probably not, but that gritty ginger nailed it and so do I. That’s how legends, and my Snickerdoodles, are made.

Singing is my stress reliever. It’s my way of tuning out the junk that clutters my brain. It makes me happy and keeps me productive in the kitchen. Juice Newton is the secret ingredient in all my baked goods.