My body, myself

kyle

Do I dare eat a peach?

Please, Prufrock. More like, “Do I dare I eat a muffin?”

For a few weeks ago, while visiting my primary care physician’s office to follow-up on my sleep apnea diagnosis, I was told  – by one of the newest additions to the always-churning medical resident carousel at U-M – that my established need for my beloved, miracle-working BiPAP machine at age 46 was troubling.

Not for me, of course. That little machine may well have saved my life, and I’m a happier, better-rested person because of it. I’d totally make out with my BiPAP, if that was a thing.

But it’s troubling to them. The medical establishment. Even though I run 3-4 miles just as many times a week, and take a weekly 90 minute yoga class, plus at least one weightlifting workout, and seem/feel totally healthy, requiring no medications in my daily life.

“Exercise doesn’t have that much affect on weight,” said my resident du jour, annoyingly dismissing my protests. “It’s really more about diet. I’d like you to make an appointment with a nutritionist here.”

Wait – what? Isn’t there a multi-billion dollar industry built on the idea that workouts equal weight loss? Why the hell am I subscribing to Beachbody on Demand, ugly-sweating with Shaun T in my living room once or twice a week? And why in God’s name are doctors keeping this a secret from us all?!

I DECLARE SHENANIGANS!!! Continue reading

How cultural critiques in ‘Captain Underpants: The First Epic Movie’ surprised the crap out of me

Screen Shot 2017-07-03 at 11.42.37 PM.pngPotty humor, fart jokes – these have never been my thing.

Even in childhood, which is normally a kind of golden age for scatological humor, I remember feeling condescended to every time a kids’ movie or party performer resorted to passing gas for laughs. (Ever the cultural critic-in-training, I thought the pint-sized equivalent of, “Really? That’s all you’ve got? Maybe you should put in a little more effort.” And then I probably yawned, like a pretentious little jerk. But seriously. Mini-me kind of had a point.)

So, resolved: I’ve long been dubious about the comedic value of poop, pee, and farting, which has made parenting young kids – who are constantly talking, and cracking up, about these very things – an eye-roll-inducing trip. It’s begun to feel like ironic karma, as has my two daughters’ longstanding affection for Dav Pilkey’s Captain Underpants books.

You know where this is going, right?

Yep. This mom that made a rule a few years back about “no potty words at the table when we’re eating” found herself in a multiplex theater on opening day for “Captain Underpants: The First Epic Movie.” Because “Tra la la!!” – the hubs needed to go to a work thing, and taking the kids to an air conditioned theater after school sounded like an easy, welcome escape hatch. Continue reading

(Nearly Empty) Ring of Keys

IMG_1536.JPGA couple of months ago, I lost my keys.

And like many an overwhelmed, middle-aged parent of young ones, I’d accumulated so many keys over the years that I didn’t even know what some of them were for anymore. A bike lock I’d lost years ago, maybe? Our old house (which has been rented out to others for more than a decade now)? Random luggage padlocks? One of those steering wheel locks that were absurdly ubiquitous in the 90s (a/k/a The Club)? A fob for the girls’ old preschool, and another for entering the now-defunct AnnArbor.com newsroom after-hours?

Yes, my over-packed, out-of-date key ring was the ticket for my daily trip down Befogged Memory Lane. It felt weighty and full and solid in my hand. It vaguely hinted at what lay behind me, as well as my more current responsibilities.

Of course, we all occasionally lose track of our keys, and usually, it’s a stressful-but-temporary blip. After frantic searching, we’ll find them hanging from the front door’s knob, or in a coat pocket. So I didn’t think much of it at first. In fact, I quickly determined what must have happened. Because my library card is on my key ring, too, I was sure that when I went down the street to check out a few books I’d had on reserve, I must have left the keys at the self-check-out counter.

But it turns out that I hadn’t. And I’d already checked everywhere else. Continue reading

Rest stop: my painfully slow path to apnea diagnosis & treatment

IMG_1214

Me in the sleep lab. Sorry, fellas, I’m taken!

This all started last spring, when I started waking in the morning to an empty bed. And contrary to my first guess, Joe hadn’t gotten up early to work. Instead, I found him wrapped up in a blanket on the living room couch, asleep.

“I’d gotten up to use the bathroom at about 4 in the morning,” he’d told me, “and I just couldn’t get back to sleep because you were snoring so loudly.”

Whaaaaaa? Me, snoring?

I’d never been a snorer before. That was what we’d made fun of my dad for, when we were kids crammed in a hotel room, or when he snoozed on the couch after dinner. That wasn’t ME.

“Really?” I winced, initially resisting this adjustment in my sense of self. “Huh. That’s weird.”

Joe’s pre-dawn exodus quickly became an established pattern, though, rather than a seemingly flukey occurrence. I felt guilty and embarrassed and humiliated and helpless about it, often starting to cry while apologizing. (I’m not particularly girly, yet there’s still something profoundly un-feminine and boorish and ugly about snoring your partner right out of your bedroom each night.)

Why was this suddenly happening, on top of my layoff? I asked myself. Considering the stress-induced root canal I just had, was this yet another way that my body manifested my job-loss?

Because this one particular piece of the puzzle has always been clear. I carry loads of tension around in my body, especially in my shoulders and neck, and weekly yoga classes over the past decade or so have done little to change that; in addition, I’ve been grinding my teeth while sleeping (a/k/a bruxism) since I was a kid. So while I may succeed in presenting a low-key face to the world much of the time, behind that facade is a panicked woman in a compressed air booth, desperately clawing at to-do list items and family calendar entries.

Also, when I occasionally cash in a gift certificate or just treat myself to a professional massage, the masseuse, upon first touching my upper back, always says, “Oh” or “Wow,” in a tone that reads, “I don’t know if I can work all these kinks out in the time we have.”

So as miserable as I was about the snoring, I thought, Well, give yourself a break. Maybe after you push through this rough patch in your life and come out the other side, it will leave as suddenly as it came.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Continue reading

My letter to President Obama, as he leaves office

screen-shot-2017-01-20-at-9-58-05-amDear President Obama:

Hi! My name is Jenn McKee. I’m a Michigan-based arts reporter/critic who’s been scrabbling together a freelancing career since getting laid off about a year ago. I have two young daughters, Lily (8) and Neve (5), and I’m married to a good man I first befriended when we both played trombone in the University of Michigan Marching Band – back when a Rose Bowl trip was an almost annual occasion. 🙂

I know this letter, if you receive it at all, is late in coming.

I know by now you’re transitioning to civilian life, and moving, and de-compressing. And you should have all the time and space you need to do so. You’re definitely earned it.

For after years of long days and hard work, and feeling a responsibility to represent the interests of millions of Americans, I’m sure you’d like to just be a husband and a dad and a “regular person” for a while.

But I nonetheless felt compelled to write this letter to you. I’ve been meaning to do so for many weeks, but the craziness of the holidays (my husband’s Jewish, so we celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas), my tendency toward procrastination, and the fact that writing this letter would somehow make the end of your presidency more real all conspired to delay me until today – the day before the inauguration.

A day that fills me with anxiety and dread.

But I’m not writing to tell you about my concerns. I’m writing to thank you for your many years of service, and tell you how much I appreciate the dignity, intelligence, compassion, love, and openness you demonstrated in office. Even when I sometimes questioned your choices, my belief that you were a good man with a good heart, and that you were always seeking the best path forward for the country, never wavered. I trusted you, and as you leave office, I still do. Continue reading

Remembering Mom, 8 years after her death, by way of kitchen hair rinses and ‘House’

Screen Shot 2017-01-09 at 1.16.30 PM.pngLast night, Neve got out of the bath, and I realized that she hadn’t gotten all the shampoo out of her hair.

It was bedtime, and the kids had already driven me and Joe a bit crazy – they’d both been acting like Kelly Ripa on meth, all afternoon – so we needed a quick fix.

“Let’s go to the kitchen and do that thing where you lie down on the counter, and I rinse your hair out in the sink,” I said.

Neve happily agreed. She loves doing this. She thinks it’s fun. And she likes hearing about how my own mom washed my hair like this when I was little.

In my childhood home, my neck and lower head would rest on a folded up towel at the kitchen sink’s edge. My mom would cup one hand over my hairline, to shield my eyes, and work the sink’s nozzle with the other. Then, after massaging shampoo onto my scalp and rinsing it out, she’d squeeze as much water from my hair as she could and hold it bunched in her fist as I sat up on the counter. The dry-me-off-like-a-dog phase came next, where Mom opened up the towel onto my head, gripped it, and then vigorously rubbed my scalp, so that my whole body vibrated. I often uttered a low tone that would start to sound like a motor, and this would make me giggle.

As I rinsed Neve’s hair with our nozzle, she said, “Did you wash my hair in this sink when I was a baby?”

I said, “Sweetie, I gave you your first baths in this sink. Your whole body fit in here, and I’d soap you up and sing to you.”

“Was I this small?” she asked, holding her hands about 8 inches apart.

“You were bigger than that, but small enough to fit. OK, kiddo, the shampoo’s all rinsed out.”

I squeezed the water out of her hair and helped her sit up. “Now do the doggie thing,” Neve said, beaming.

After every bath now, Neve comes to me with a towel and asks me to dry her hair like my mom dried mine. I do. And she giggles helplessly. Continue reading