Das Sprachinstitut LbT-languages in München und Berlin empfiehlt das folgende englischsprachige Buch:

DIARY OF A MOTHER by Christine Louise Hohlbaum

Diary of a Mother tells the tales of an Ivy League educated career woman turned
child-dedicated housewife and the travails and joys of parenting in Boston and Munich.

Chapter Six

HENNY PENNY, MY BUTT IS FALLING!

Somewhere between the ages of 26 and 33, I got older. That may sound obvious or even absurd, but I began to realize that I am no longer the Spring chicken that I used to be. It all started rather subtly. I was standing at the copy machine at graduate school, and a young undergraduate called me “Ma’am.” I took one look at the youthful beast and refrained from hissing. I was only 26.
Even before the lines around my eyes became permanent and the dark circles set in, I became aware of how this society reveres youth, flat tummies, chin-high breasts, and low-cut jeans. Perhaps it all really started when I had my first child.
After Sophia’s birth, I became relegated to a new group in society: those with children. It was an honor and a long-time dream of mine to belong to this coveted group of people. At the same time, I was shut out of the other group of people who do not bear the responsibility of offspring and all that their needs encompass. Oh, I would visit occasionally, reminiscing with old high school friends who were still single, reliving youthful times of reckless abandon, and generally forgetting for an evening that I carried the weight of others with me wherever I go.
I used to say to my oldest sister that I was kicking and screaming all the way into adulthood. My college roommate was the oldest in her family. Being the youngest, I had seemed to be able to shirk responsibility for things much longer than my sisters. One evening, I told my roommate that if she would teach me responsibility, I would teach her manipulation. At the time, I really meant it.
Perhaps it really is a grass-is-always-greener conversation. When I was young enough to unapologetically wear midriff-revealing half-shirts and blue eye shadow, I yearned for the freedom of adulthood. Adults would just laugh and tell me to enjoy my youth while I had it. Now, I yearn for the abs that are no more and the metabolism that allowed me to eat cheese puffs and Coke with impunity. Any way I look at it, I am experiencing age in the time of beauty.
Something happens to the female body after the age of 30. I hate this cliché, and there are plenty of people at my gym who defy this logic. But for those of us who have borne children and had careers, whose priorities have shifted from the size of latte to our kids’ shoe size, physical superiority hangs lower on the list than most anything else.

It’s not so obvious at first glance that things have gotten out of hand. Oh no, it’s more gradual than that. It started when I tried on that favorite pair of jeans that always fit me no matter what, or that skirt that was a little loose, and now I can’t even get the thing half way up my thigh. My most recent experience was a pair of shorts that went beyond the knees okay and with a lot of coaxing, over my thighs and butt.  Forget trying to button the garment. As I peered over my shoulder and strained to see how much damage my body had sustained over the past few years, I realized that my behind rivaled that of Jennifer Lopez. It was time to do something about it.

Stricken by a sense of impending middle age, I dusted off my gym bag and gathered up my postpartum body to assess the situation more seriously. I used to be a size 6, and I used to go without a bra. I used to be a lot of things, but never so miserably out of shape than I was now. Something had to be done, fast.
“I want to run a marathon,” I declared to my husband one evening.
Now mind you, I have not run anything but errands in over ten years and never a marathon, but it suddenly became a personal goal and a relentless dream. I borrowed library books on the subject, barraged my friends who have run marathons with a million questions, took notes, and made a mental list of things to purchase: better running shoes, nylon running shorts to replace badly torn 13-year-old gym shorts, short white tennis socks, and an absorbent runner’s shirt. I was just short of subscribing to Runner’s World  by the time I realized that I also needed to start running. I called up a friend, ten years my junior, and made a running date for the next morning.

Getting up at the crack of dawn, I tried to keep pace with my spry partner. We jogged along the river for about ten minutes when I began to sense trouble ahead. My sides started to ache, my knees buckled, and my lungs gasped flagrantly. It was clear that this was not the right approach. I would need to raise my threshold for pain first. It would require hard training and discipline. Perhaps outdoor running wasn’t the best starting point, I thought. Perhaps I needed to build up my stamina in a more controlled environment. So, off to the gym I went with the greatest of intentions.

The after-work gym crowd was starting to thin when I got there. A step class was in full swing, and I could see forty-five men and women hopping up and down in synch to very loud music. There was no way I could keep up with them. It was better to stick with the plan of running to get in shape.
I am not a snob; really, I’m not. But when it comes to personal space involving lots of sweaty bodies on treadmills facing mirrors and TVs blaring out headlines from CNN and ESPAN, I have my limits. I approached the cardio area of the gym with some discrimination. Which treadmill should I pick? What’s the likelihood of someone who’s had garlic the night before hopping on the one next to mine? And please, Dear God, do not let “The Shouter” be anywhere near me when I break a sweat. It appears to be a fact that every gym in every town in every State of the Union has at least one person who makes him or herself known by undeniable idiosyncrasies, be it the choice of apparel, or the workout method. My gym has The Shouter, a man so possessed with his physical regimen that he feels compelled to let out sound that resembles a barking seal. You know the kind, I know you do. In the end, I opted for the treadmill closest to the TV with captions and began to pound the conveyor belt with elan.

Things were going well for a while. I reached my target heart rate within minutes and hit a comfortable stride. Then, out of nowhere The Shouter appeared and got onto the machine next to mine. I didn’t really know it was The Shouter until well into my workout, too late to abandon the machine and look as though I had had enough. Committed to my new sense of discipline, I was going to endure this as a litmus test for my nerves.
“If I’m going to run a marathon,” I reasoned, “I should be able to handle this.”

After several minutes, I heard “Eight, nine, ten!” The Shouter had already begun. I nonchalantly turned my head as if to stretch, so I could catch a glimpse of this imposter. He was wearing a new-ish looking T-shirt and running shorts. I had hardly recognized him as his hair was different, and he wasn’t wearing glasses this time. In my pre-children life, I would go to the gym three or more times a week, usually in the mornings before work. He would be there in the same thinning T-shirt every time, trumpeting his mantras throughout the gym. He had had a different repertoire back then. The sounds he gave off were more the Neanderthal grunt and wheeze of an overtaxed orangutan. The stationary bike used to be his machine of choice. On the treadmill, I had thought myself safe from such indignation. Two children later, I had a more sporadic exercise schedule and, therefore, I hadn’t seen him in over two years. I realized that he had moved on to a new cardiovascular routine.

“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen!” he cried. I couldn’t help but smile at how obviously everyone around me was ignoring him. He began to shake his head back and forth, thus spewing threads of sweat that reached both my machine and me. Mercifully, my workout ended moments later. I dizzily got off the treadmill and headed for the sauna. Maybe I’ll wait a little while before starting to train, I thought. After all, everyone needs a little break every now and then.


An excerpt from Diary of a Mother: Parenting Stories and Other Stuff by Christine Louise Hohlbaum. Reprinted with author’s permission for LbT-languages. For more information, visit Christine’s Web site at http://www.diaryofamother.com. 

© 2003-2004 Christine Louise Hohlbaum, All Rights Reserved World Wide.



Das Sprachinstitut - Zurück zu: Interessante Links