Author: Words & S’mores

Writer. Transcriber. Lover of the Oxford comma. Aspiring Ghostwriter. My favourite stories to write are the ones you want told🌼
Dancing · fitness

Two Women walk into a Barre

Words & S’mores
Four dancers. Photo by Jill Marv on Unsplash.

It was a Monday afternoon when, during an energetic phone-call, my best friend shared that she would be trialing a barre class that evening. Barre, a ballet-inspired body-weight exercise class, intrigued me because I have had a slow-burn love for ballet for most of my life. If money and time weren’t a constraint, I would absolutely sign up for private adult ballet lessons.

However, since time and money are a hindrance, I thought barre would be the “next best thing.” After all, they do use a ballet barre. That would be close enough, wouldn’t it? I told my friend I would join her that evening to find out.

If you are like me, ballet lover but inexperienced in the dance, you may be in for a cruel awakening if or when you attend your first barre class. Hear me when I say barre is not ballet. Yes, the barre is used. Yes, feet are put into dance positions. Yes, some of the exercises actually look like the ones ballet dancers perform in commercials and movies.

But don’t be fooled. It is very much just a workout and not at all a dance. A quick web or video search would have helped clarify this for me, I chose experiential learning for some reason.

On that Monday night, we were two women walking into a barre class, completely naïve to the burn that was awaiting us.

If you are someone who has endured a barre class, you understand the initial disgust for the words “pulse” and “hold it right there.” I say “initial disgust” to encourage myself, assuming these words get easier to hear. Do they? Or are they doomed to create a crease in my brow and a scowl on my lips each time I hear them? Please, if you know, comment below and tell me honestly.

I still see it now: “Pulse! Pulse! Pulse!” our instructor Kim bellowed repeatedly. I was on my toes in second position with my knees bent. Heels weren’t allowed to touch the ground, but each pulse was a beat my heel would lower to hover just above it. On fire, my calves threatened to collapse. My head would roll forward as I willed my body to trust the process. Kim was calling out encouraging exclamations, but they were drowned out by the heavy breathing and moaning of the participants as they also tried to remain obedient to the process.

Thankfully, Kim offered more than just painful words of encouragement during the reps. She offered words of refreshment, too. Those words gave me the most drive. They were words like “last one” or a glorious countdown from four. These were accepted like a thirst-quenching glass of water.

The moment that stands out best was while I was at the barre. My arms grasped the barre with desperation, shaking as I leaned back to sit in an invisible chair. From beneath my suspended body, my calves yelled at my forearms, declaring themselves to be the greater sufferers. My insistence on keeping position was driven by the fear of falling backwards onto my unprotected tailbone.

When I heard Kim’s “4—3—2—1”, I felt my adrenaline surge. With each declining number, I felt joy sneak into my psyche. By the end of the countdown, I stood in relief and pride. I did it. My friend did it. I was proud of us.

Do you know who also did it? Kim. At four months pregnant, she not only harnessed enough energy for the room, but she also demonstrated accountability to her words and participated in most of the exercises. She balanced the isolated muscle exercises with a few doses of cardio. Her positive energy and wise council for us that needed a positional adjustment made for a supportive evening.

I don’t like to be out of breath. I don’t like to be driven to a state of survival. Exercise is best enjoyed by me when there is nothing to push through. But Kim didn’t let me sit there. She pressed me onward, past my comfort zone, past my limitations, and into a victory I didn’t think was attainable. Her words challenged my initial regret in taking the class.

Barre was not what I expected, and I still think I would enjoy actual ballet more, but barre gave me a new outlook on hard things. I realized how words have tangible meaning in the context of an exercise class. These lessons were brought to me by my instructor, so I am passing them onto you, whether you make your way into a barre class or not.

We were two women who walked into a barre class. We both left tired and wobbly legged. We both will go again. So, if given the opportunity, I say give it a shot.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

dogs · fitness

Maple

Words & S’mores2 Comments

2:00 AM: The mattress depresses and rises at my feet.

2:01 AM: I hear scratches against my MDF door.

2:02 AM: I reluctantly flop the flannel bedding away from my groggy body.

2:03 AM:  I stare tiredly out of the backdoor window at the snow-filled yard, thankful to be inside. Between the window mullions, I watch Maple, our 4-month-old puppy, frolic in the snow before she finds a proper place to squat.

2:05 AM: Maple barges into the house, snowflakes floating on her fur. She sits and accepts the towel that I cup her paws into.

2:07 AM: I worm my way into the sliver of space left in the bed, Maple’s petit frame sprawled across a larger piece of the bed.

5:35 AM: Repeat.

On November 11, 2023, our family drove to a farm west of Edmonton, Alberta and signed the papers that rendered a little Australian Shepherd puppy ours. Thus ended my short-lived freedom from night wakings.

You may ask why I, finally over the baby and toddler phases of child-rearing, decided to thrust myself back into being a self-sacrificing caretaker. With the amount I vent my puppy frustrations to my family, I’m not surprised to hear the occasional, “Why did you get a puppy again?”

I had puppy fever. That’s the short answer.

The long answer rationale went as follows. It had been four years since I delivered my second-born, so with the prospect of future human babies behind us, my heart was ready for another furry dependent. Our older furry dependent, Lady, is well into her senior years. As an Australian Shepherd, she has happily spent years being my husband’s energetic hiking companion. As she continues to age, we want to ensure that her body stays healthy and whole. Therefore, the long and intense hiking trips cannot be a part of her future. It was time to start looking into the next generation of hiking companions.

Ten-year-old Lady and four-month-old Maple sit in front of the laundry machines.

Two black, white, and tan dogs sit in front of white laundry machines. The larger of the two bears an open-mouth smile. The smaller has her head tilted slightly.

With these things in mind, my husband and I began timelining when adding a puppy to the mix would make the most sense. We had settled for the spring of 2024.

But then my desired mama dog got pregnant. With puppies due in September, I insisted that we get our puppy in November instead. And so, Maple came home in November.

Introducing a puppy to our family has stretched our patience and joy. One moment I find myself grumbling whispers of frustration to myself while I disinfect the mess on the floor, and the next I’m taking out my phone to snap a picture of my four-year-old snuggling with the mess-maker on the couch.

Our four-year-old with Maple in a frequent position of theirs.

A four-year-old boy and a small black, white, and tan puppy lie on their backs on a couch. The boy’s fingers are nestled lightly in the puppy’s mouth. The puppy has her paws wrapped around the boy’s arm.

I am no stranger to the disadvantages of having a puppy around. The messes. The disrupted schedules. The yard cleanups.

However, there are many advantages too. Personally, being forced to depart from my habitual laziness has been a very advantageous side effect of having a puppy.

Throughout this past year, I’ve paid greater attention to where I’m being lazy and where I can easily exert more energy. I have acknowledged where and how I exercise in my natural day-to-day living. I can guarantee that getting this puppy has upped my daily fitness count.

I’m getting more steps in by going up and down the stairs multiple times a night. I’m activating my glutes by squatting to clean up messes on the floor. I’m engaging my core when I bend to scoop the dog food into empty dishes—and I do this twice each time since I keep our Lady’s food in a separate container. Walking has a few more backward movements as I try to train Maple to pay attention to me and resist pulling while on leash. Simply trying to restrain the pulling is a workout! I often follow fetch with a good stretch exercise because my throwing motion is sub-par, and my shoulders are quick to let me know they need relief.

I’m not suggesting that adopting a puppy is an assured way of meeting your fitness goals, but it seems to be working out well for me.

When I feel stuck in a cycle of frustration with Maple, I try to remind myself of all the benefits that having a puppy around brings. I ask myself, “How has my life changed for the better?”

Here’s how: My kids get to grow up with a dog. My husband gets to continue his love of hiking with a loyal companion. Lady gets to taste the flavour of youth again. And I get my steps in…plus a writing buddy to keep my company at my desk.

Maple is a great writing companion.

A black, white, and tan puppy lies under a wooden desk. She is looking up at the camera positioned above.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

fitness

Unexpected Resolutions

Words & S’mores6 Comments

“Mom! Mom!” Little hands began shaking my slumbering body. “You need to get dressed.”

I peeked through my eyelids at my very awake seven-year-old. She was not only up for the day, but she was dressed and proudly displaying a lopsided ponytail.

Tying her own ponytail is a newly developed skill. This reminder of newness was fitting for that first morning of the freshly birthed year.

She was beaming with purpose.
I closed my eyes again.

“Where are your exercise clothes?”

“My exercise clothes? Why do you need them?”

“You need to get dressed.”

My eyes open. “Why?”

“We’re working out.”

Let me be clear. In no year have I determined that exercise was my resolution, never mind on the first day. Do any resolutions start on January 1st? Maybe I’m alone, but it’s a statutory holiday, so I consider a day’s grace justified.

But my darling daughter doesn’t understand statutory holidays. Nor do I think she really understands resolutions. Why, then, was she standing in front of my tired body, insisting I join in her surprise scheme?

The concept was so amusing that I started to chuckle as I expressed my confusion to her.

No questions were answered, but before I knew it, I was sliding into my daughter’s outfit of choice: a pair of pilled Lululemon spandex shorts and my old high school basketball training shirt.

After having my insisted-upon breakfast and coffee, my husband and I trailed behind our energetic children down to the lowest level of the house. Walking into the rear room, we found two yoga mats and our double-sized foamy laid out on the floor. Once situated on the foamy, my seven-year-old, assisted by her four-year-old brother, took to the stage on the yoga mats and began their self-designed exercise class.

From yoga stretches to strange body contortions, not only did my husband and I begin to feel our weary bodies awaken, but we found our hearts pounding with glee. I highly recommend getting an ab workout routine designed by a four-year-old. I am not joking when I say I was sore for days afterwards.

Our rowing machine with my sneakers and weights resting after their New Year’s Day use.


After our mat work, my daughter took us to our machines.

When we were first married, I arrived home from work one day to find my husband at the door, speedily declaring that he may or may not have spent $1000 on a rowing machine. Being a double-income, no-kids family, I had shrugged it off. Ten years later, that rower has had many seasons of use and many seasons of rest. Two years ago, we added a stationary bike as my contribution to our lofty exercise goals. Our daughter seized an opportunity to use these tantalizing machines and put all four of us through a rotating circuit. I started on the bike, moved to dribbling a basketball, shuffled to lifting 2-pound weights, and finished off on the rower.

My favourite moment of that morning was when my best friend called to wish our family a happy New Year. The phone call came during the dribbling portion of my circuit, and, when my daughter heard me chatting, she sternly approached and gave me an amused but authoritative glare. When I gestured that I was able to dribble and talk, she responded by swivelling two fingers from her eyes to mine. She was in charge, she conveyed, and she was watching. I had another good chuckle.

As a family, we worked out for what my husband says was half an hour. I avow that it must have been more with how sore I was in the days following. But even so, whether it was half an hour or slightly more, the memories I hold from that morning at the dawn of the new year have been embedded into my core. In her seven-going-on-seventeen insistence, my daughter gave our family quality time together while honouring the bodies that we’ve been entrusted to occupy.

She turns eight this year, and her sweet innocence won’t last forever. What does 2024 have in store for us? God only knows. What I know is that my daughter is determined to take charge of the year and not let it overtake her. My resolution is to adopt that mindset also because, as I was reminded of that morning, she’s watching.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

fitness

Labyrinth

Words & S’mores1 Comment

It is November, and green blades stand defiantly in a sea of crunched brown grass on the Canadian prairies. Green at this time of year is usually claimed solely by the mighty evergreens that represent our northern climate. This year, El Niño has graced our autumn with unseasonably warm weather, and while scraping frost from my windshield in minus 15-degree Celsius mornings isn’t particularly missed, my life seems to be overflowing with unseasonables. This has left me craving familiarity.

Maple, the new puppy, enjoys the grassy backyard.

Pictured facing the camera is a small black, white, and tan coloured puppy with a gold bell on its collar. There is dry grass, and parts of a play structure pictured in the yard behind the puppy. A larger black, white, and tan dog and a young girl are in the distance.

What are these unseasonables, these unwelcomed and unexpected endurances? My volunteering is uncharacteristically stressful. Our extended family is experiencing surprising and heartbreaking tensions. Our immediate family is drowning in unseasonable busyness from both extracurriculars and work. The puppy we were expecting to get in the springtime arrived here at the brink of winter instead.

With these changes, the comforts of what was to be expected during this time of year are missing.

The beginning of fall had held all the hopes of being a predictable and, thus, successful season. I had fitness goals. I had familial, relational, occupational, and spiritual goals. The mildness of the weather teases me with the prospect that all my chaos can find resolution and I can go back to achieving my goals. El Niño makes me think that perhaps time has stood still. The snow has not fallen. The cold has not arrived to entrap us indoors. Winter is still far away. My goals and resolutions can still be attained before it comes—or can they? Do they need to be?

There is a newness that I must adapt to that looks different from how this season was initially laid out. This challenges me the most. With all the change, I feel as though I’m in a labyrinth, unable to find the way towards success or resolution for any of the situations I find myself in.

The reality is that this season may not be one for resolution. There may not be an answer found or a project checked off from the to-do list. Time given by the mild weather is a facade. The mild weather does not mean that time has stood still. Winter is no farther away than it would be if snow was on the ground. If the weather were its normal minus 10-20 degrees, the chaos would not be any closer to resolution, nor would it be in any more danger of never finding resolution.

To move forward toward the end of the labyrinth, I need to accept that my goals and resolutions do not need to run along the timeline of the weather. Any sense of urgency I feel from the changing seasons or upcoming holidays does not mean that my expectations of myself need to change.

The grass can grow green in my yard, and I can enjoy it from the view of my window as I stand beside my Christmas tree. I can relish in the blessing that warmer weather allows me to train my puppy more effectively. At the same time, I can also lament that I must endure El Niño’s humidity that sticks to my skin and sinks into my bones. The warm weather does not mean that I need to take up running around the neighbourhood, but it can mean that I have the opportunity to go on another bike ride. With each day that snow stays off the ground, my walk up to my daughter’s school is effortless, and I can rest in that. I do not have to remain lost in the unexpected.

So, what happens to my goals? I may be surprised to find them being fulfilled as I navigate the maze of chaos that is my season of life right now. You never know what lessons will be revealed when you endure trials. But if I don’t meet my goals in the labyrinth, I can accept the unexpected and allow the goals to float on to the next season. They’ll be there waiting on the other side of winter—on the other side of the labyrinth—on the other side of victory over the chaos.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.
fitness · Guest Post

3 Ways to Exercise with Your More Athletic Partner

Words & S’mores

My husband met me when I was in my athletic prime. In response to a heartbreak, I turned to exercise as an escape. When my blood was pumping, the tears weren’t falling. I would run up and down the stairs at my university, do push-ups and sit-ups in my dorm, and spend my thin university budget on a gym membership. I was riding the adrenaline.

Naturally, when my husband saw me at our university’s Winter Retreat skating laps around the lake, smashing points in water polo, and sinking half-court shots in the gym at three in the morning, he thought he had found the athletic partner jackpot.

A skate ring I made one winter.

Pictured is of the lower half of a person wearing ice skates, posing beside a carved spiral in the ice.

Unfortunately, that was, and may forever be, the best shape I was ever in. Was my husband surprised when he started dating me and discovered I had very little athletic drive? Perhaps, but thankfully, I have many more endearing qualities.

Now, 13 years later, both of us have a drive to use exercise to promote our health, and we desire relational connection. We’ve asked each other, “Well, how about we try working out together?” Seems like a cute idea, does it not?

However, my husband’s athleticism and my lack thereof make this idea of working out together a difficult one to put into practice. My husband is an avid hiker and soccer player who walks to work and bikes to soccer games. He feeds off of intensity. I am a typist who swims casually. I feed off of gentle steadiness. Our differences have me questioning, what if my husband gets frustrated at my slower pace? What if I get flustered over his intensity? Is it even possible to work out peacefully with each other? Voicing these questions aloud to my husband has produced a similar uncertainty in him.  

My husband and I engaging in each other’s hobbies during our engagement photoshoot.

Pictured are two adults standing, looking teasingly at each other. A woman is resting her foot on a soccer ball, while a man is playing a guitar.

But, being a proud extrovert, I have refused to abandon the cause. In looking for ways for my husband and I to engage in fitness together, I have chosen to look to the past to find the successes in our 13 years together. Inspired by my husband and the date ideas he has suggested for us in the past, I have compiled a short list.

Here are 3 ways that a less athletic partner can comfortably exercise with their athletic partner:

  1. Go on a bike ride.

It was on a bike ride 13 years ago that my husband and I discovered that our different fitness modes can make doing physically demanding activities together a frustrating and isolating experience.

When my husband suggested that the two of us should go for a bike ride together, I had my reservations. I wanted to ensure that the “together” part of his suggestion would be followed. My husband assured me that it would be, and he followed through. Our biking destination was a beautiful pier overlooking a lake. My husband led the way. He set the pace but kept me close in his rearview.

By the time we got to the pier, I was exhausted. Naturally, my husband was unphased. We enjoyed the view and some water for a short moment, and then it was time to head back. My husband suggested that I lead the way back so that I could set the pace.

This leader-switch plan worked out splendidly. I had the stamina and energy to keep up with my husband at the beginning of the ride, and we could still ride together on the way back. I am certain I would have fallen far behind if he had led.

So that’s the date suggestion: have the more athletic partner lead for the first half and then have the less athletic partner lead on the way back. This way, it becomes a partnered adventure. Find a neat place to be your halfway point to add some extra romanticism to the date.

2. Go bowling.

It is incredible how sore you can be after bowling. The lunging, the twisting, the slight ode to shotput in throwing the bowling ball—bowling has the potential to be a significant workout. We have taken advantage of bowling because it is one of the more affordable options for date ideas and because it’s a fun idea for double dates. In fact, if you invite others to join your bowling game, there is more time to visit with each other between turns.

Bowling can be as tame or as intense as the bowler prefers. You can challenge yourself or each other to unique bowls, such as lunging to the lane, walking on your toes for the duration of your bowl, or even doing stretch exercises while waiting for your next turn. Use this exercise date idea to bring fun and amusement into your relational fitness journey.

3. Go for a long walk and talk.

This is one for the memories. When my husband and I first met, we used to walk for hours around the industrial park near our university. It was not a glamorous scene, but the silence and barrenness of the area gave us ample freedom to speak openly and widely. Even if you don’t find the quietest place to walk, challenge yourself and your partner to go for a long walk and talk. Try it out in your neighbourhood or an area of your municipality you haven’t explored before.

If you run out of topics, look around. There may be a particular house, tree, person, or sound that can ignite an intricate conversation. The best thing about this activity is that it helps you connect with your partner on an intimate level, and talking together will allow you both to hold pace with one another. It’s a win-win!

Working out together may seem daunting, but there are ways that you can engage in a fitness journey with your partner, even if you are unequally yoked in the athletic department. I look forward to saying “Yes” to more of my husband’s exercise date invitations and to finding some date ideas for myself too. Happy dating!

Would these ideas work for you and your partner? Do you have other ideas on how couples can exercise together? Share your thoughts in the comment section below.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

fitness · Guest Post · self care

The Muscle Whisperer

Words & S’mores

If you have been following my fitness journey, procrastination is an evident theme. Fitness as a habit is a concept that still evades me. As I’ve been searching for ways to make fitness less of a chore, I have discovered a fitness-related activity that I can absolutely get behind. It involves another person, a bed, and maybe some Enya. Any guesses?

Massage therapy. That’s what you were thinking of, right? Massage therapy may not be an active exercise, but it can benefit your fitness journey.

A candle and a book on a small table

I started getting massages a few years ago to combat my migraines. I discovered that if I have a massage at least once every two months, my migraine rate reduces drastically. I have gone from having two or three migraines a month to rarely having one. Not only have massages lowered their frequency, but they have also reduced their duration. I went from having migraines lasting 48 hours each to ones I could quell within six hours. One of my favourite benefits of this is my reduced intake of painkillers. I went from taking the maximum dose of extra-strength ibuprofen each day to only needing a single dose at the start of my symptoms. Therapeutic massages have been vital in increasing my quality of life.

While I started my massage journey because of my migraines, I have found another wonderfully beneficial use for them: post-workout relief. Since I have yet to make fitness part of my daily routine, each time I engage in a heart-pumping, sweat-inducing session, I feel it in my entire body the next day—and the next day, and the next day, and the next day. Whether I swim, run, lift weights, clean, or even lift my kids up more frequently in a day, I become very sore. Lactic acid crowds my muscles, and I am left regretting pouring my self-care time into something that hurts my physical body.

This is not to say that massages don’t have some painful moments. If I go too long between sessions, or if I cheat on proper body positioning, my trouble spots put up a fight to remain tight. My massage therapist, a lovely Mexican woman who works out of her home, does not lose the fight. Ever. She is a muscle whisperer. I’m sure her previous experience as a physiotherapist adds to her anatomical knowledge, but it’s her intuitiveness with the body that makes her stand apart from other massage therapists that I’ve experienced.

Does she hurt me sometimes? Yes. However, the relief from her oscillating thumbs proves the experience worth it. Soon the pain follows her hands as they knead the tension into submission. My lymphatic system breathes relief as the tension is pushed away from its source. My immune system makes note of the restored balance to my body’s fluids. Everything flows healthily again.

Even after I make intentional fitness a regular habit, I fully intend to keep up with my massages. The health benefits from working out plus the health benefits from massages equal a physically and psychologically healthy me. It’s too good to pass up.

Massage allows my tight muscles to loosen and release the pent-up lactic acid, making my metabolism more efficient. The opportunity to be silent and abandon my stresses is life-giving. Massage is post-workout care, and it’s self-care. For a busy mom, it is one of the best hours of my month.

So do yourself a favour and add a massage routine to your life. When you add it, be intentional in your search for a great massage therapist. When you find them, visit them regularly. When you visit them, leave your mental load at the door, and enjoy a relaxing and healing hour.

Do you have a massage therapist that you adore? Brag away in the comments below.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

Dancing · fitness · Guest Post

Dance Like You’re Watching

Words & S’mores

On a March evening in 2020, I stood in front of a mirror and inspected my outfit. The shiny faux leather pants and ruby red, sequin-covered asymmetrical top was not part of my usual wardrobe, but I had to admit that I loved the spicy vibe of my reflection. My hair was slicked back in a half-updo, and my makeup was begging for a night out. While I wasn’t about to go out to the club, I was going to satisfy my efforts by taking my ruby lips to the dance studio for some professional photos.

My outfit from the 2020 dance class. A red sequined sleeveless top is draped over a folded pair of black faux leather pants. A pair of black jazz shoes are crossed and are positioned on top of the draped top.
My outfit from the 2020 dance class.
A red sequined sleeveless top is draped over a folded pair of black faux leather pants. A pair of black jazz shoes are crossed and are positioned on top of the draped top.

Six months earlier, my sister and I had enrolled in an adult jazz dance class. Both of us had danced when we were younger, and, even though I was 12 the last time that I performed a jazz routine, at 29 I found myself anxiously excited to be hitting the dance floor again. Thankfully, the other ladies, all of whom were wives and mothers, were of similar expertise. And, thankfully, my jazz shoes from 17 years prior still fit.  

The photography session signified the beginning of dance festival season. Our group was working hard at getting our routine down for our first performance. We were slotted for Saturday, March 21 at 7:40 PM—the last slot of the evening. This is notable because this meant that the only people left in the audience to watch us would be the dance teams that made it to the Showcase. If you are a stranger to the dance world, the Showcase is the portion of the show where high-ranking dance teams get to perform an extra time. Our slot was right before the Showcase, so the theatre would be filled with the most passionate and skilled dancers of the festival.

For a group of adult ladies whose days were filled with prioritizing the well-being and success of our family members, being the center of attention on a stage in front of a passionate audience was a daunting concept. It would have been easy for one of us, or even all of us, to back down from the opportunity. We didn’t need to be on display or to prove our worth to a crowd of strangers. We could keep our private dance class as our escape-from-domestic-duties success story.

I don’t know what it was that drove us all to accept the festival invitation. Perhaps it was an internal desire to be more than what our lives as moms and wives were dictating for us. Perhaps it was the song that our dance instructor chose for us. Perhaps it was both.

The song? Jennifer Lopez’s “Ain’t Your Mama.” I don’t think our instructor knew the significance of her song choice, though perhaps she was more perceptive than what I gave her credit for. The lyrics portray a woman expressing to her spouse that she will no longer be the sole-carrier of their domestic and relational responsibilities—she would no longer act as his mother.

It was relatable subject matter. Even if our husbands weren’t helpless like the man in the lyrics, we could all relate to the mental exhaustion that comes from mothering. Not only do women have the societal pressure to be the perfect wife and mother, but they also have the pressure of bearing it all without complaining. The perfect wife and mother is someone who absorbs the mental load of her family and carries the responsibilities of being a household manager with the ease of a business woman carrying a briefcase into a high-rise. Unfortunately, as we mamas frequently discussed at dance class, reality makes this perfection unattainable.

And that’s okay. The writers of J-Lo’s song offer another option for women. We don’t have to carry the weight ourselves. We can carry the briefcase while our husbands carry the grocery bags and our children carry their own backpacks. Perhaps performing at the festival meant that we could normalize that type of reality for ourselves and the audience, most of whom were bound to be mothers.

But it was not to be.

Based on the date mentioned at the beginning, you can conjecture what happened to our festival plans.

“Effective immediately The Arden Theatre is postponing and/or cancelling all shows and events in the theatre until April 29…Thank you for your patience and cooperation as we all navigate this unexpected and unfortunate situation.”

Facebook post by the Arden Theatre, March 13, 2020.

That was it. The show would not go on.

While part of me was relieved to not perform in front of a dance-loving audience, another part of me mourned. The months of learning choreography and honing each dance move with countless across-the-floor exercises had been enjoyable. There was delight in knowing us women chose to spend our precious time with each other among mirrored walls and ballet bars. At the end of every class, we stretched in silence, feeling too exhausted to talk. Yet, when it was time to leave, we all departed with notes of assurance that we would see each other the following week. Performing with these ladies to “Ain’t Your Mama” would have been a empowering experience. I would have loved envisioning myself as a spectator watching a group of women own their independence and worth. I would have danced like I was proudly watching myself.

While my short time in that dance class had ended in a less-than-ideal way, I don’t regret it. I am proud of myself for taking the time to step out of my day-to-day, spend time with my sister, and participate in a group activity that offered fitness and fellowship.

So, if the opportunity to join an adult dance class presents itself, may I encourage you to extend a jazz hand and seize it. Even if you don’t end up performing or dancing to J-Lo, it can be a richly rewarding experience.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

family · fitness · Guest Post

A Pattern Emerges (Guest Post)

Words & S’mores

Two weeks ago, I went lane swimming for the first time in a long time. In my last blog post, “All Lanes are Open,” I commented on how I often let my excuses overtake my need for physical exercise. I left the pool that day hoping that I would have better self-discipline going forward. While I did think about swimming more, I found that fitting another session into my schedule was still difficult. In fact, I haven’t fit another one in yet.

However, this is not a self-deprecating post. I may not have succeeded in getting to the pool, but I still got a workout in. Only, it wasn’t in a gym, on a track, or in a studio. It was in a house. And no—it wasn’t an at-home fitness program.

Last week, my mom and I set out towards the small Albertan town where my sister had moved. Our goal? To help her clean her new place so she could begin settling in. When we arrived and saw the little two-bedroom bungalow nestled on the large property, we were giddy with excitement. It was a house with character. Inside, wood paneling and mismatched trim adorned the walls. Vinyl flooring ran throughout the house with some newly replaced planks poking up in attestation.

The door on the floor leading to the storm cellar.

The highlight of the mid-century home was the proper storm cellar situated in the floor of the laundry room. The heavy floor-door revealed a series of six-inch-deep stairs that led to a surprisingly high-ceilinged cellar. Here housed the furnace, a work bench, some smaller pieces of furniture, and, of course, cobwebs. Thankfully, there was a sliver of a window to ease claustrophobia.

What does this have to do with fitness? We had to clean the house. All of it. I’m talking dusting the walls, washing the walls, scrubbing the baseboards, doing all-the-above to the floors, disinfecting the bathroom, degreasing the kitchen, and deodorizing everything. Then there was dodging flies while vacuuming up their deceased friends from windowsills. It was an intense workout!

To tackle it all, we decided to divide and conquer. I declared myself in charge of the bathroom, doors, and windowsills. My mom and sister tackled the main bedroom and living rooms.

Have you noticed the abdominal workout that cleaning a bathtub provides? If you’re like me and refuse to stand in the bathtub while cleaning the surroundings (because—gross), then you’ll understand the shoulder stretch you get from reaching across the tub. It is a must to engage the core muscles to avoid back injury. Then there’s the up, down, side-to-side motions. Thankfully, cleaning the basin portion offered a relieving stretch along the lower back as my glutes lowered me into a squat.

Then there are the mystery group of muscles that are featured in cleaning toilets that are situated close to walls. I had to be deliberate in my movements, keeping my muscles obedient to ensure I didn’t bend carelessly around the bowl. I certainly did not want to pull a muscle on my first task!

Cleaning the vanity and mopping the floor—and re-mopping it after my sister’s boyfriend walked through with boots to change the light fixture—concluded my bathroom workout. Next were the doors. Now, that is a good squat routine!

Our trio reconvened to tackle the kitchen which, fortunately or unfortunately for me, provided a similar full-body workout as the bathroom and doors did. Arms were favoured in scrubbing out cupboards. Legs and core were the primary targets of the lower cupboards and the space behind the appliances. Even with all three of us tackling it, breaking a sweat was easy come by. We happily took advantage of water breaks.

The three of us in front of the house post-clean.

Amid the scrubbing and polishing, us girls got to talk. We’d laugh over cloths, asking each other which one was for soaping and which one was for rinsing, and asking ourselves why they were all the same colour when there were other colour options. Even though we were too busy and too tired to talk about deep things, we all felt content just being around each other.

Doing life together is a value that I hold dearly. If I had it my way, I would do everything with at least one person present, even if it’s reading in silence. Having this extroverted viewpoint does often stifle my ability to self-start my fitness routines, but it’s a part of my personality. Companionship ignites my spirit.

I did feel more sore in the days following the cleaning than I did after swimming, but I still experienced the same gleeful energy as I did at the pool. The joy from working out alongside two of my favourite people made me realize that hard workouts can be completed without mental burnout. I can leave tired and wake up sore and still want to do it all over again. I thought that feeling was reserved for passionate fitness gurus.

I seem to have a pattern emerging. My fitness journey finds success most frequently when I execute it alongside something my soul loves. In the pool, my love for the water propelled me forward. At this house, it was my love for my mom and sister.

While I wait for my next lane swim or deep-clean day at a friend’s place, I’ve decided to come up with a list of things my soul loves and see if I can pair them with a physical activity. Maybe I’ll try hopping on my stationary bike and watch train-wreck reality TV. Maybe I’ll go for a long walk-and-talk with a friend. Unfortunately, I have yet to come up with an idea where I can read or write while exercising.

If you have an idea for me, please let me know in the comment section below. While you’re at it, let me know if you are a solo-fitness person, or an extrovert like me who prefers having someone else’s energy come alongside.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.

family · fitness · Guest Post · swimming

All Lanes are Open (Guest Post)

Words & S’mores2 Comments

Would you rather be able to fly or be able to breathe under water? My seven-year-old daughter has been entertaining our family the past few suppers with “Would you rather” questions. This one, between flying or breathing under water, comes at a time when my choice is clear. However, if she had asked it two days ago, that clarity may not have been there.

Two days ago, I found myself spiraling towards depression. The current economic climate paired with my four-year-old son’s exercises in emotional regulation had been agitating my anxious mind. The stress had begun to cling to my arms, threatening to squeeze me into suffocation. By the time I sat down at the supper table, I was detached from conversation and desperate for solitude, a state of being that is contrary to my extroverted nature. I felt on the verge of a mental breakdown when, suddenly, I was hit with an undeniable desire: I wanted to go lane swimming.

Swimming is my preferred fitness activity, though, admittedly, I don’t often engage in it. My fitness journey has been one of ideas more than one of action. When I am thinking about fitness it is in the context of “When I have some free time, I’ll get to it.” The problem is that I am the mom of two busy kids, a responsible pet owner to an active dog, a socialite who desires to stay connected, and an aspiring entrepreneur about to jump into a new career—free time evades me. These identities of mine are used as my primary excuses for scarcely devoting time to exercise.

However, that evening at the supper table, I chose to listen to my desire, and I declared to my husband that I was going lane swimming. We had already made plans for him to complete the children’s bedtime routine while I got some work done, but I told him that I needed to go swimming instead. Being the knowledgeable and supportive husband that he is, he heard my desperation and encouraged me to go.

Yet, even after mentally committing to going, I found myself putzing about, slowly gathering my aquatic attire, waiting for the excuses or distractions to come. A small voice trickled in bringing guilt over leaving the family and household responsibilities to my husband. Isn’t that often the case, that women feel guilty about taking time to take care of themselves? I am thankful that my husband doesn’t support that mindset. Seeing my hesitation, he told me again to go. No other excuses came.

So I went. I drove the one kilometer to the pool, navigated the newly renovated changeroom, and walked awkwardly towards the lanes. Feeling out of place and slightly embarrassed by my existence, I paused to confirm with the lifeguard that all lanes were open. They were. Then, after more than five years, I snapped on my goggles and dove in.

What a glorious experience! The salty basin welcomed me freely, extending the kindness of washing the tensions and stresses from my body. Giving way to my strokes, the water let me rise and fall with the movements of my limbs. My muscles propelled me forward in a pattern understood by my lungs, which held air for me until my mouth broke the surface. I swam two lengths, rested for a minute, and then repeated, cycling between the front crawl, breaststroke, and backstroke.

For 30 minutes I resisted the urge to push myself in favour of allowing myself to enjoy my time in the water. That proved to be difficult as two swimmers in the lane next to me had performed their butterfly strokes at twice the speed of my breaststroke. To tame my competitiveness, I allowed myself to admire the strength of these women. Though their skills surpassed mine, I knew that it was a result of ambition, perseverance, and conditioning.

These women were working hard, and I knew that they had reached their level of athleticism by choosing to engage in that hard work regularly. I felt inspired by these women by their mere existence in the pool, so I chose to allow myself to think of myself in that light too. I left the pool with a confidence and a knowledge about myself that I had silenced. I learned that in the water I am powerful, graceful, capable. In the water I feel hopeful, patient, and at peace.

Two days later, these feelings linger. The minute tension that remains in my glutes and hamstrings brings me pride. It took more effort to get myself to the pool than the act of swimming did. The only barricade between a lifestyle that heals my anxieties and nourishes my body is me.

My priorities, while focused on good things—like my children, pets, and wanting to contribute to the household in duties and in finances—have needed this awakening to consider the exponential benefits of physical activity.

My fitness journey is alive. When I am not physically moving, I am growing. My life leads me to places that challenge my priorities, my patience, and my fears. Fitness has a place in that growth, and I see it attract me back to it in my most desperate states of being. This time, I am certain that I won’t be waiting five years before visiting the lanes again. In fact, I find myself thinking that next time I’ll ride my bike the one kilometer to the pool.

I couldn’t have imagined that one lane session would be so transformative. So, when I am asked if I would rather be able to fly or breathe under water, my answer is quick and easy: I would rather breathe under water. It takes me to new heights anyway.

Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.