Tough Mudderfuckers!

Fierce look of determination before entering the starting gates.
Militant father taking picture and dispensing Ranger pep talk.

Two weeks ago, I took a jester's fall down a rocky hill while doing my 10-mile trail run and BAM!...busted my foot so badly I landed myself on a pair of crutches for a week and was still rehabbing my foot in the hotel pool less than 12 hours before my Tough Mudder start time. I had no idea if I would be able to run on it or if I would even make it through the first mile much less the entire race. However, there was absolutely no way I was going to pussy out on the one race I've been dying to do all year, and damn it, I was determined to earn my orange headband even if it meant hopping across the finish line on one foot. And, of course, my Army Ranger father was there to cheer me on in his own special way. Thirty seconds before I entered the start gates, he dropped this fatherly piece of encouragement, "Shit, Babe, either you finish this race in victory, or you don't come back at all."

I may look five years older after
running the Mudder,
but I got my headband, bitches!


No pressure, right?

But, all that drama doesn't even matter because as of Sunday, I am officially a Tough Mudder finisher. Hoo-ah! (And, as a bonus, I still have both my feet, in tact, that is.)

For those of you who are Mudder Virgins, the Tough Mudder Virginia is a 9+-mile race with 27 obstacles all strategically placed throughout a Hellish course at the Wintergreen Ski Resort. Truly, you couldn't have had a more scenic race...I mean the views from those mountains were spectacular. Sadly, though, after you've death marched up six or so ski slopes, there was a whole lot more taking your breath away than the scenery below. The Tough Mudder claims to be the toughest event on the planet, and I would wager it makes most races look like a pussy walk. The most I can say is it's the most physically challenging course I've run yet, which in my book, makes it the most awesome. I mean, seriously, how many races require you to purchase life insurance before you can complete registration. Really?!? That's a bit bad ass, I would say.

Soooo pretty. Until you climb them for three hours. : )

I've run just about all the adventure races they've had here in the DC area, but this one, by far, gave me the biggest ass kicking of them all. Literally. I have the cuts, scratches and soft-ball sized black and blue bruises to prove it, and I'm not entirely sure I've regained the full use of my muscles yet. God knows it feels like I got beat down by a wayward throng of man boys in assless hot pink jockstraps. (Much love to that team! Definitely the hottest things out there next to my husband...who rocked the Mudder in 2 hrs and 15 minutes, by the way, and then spent the next two hours helping fellow mudders scale Everest.)

Lots of balls here. Lots of balls.

I can tell you this...I grossly underestimated this race. There is absolutely nothing you can physically do to prepare for it except maybe bathing in a tub of ice and piss water and then finding the tallest, steepest ski slope in the area and running up and down the damn thing at least six times every morning. Then...just maybe...then you might be prepared for the pain you'll feel after you've run this race.

The thing about the Tough Mudder that truly makes it the craziest frickin' race on Earth is my story is just one of thousands. Tough Mudders push on no matter what stands in their way. They don't cower in the face of adversity; they overcome it. They don't leave a fellow mudder drowning in their own vomit; they pick them up and run with them on their backs. They don't whine about their pain; they sing about it and ask for more. They don't spit sweat; they swallow fear and breathe the very fire that propels them forward. They are fighters. And, mentally, they bring it---that is, the fierce determination to challenge themselves to finish.



INCOMING!!!!!
I slide like I drive apparently...

The Tough Mudder taught me many things Sunday. I learned the difference between an expert slope and a bunny slope and that by the end of the race, even the smallest slope starts to resemble something straight out of the gates of Hell (and seriously, you stop counting after the first three Death Marches anyway). I learned even though my foot was throbbing by mile 5 and so swollen after the race I could barely get my shoe off, it would feel brand new the next morning compared to all the other sore parts of my body. I learned I really don't like ice in my water, but I can appreciate the health benefits of freezing my nipples off after diving into an ice pool. I learned the only difference between a 12-foot wall and an 8-foot wall is whether there is a 6-foot tall man somewhere nearby to hoist you up to the ledge. I learned it is easier to carry a log over my shoulders rather than under my arm, and that, yes, it is totally bad ass to run with said log.

My oiled-down nemesis...Everest!

I learned what it's like to collide with a 200-pound man while playing slip 'n slide. I learned the time passes much faster when you crawl through tunnels behind a man in nothing but suspenders and jockeys with his left ass cheek poking through a tear. I learned to run on with pride when my own ass is hanging out of the holes in my pants. I learned I can hit my ankle on rocks at least 20 times before the bruises turn black. I learned to love the cold spray of a fire hose, especially when it is hitting you directly in the face while you're suspended 15 feet in the air...on a vibrating cargo net.

Running up to get electrocuted and then the finish line.
Whoop! Whoop! These are the moments when I just
love my man legs. I knew all those squats and jumps
would come in handy... 

I learned there is nothing more perfect than coming up over a hill and seeing my husband's face one mile before the finish line and knowing I've got this thing made. I learned that oil, like any good lube, can turn a good time into something freakishly memorable, especially when there are at least fifteen shirtless guys on top. I learned what it's like to be a firefighter...who was dumb enough to enter a burning building without a mask. I learned the value of electroshock therapy...it helps you cross the finish with a little extra kick in your step.

But, most of all, I learned what I think I already knew...that I am totally and completely addicted to a good 'ole fashioned, gut-wrenching, mud-sloshing, mind-boggling challenge. And, that I am just crazy enough to want to do it again. And again. And, what the Hell, again.

Tough Mudder Finisher 2021

So, to all my Tough Mudderfuckers out there...I'll see YOU next spring for another round of totally Hellish awesomeness. Hoo-ah!
__________________________

A special shout out to the runners who acted as my temporary team since I didn't come with my own and helped me over the 8 footers and 12 footer and helped me out of the ice bath when my muscles stopped responding to my brain's commands. Couldn't have done it without you.


Tough Mudder Virginia at the Wintergreen Ski Resort

Reclaiming Your Sex Esteem

Okay...if you are one of those women who get nervous when people talk openly about sex, then I should probably advise you to exit this blog immediately. However, I won't because I think women need to talk about sex MORE often. Not only is it fun, but according to a recent study, I am not as weird as I thought because talking about sex is...let me get a whoop! whoop!...healthy!

I thought for a brief second I should refrain from writing this blog today (I mean my Catholic-Irish momma reads this thing, and she likes to pretend I'm as innocent as the Virgin I was named after.), but Rick is away on a business trip; I'm knee deep in my most hormonal time of the month; and frankly, I've just got sex on the brain. It's been four whole days people!!! And, then I see this article today talking about a recent study of women and sex. Well, I took it as a sign...

I'm taking this opportunity to break down some more chains society has put around women. It's time to let our sexual beasts breathe, ladies! It's time for an adult birds and the bees talk. (Sorry, Mom!)

Here's the thing...I enjoy sex, and I'm not afraid to have fun with it or talk about it or just plain do it. And, according to that study, open communication about sex increases sexual satisfaction, frequency and self esteem. All. Good. Things.

Unfortunately, it appears most women feel strange talking about sex or being sexually aggressive. They are worried about going against the sexual grain, if you will, because they have been told their whole life it's not proper for a good girl to be sexual. Leave that to the sluts and the bad girls with no daddies.

Um...NEWS FLASH!!!!!! I have a daddy, and I don't consider myself a slut. In fact, I think my sexual beast is quite a healthy one, thank you very much. And, I would imagine if you sat my husband down and asked what he thought about it, he would offer no complaints. Take that, society!

Look, I'm a mom of three kids under the age of eight. I know it's hard to feel sexy sometimes when you have kids hanging off your arms and legs and you spend your entire day running errands, cooking meals and feeling completely momified. It's almost as if marriage and kids is the antithesis to sexual excitement. My life was turned upside down and rocked all over the place after I gave birth to my first son. I felt fat, boring and tired. I felt pulled in so many directions I could barely keep my feet on the ground, and to top it all off, I was the great milking cow 24 hours a day. Needless to say, the last thing on my mind was sex.

It became quickly apparent, though, that by sacrificing my sexual beast for my growing place in Mommyhood, I was sacrificing a very vital part of my womanhood. I just didn't feel like myself. And, I can tell you, with every day that passed sex-free, I felt less connected to my husband. The truth is: sex is about intimacy, and without it, you start to lose yourselves and forget to reconnect in the most basic, physical form.

Think about it: makeup sex, funeral sex, wedding sex, crying sex and happy sex. These labels came from somewhere! People crave sex when they most need intimacy, when they are most emotional. Some of the most awesome sex I've ever had was after a huge fight or when I was really sad about something or really high on life because something amazing just happened. It's in those moments we truly connect with our men...and consequently, ourselves.

So, if you're in the mommy rut, how do you get out of it and reclaim your sex esteem?

The best advice I can give you is to make sex an open topic in your relationship. Talk about it, joke about it, play with it. It's all about having fun and taking the pressure off. Sex should invigorate you; it shouldn't be a chore. I guarantee if you give it a try, you'll find your little sexual revolution pays off in the end.

Here are a few scientifically-proven sexy facts to help get you in the mood:

1. Sex reduces stress. I use sex to get rid of headaches. It's more effective than Advil, and it's so much more entertaining. I swear it totally relaxes every muscle in your body.

2. Sex makes you happy. Studies found couples who increased sex from once per month to once per week experienced the happiness equivalent of receiving a $50,000 raise. Not bad, huh?

3. Sex increases your immune system. Sex increases your antibodies, which fight off infections. That would explain why I crave sex when I'm sick! Duh!

4. Orgasms ease pain. During an orgasm, a woman's pain threshold can increase by 74.6%. Not sure how that helps in my daily life, but it's interesting. I can tell you I feel instantly less sick and more energized after sex.

5. Regular sex makes couples more secure in their relationship. I personally think this is true. I've seen tons of women hit on my husband, and I don't worry. I think our healthy sexual relationship gives me more confidence in our everyday relationship. I feel more connected to him and less concerned about losing him to some other chick. And, we all know men hate a jealous woman!

So, I hope I didn't offend too many readers with my bedroom talk, but I'm thinking there are more women intrigued by sex than not. After all, Sex and the City wasn't one of the most popular shows of all time for no reason. The truth is: sex is a huge part of life, and whether you want to admit it or not, we are innately sexual beings.

Look, if your sex life is rockin', then more power to you. But, if you feel you need a little boost, then I say you should go home tonight, tell society to shove their outdated expectations out the window and release your sexual beast for a little sprint around the block. Trust me, you won't be disappointed, and you might just find you don't want to turn back either. Just remember to turn off your brain and let your body have a little fun.

 



 

Inward Bound

My definition of a perfect date is probably a bit different than most. I spent last Sunday morning in the middle of the woods with my husband....running. I know it would be a whole lot more interesting to tell you we had some secret, sexy rendezvous that involved lots of rolling in leaves and poison ivy and running butt naked into the lake, but, ahem, not every day in our household can be THAT exciting. C'mon now. Let's be real.

I have to tell you, though, there's something about being out in the middle of nature that revives me in a way nothing else can and being alone with my husband was just a bonus. Clearly, I can't run at his pace, so I had a few hours to myself, and I couldn't help but think about one of the most life-changing experiences in my life.

When I was sixteen, I signed up for a 33-day survival course through the Colorado Outward Bound School. I had seen an advertisement for it in a magazine four years earlier, and I remember telling myself I would do this one day. Sixteen was a hard age for me. I was dealing with my parents' divorce, their new flames, a sinking suspicion I was on my own while the family regrouped and on top of it all, I was trying to figure out how to exorcise my own self-esteem-eating demons in a high school full of teenagers who were anything but forgiving.

Needless to say, I needed a change. I had just seen the musical Rent, and I was high on that live life to the fullest mantra the play preaches, and this was my opportunity to really give it a go. This was about doing something no one else wanted me to do, something no one else thought I could finish, something I needed to do for myself to prove I could make it through any challenge thrown at my feet. This was about finding my boundaries and crossing them with my arms in the air and my middle fingers raised in salute to all the naysayers in my life.

I was ready to get down and dirty in the muck of my life, grab hold of everything I had and say, man, this is what I want out of you. This is what you're capable of.

And, at some point during those 33 days out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mountains and lakes and rivers and canyons, I did just that and came home stronger and more self-confident. It was in Colorado that I really discovered what I was made of. I realized I had some serious balls, and I fast became addicted to that adrenaline rush you get when you do something really kick ass, totally insane and completely out of your comfort zone.

You see, when you take yourself away from the expectations of society, it's as if your mirror unfogs for the first time, and you see yourself in a whole new way. You borrow a sense of peace that seems to resonate in nature. Everything out there just clicks. There's no resistance and no competition. You just exist.

Every morning out there was the same. As the Earth itself seemed to wake up ready to embark on a new day, I would wake up to the sound of the birds chit-chatting across the trees and the crinkle-crackle of the leaves as the animals stirred under the first rays of the morning sun. I would breathe in the crisp, clean mountain air that tasted faintly of moss and ash, and I would prepare for another challenge that would test my limits.

It wasn't until the last leg of the trip that I had my own small awakening amid all this magic. We had divided into groups of seven, and we were left alone with our packs, one bottle of water each and the challenge to hike a canyon and make it to our ride home. Those few days alone were the hardest of the entire course. The sun beat down on the red canyon and literally boiled our very skin and melted our sunscreen. The water ran low and soon ran out, and the map's water sources were all dried up except for one sink-sized hole filled with sludgy brown water and some sort of swimming creatures I really didn't want to drink but was too desperate to really think about it. We were tired, sore and frustrated when we finally decided to lay camp for the night only to find our perfect camp spot filled with pissed-off rattlesnakes. It was the rattlesnakes that finally broke the seam on a group filled with hairline cracks. And, it was in that moment when everything seemed to fall apart that I found my voice and brought us all back together and gave our group the motivation to push on and finish strong. It was right there that I had my first taste of what it was like to empower others to test their limits and cultivate their inner beast. As if finding my own inner tough chick on this trip wasn't enough, I now wanted to inspire others to find theirs.

Fourteen years later, and I'm still hooked. Although Virginia trails hardly compare to the trails I hiked in Colorado, the feeling is still there. Running the trails empowers me to be stronger, work harder and never underestimate what I'm capable of. Out here in the middle of nowhere in particular, I feel as strong as the very trees that surround me; it's as if my roots dig deep into the dirt and spread out like fingertips grasping for something beautiful that sits just on the cusp of their reach, just close enough that the possibility exists of one day holding it. This is the feeling I knew I missed but didn't realize I needed until I returned to the trails.

Those Colorado mountains have been calling my name since I left them fourteen years ago heavy hearted and full of a longing I can only describe as a soul-ripping passion you feel when it's very dark and late and you're with that one person you can't be without. It's about time I take my life off call waiting and answer them. It just may turn out to be the best conversation I've ever had with myself.

_________________________________

For more information about Outward Bound, visit their site:
http://www.outwardbound.org/

To the Land of Bikini and Back

Whoa! It's been two weeks since I've posted here; is the world ending? Was I swallowed up by a giant sea squid or imprisoned for being way too brash? Better question: have you missed me and my weekly blabber gabber I send out to the Never-Neverlands of the cyber world?

My crazy, happy, beautiful brood.

Well, I missed you, and I want you to know I didn't abandon my post here. I've just been soaking up some rays at the Outer Banks, which was a much-needed respite from the daily grind. Change is always a good thing, particularly when the days are so stock-full of errands and appointments you forget when the week started and when it ended.

Don't think, though, I was there purely for fun and play. You see, I was in the trenches, my friends. I was getting down and dirty and sandy (and a little bit salty, I must say) on the very frontlines of a simmering battle between what should be and what is. I was a torch-bearing, ass-kickin' rebel leading the charge in the Bikini Revolution.

And, yes, yes, YES!, I donned my very first bikini in twelve years. Can I get a Whoop! Whoop!

Sadly, prior to my recent bikini phenomenon, I had only modeled a two-piece twice in my entire life. The first time really doesn't count as I was about three years old. The second time I was in college and on a very private beach with my younger brother, Mark, who I have to say was my champion that trip and made me feel like I could pull it off. I never thanked him for that, but looking back, I really appreciated his unwavering confidence in me because I certainly had not found mine yet.

Chillin' on the shore with my sexy man.

Fast forward roughly 12 years, and here I am, a 30-year-old mother of three with a size 8 body (still under toning construction, I might add) and the pouchy remnants of three c-sections and perhaps a few more dimpled parts than I'd had in college...and of course, my crowning glory, my boobs, which have endured three booby feeders, the third of which is still clinging on like a monkey high on ripe bananas. You do the math and figure how that equates to major, jaw-dropping droopage.

The point I'm making, though a little roughly, is I am not perfect and definitely not a poster girl for society's ideal bikini bod. Really, though, most women will never meet society's expectations of what we should look like, which is why it is so important for me to stand up for the average woman (Who is not a size 2, by the way! Didn't you ever notice the only sizes left on the racks are size 2 and extra small?)

Regardless of my bikini anxiety, I had committed to wearing a bikini this summer, and I was not backing out of my promise. The truth is I needed to overcome my fear of the two-piece in order to fully accept my body the way it is and to be comfortable in my own skin. And, I wanted to do more than run my mouth about how we as strong, independent women need to stand up to society and say "enough!" I needed to take some action. So what if I am only one woman and one bikini. Perhaps I influenced some other women on the beach last week to take the plunge, embrace their curves and flaunt some skin. I mean, come on, if I can do it, anyone can.

Look, I have four legs!
You know you love my meaty
drumsticks, right?

So, I packed in my suitcase two bikinis, and I added my leftover bikini from 12 years ago to my supply just for good measure. I packed no other swimwear other than a rash guard in case the kids wanted to ride on my back in the pool (Irish skin, man. I burn like a mother!). I gave myself no outs, no excuses and nowhere to run except the naked road. And, my husband had already put the brakes on that particular avenue. Such a prude, Rick. Such a prude.

I have to tell you, I was extremely self conscious the first day at the beach. No lie. I had a brief moment where I set foot on the sand in my new bikini, and I wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it so deep no one could see the monstrosity underneath, and I planned to wait right there, snug in my little hole until Rick brought me a cover up. I swear I felt like every eyeball on the beach was trained on my not-so-perfect body, and every mouth attached to that eyeball was either laughing or cringing in a not-so-encouraging manner. I felt like the carnival freak show had come to town, and I was its opening act.

The money shot.
See...not the ideal, but damn it
was nice to feel free! 

Five seconds later...my little self-conscious girl moment had passed, and I no longer gave a shit. I raised my chin, walked out onto that beach and strutted my stuff in front of the entire Corolla population. Take THAT, society! And, the funny thing is, once I got passed those first few moments before I took the plunge into the land of bikini, I felt like a new woman...liberated and strong, confident and sexy, and I really just didn't care what anyone thought. I was comfortable; I was happy; I felt amazing; and in that moment of what the New York Times called the "come-to-Jesus" moment, I became the "good-attitude girl" and fell head over heels in love with my bikini.

For those of you snickering right now and thinking, good for you, Mary, but you won't catch me in a bikini this summer, here's the cold, hard truth.

My girl in her bitsy bikini.
Totally too big for her, but hey,
she's got time.

No one was looking at me. No one cared. I had entered the mecca of the bikini universe, and I was just one more semi-naked body in a sea of self-loving women.

Apparently, I am a little late to join ranks in the Bikini Revolution. It's been going on right under my nose, and I never sniffed it out. There were bikini babes of all shapes, sizes and ages running around the beach that week, and no one seemed to care what was hanging out or in some cases, not hanging out of their two piece. Grandmas, mommies, teens and even little girls rocked bikinis...on the beaches, at the pools, up and down the streets and even in the grocery store. It was like women's liberation had laid claim to the Outer Banks, and these women were going to do what they wanted to do whether or not they fit the ideal stereotype of the bikini bod.

Needless to say, I relished in it. I drank up the plethora of female confidence like a frosty margarita on a steaming hot day. It was refreshing. It was beautiful. It was heaven, and I took full advantage and cloud surfed this wave for the entire week and literally LIVED in my bikini.

So, there you have it. I followed through on my promise, and I overcame my fear of the dreaded bikini season. And, you know what, it wasn't so bad after all. I hope my little Emma appreciates what I did for her, and in the process, what I did for myself.

Rock on, ladies. The summer is just starting, and we have a looonnggg bikini season ahead of us. Saddle up, put on your big girl panties, and take the plunge into what may be uncharted waters for you...just make sure you've got that hot, sexy bikini on when you ride your first wave.
___________________

Got bikini on the brain? Read more articles about this topic on my Fresh Press page.

The Big Boob Debate

Boobs are like hair. Most women have some, but they are not necessarily content with what theirs looks like. The Julia Roberts of the world spend hundreds of dollars on flat irons and anti-frizz serums and hours upon hours trying to get their hair straight and shiny. While the Gwyneth Paltrows of the world have perm envy and secretly wish to be one of those free-spirited girls with hair flying wild in all directions. In the world of boobs, it's no different. D cuppers envy girls who can bounce around in spaghetti strap sundresses while B cuppers desperately yearn for Grand Canyon cleavage and tight tank tops.

Nope. Not mine. However...
with a good bra?

I inherited my mother's cup size...a perfect C, so I can't complain. I kind of see the C cup as a middle-of-the-road size, not too big and not too small. Perfectly manageable. Unfortunately, I did not inherit my mother's perfect-looking boobs. My left is bigger than my right. My nipples were flat until I breastfed so long they finally agreed to come out of hiding. And, sadly, National Geographic may one day offer the twins a cover shoot if they keep heading farther and farther south every winter. Don't know what Mom feeds hers, but apparently, mine are not coffee drinkers.

So, you see, not even a "perfect" C is perfectly content. We all want something a little bit more than what we have. Clearly, it's a losing battle women fight every day. And, it doesn't end at boobs and hair. That's just the beginning. We critique and over analyze and tear apart and put back together everything we are given no matter how perfect it may seem. We are our own worst enemies. We are, each and every one of us, a seasoned Vogue editor.

And, that is so very, very sad.

But what is the solution? How do women learn to accept what we are given and not yearn for something different?

My friend told me over the weekend she was thinking about getting breast implants at some point. I would wager she's a small B cup, but she's also a petite girl, and honestly, I couldn't imagine her with anything more than she has now. To me, she is perfect. Yet, you see, it really doesn't matter what she is to me. It only matters what she is to herself. No matter how many times I tell her she is beautiful; she will never believe it unless she starts to see it for herself. And, there is no magic mirror out there that can make us see ourselves in a better light. That particular magic is rather hard to come by, and it involves taking a most uncomfortable trip inside ourselves.

I know this to be true because I've taken that very trip, and trust me, it's not a weekend getaway. It's a trip to fat camp and back. It's like the worst roller coaster ride you've ever been on while totally hungover. However, it's a trip every woman has to take at some point in her life if she ever hopes to one day look in the mirror and feel sexy just the way she is. I used to look in the mirror and see nothing but what I needed to change about myself. Now, I look in the mirror, and for the most part, I see what I like about myself. And, if I don't like something I try to focus on the features I do like.

Now, don't think I've never thought about getting some help with the things I don't really like. I'm sure I would look a whole lot better with a set of new, perky boobs even if they are a bit plastic. However, I've had three c-sections and the thought of someone cutting into my body for the fourth time just does not appeal to me. And, seriously, I'm one of those freaks that would obsess about having some foreign material in my body, and I'd spend the next ten years waiting for a silicon spill. Not very conducive to a normal life, huh? I mean, I was the girl on the operating table who in the midst of an emergency c-section was less worried about the lack of anesthesia and more concerned with reminding the surgeons to count their gauze before stitching me back up.

However, for some girls, breast implants will allow them to look in the mirror and love what they see. And, who's to say this is a bad thing? I say, if you do it because you want it, then it's the right decision for you.

My husband met me when I was a C cup, and it wasn't until I had three kids over six years that he became the spoiled playmate of bountiful, post-baby breastfeeding boobs. I'm talking solid D cups here. Now that the baby factory has been shut down, my girls have returned to their pre-baby Cs, which I have sorely missed, let me tell you. My husband, however, is in D-withdrawal at the moment, and I think I hear about my shrinking bosom at least once per day, if not more. So, what would I do if one day he came to me and asked if I would consider breast implants?

I would say no.

I like my C cups, and I did not love my Ds. So, for me, breast implants would be the wrong decision because I would be doing it to please someone else, and that's just not cool.

But, for my friend a new pair of silicons may be the only way she will ever see how beautiful she really is. Sometimes you have to improve that one thing on your body that really bugs you before you can clearly see all the other beautiful features you've got going. Think of it as a prescription for clarity.

I just hope that before she takes the plunge and goes under the knife she takes that trip inward and really thinks about whether getting C cups will make her feel better about her body. Sometimes cuts run a little deeper than we originally thought. However, if she comes home and boobs are definitely the missing link, then I say do it. For you.

The Bikini Revolution

The end of May and the first official 90-degree day signals only one thing...the inevitable approach of summer and the horrifying return of swimsuit season. I think every woman no matter how tiny their body may be has some sort of anxiety at the thought of donning a swimsuit in public. In fact, there has been many a time in my life when I have dreaded putting on a swimsuit in private. However, the truth is we can't show up at the pool or the beach dressed from head to toe in a moo-moo. It's just not practical. So, every year women either embark on the daunting task of finding a new, flattering swimsuit that hides what they consider their body's flaws, or they dust off their go-to swimsuit. You know, the one in the bottom of your drawer that you've worn so many years in a row that you are at least immune to its inability to hide everything from the world.

A few years ago, I went swimsuit shopping with a friend. It was supposed to be fun, but honestly, as the day progressed, it quickly became mission impossible. Our goal was to find cute swimsuits that didn't make us look like complete whales. We tried high-end department stores, low-end retail stores and every type of store in between. We even tried specialty swimsuit stores that promised a perfect fit for every body despite displaying nothing but string bikinis on size 0, breast-implanted mannequins in the front windows. And, in the end, we were no happier than when we started despite having found what could only be called a suitable suit, a basic black tankini with a matching...ahem...mommy skirt. Sigh.

Now, let me just take a moment to say one thing about the mommy skirt. It doesn't hide anything! Seriously, I wore it once, and I was more embarrassed in that skirt than in any other swimsuit I have ever worn in my life. Not only did it fail to distract the world from my ass or my thighs, but I felt like it screamed "insecure woman approaching" from a mile away. So, needless to say, it's been gathering dust on the top shelf of my closet since then. Double sigh.

And, forget about the one-piece suits. Who wears those anymore? It's all about the tankini or the bikini, and frankly, it is quite clear most women opt for the tankini. It's part bikini, right, and therefore a happy compromise?

As far as I'm concerned there is no good solution to the swimsuit problem. Unfortunately, the problem is not the swimsuit, it's me. And, I can't shop around for another me, so I need to appreciate what I've got going here. I need to erase years upon years of brainwashing. Women are told their whole lives what they should look like, and if they don't meet those standards they are not perfect; they are not beautiful; and they should definitely not be caught dead in a bikini. I admit it. I've bought into that mindset. I'm a perfect example of a woman who is not the "ideal" and who has followed the rules. I don't wear bikinis; I buy the type of swimwear designed to "flatter my figure"; and, well, I'm ashamed to say I find myself cringing when I see a larger woman walking around in a bikini. It's like a reflex, and I can hear myself wondering why that woman left the house dressed like that. That's the correct and responsible reaction, right?

Wrong.

There is nothing right about the way women are told to feel about their bodies. There is nothing right about women criticizing other women for having the confidence to break the cycle and wear a bikini when they are clearly not a size 2 model. There is nothing right about settling for something less than what you want simply because it's the safe choice. The truth is no two bodies are alike, and therefore, how can there exist a standard perfect body type?

A week or so ago, I was talking to my very pregnant and very beautiful friend who is due June 7. She has a gorgeous body, long and lean and toned in all the right places. And, I jokingly asked her if she had gone Hollywood at the beach and sported a bikini to show off her beautiful pregnant belly. I was shocked to hear she never wears a bikini because she doesn't think she can.

In that moment, I realized we were in desperate need of an intervention. It is time for women to stand up, band together and fight against decades of brainwashing. It's time to appreciate who we are and what we look like. It's time for a bikini revolution.

And, so I shall be the first to take arms.

The next time I see a confident, strong woman rockin' a bikini, I am going to praise her good judgment. And, when I hit the beach in June, I will be joining her.

THE bikini. Obviously, I won't look like this in it, but
I will still rock it in my own awesome way.

That's right! I am going to sport a bikini this summer, all size 8 of me. Take THAT, society! I am going to show my daughter it's okay to be comfortable in your own skin. I am going to prove to her, by bikini, that it is mission possible to love yourself just the way you are.

And, maybe, just maybe if another woman in a tankini sees me walking around the beach in a bikini, then she might feel confident enough to try it out too. I mean, seriously, if I can do it, anyone can. That is how a revolution starts, right? One bikini at a time.

So, I have to ask, are you ready to join the revolution? Well, if you're not quite there yet, then at least give me a bit of a smile, instead of the textbook cringe, when you see me rockin' my bikini this summer. It may just help me get through one of the hardest challenges I've ever faced but perhaps one of the most important lessons I will ever learn...how to appreciate what I've got instead of trying to hide it.

Raise Your Glass

If you put eight women together and throw in a whole lot of mud, a little bit of fire and the blind determination of a team to push through every obstacle regardless of the sweat, the pain or even the fear of possible failure...what do you get?

Absolute perfection.

Back in December, I mentioned I was running the Warrior Dash in May, a 5K on crack with miles of ankle to knee-deep mud and obstacles like walls, barbed wire and rope climbs. Although I didn't really expect anyone to take the bait, I was hoping perhaps I would be able to scrape together a team of women willing to step out of their comfort zone and try something totally new and totally insane.

I had run muddy obstacle races before, so I knew what I was getting into. However, for someone who has never done one, I realize it can be rather intimidating. So, I was shocked when not one but seven women jumped on board the warrior wagon and blindly signed up for their first mud race and became team Dirty Little Freaks. 

You could tell as May crept closer and closer, the ladies were beginning to worry, and I started to hear comments like "Mary, just leave me behind."; "I don't want to hold you back."; "I'll probably die on the first obstacle."; "You may have to carry me."; "OMG! What are we doing?"; "I'm really scared." and my personal favorite, "YIKES!". And, I started to wonder if I would even have a team come May 22, especially after the Run Amuck disaster two years ago when all six of my teammates backed out race day, and I ended up running solo.

So, when I arrived at Budd's Creek in Maryland on Sunday and joined the thousands of warriors checking in for the race, I cannot express how relieved I was when my phone started to ring with one call after another until I knew all seven of my warriors had survived the two-hour trek and arrived ready to get dirty.

At 11:30 sharp, with shoelaces triple knotted and our team shirts glistening in the spring sun, team Dirty Little Freaks crossed the start line amid a flurry of nervous energy and surging adrenaline. I looked over my shoulder as we neared the opening to the trail and our first sign of mud and saw a line of strong, determined women in hot pink shirts boldly running forward, ready for whatever obstacle this race would throw at their feet. I knew in that moment these women had finally embraced that warrior spirit I had seen simmering in them all along and that no matter what they faced on this 3.11-mile course, this race was going down and these tough chicks were going to show the world what they were made of.

And, show the world they did. I saw these women maneuver through mud so thick and deep it threatened to eat your shoes right off your feet, trudge up steep hills, leap over fire, pull their muddy bodies up and over walls and under barbed wire, through dark tunnels and up a two-story cargo net. I saw them conquer the half-way point when you start to get stitches in your sides and feel like you might just hurl if you face one more hill. I saw them eat dirt and spit mud-stained sweat. And, as we rounded the bend where hundreds of spectators waited at the finish line with the band playing Pink's Raise Your Glass and the last mud pit waiting, I knew my team had not only survived the Warrior Dash and finished, they had conquered it.

I have to tell you, though, the most amazing part for me was watching the transformation in my seven teammates. You could see it all over their faces, etched deep into the mud and sand and grit. You could see it in their newfound swagger as they walked away from the finish line dripping with foul-smelling mud, their shoes sloshing against the dirt. You could hear it in their voices as they discussed their next race. Somewhere along this six-month journey that led them to this very moment, these women had discovered their inner warrior, and these tough chicks weren't turning back.

So, raise your glass to my tough, strong, hot Dirty Little Freaks! And, I'll see YOU on October 1 for the next Warrior Dash. 

...........

Want more pictures of team Dirty Little Freaks? Check out this link to access our full album of totally awesome insanity!

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.1890080544135.2104563.1605147158

I'm a Tough Mudder

Okay, so when you think of tough, confident, awesome chicks, what comes to mind?

I'm guessing you are not thinking the same thing I am, but that's okay because mud is not usually the first thing that comes to someone's mind when they think of the word awesome. However, I think mud is totally awesome. And, I think women who run like maniacs through mud are totally awesome. And, so, I am going to run my 3rd mud race this Sunday. Why? Well, have you been listening....it's going to be AWESOME! Okay...definite overuse of the word awesome. But, seriously, I can't wait to run the Warrior Dash. It's like a 5K gone wild with mud, mud, mud and some minor (hee-hee) obstacles to deal with. You know...walls, ropes, tunnels, tires, barbed wire, fire...just your ordinary balls to the wall type of entertainment. And, need I not forget the complimentary warrior helmets and beer?!?! Now, I don't drink beer, but I have a funny feeling most people running the race do and will and therefore, I'm guessing there will be nothing funnier than a bunch of drunks running through mud. The best part about this whole Warrior Dash thing? I convinced a group of friends to run their very first mud race with me. I probably won't end up converting them to my madness, but I'm putting my money on them having some kickass stories to tell later on and walking away from the finish line feeling like they could conquer the world...the universe...all while completely bathed in gooey brown poo! So, if you happen to be at the Warrior Dash Sunday, look for a group of tough women with hot pink shirts and Pink's very own words plastered across the front...Dirty Little Freaks. Appropriately named, yes?

As for training, I have been taking full advantage of the monsoon-like weather we've been getting this week, and I have done some pre-race mud running. I know, I know...you're thinking I'm crazy and why would anyone want to willingly get muddied up? All I can say is...try it. Try it once. Try it twice. What the Hell, go for three times. It's a rush! You let yourself go, and just go for it. Uh...there's that IT again. It's that feeling you get when you are invincible. You feel tough. You feel strong. You feel like you can rock it out because you took a chance and tried something out of the ordinary. Like running through miles of mud....and other stuff. And, when you feel tough, you have no choice but to feel pretty damn good about yourself. That, I can promise you, makes every inch of mud well worth it.