Month: September 2015

Why A Nude Photo Session in Your 50s Is Not Such a Bad Idea After All

If you get those Living Social emails, you surely have received offers of discounted “boudoir photography” sessions. While I like a deal as much as the next underpaid editor, I’ve always viewed them as a spectacularly bad idea. Take off your clothes for some stranger in a second-floor studio on Canal Street? Not sure I want to live that social. Delete. (Come to think of it, this pretty much describes my Living Social bikini wax experience, but I’m almost positive there were no cameras involved.) Another reason boudoir photography has held no appeal: Mine is not a body built for the boudoir. Not that I’ve ever, knowingly, visited a boudoir, but I’m pretty sure the ladies you’d find there would be womanly, curvy, Rubenesque. By contrast, I possess super-sturdy legs, broad shoulders, narrow hips and a not-narrow waist. I have what I call a Man Back which makes for a bra size that starts, alluringly, with the number 36, only to be followed by a demure “A.” Practically a Man Front, in other words, at …

Self-Acceptance as a Woman Meant Starting with My Hair

I have been running away from my body for my entire life. For as long as I can remember, I was never very happy with the body I was born into. Even before my gender issues began to emerge, I was always the chubby kid — husky-sized suits and all. Yes, I was teased. Relentlessly so, for quite a while when I was young. The mocking jokes from my so-called friends cut like a knife. But I persevered, or so I thought. Unless you have walked a mile in my heels, it’s very difficult to explain what it is like to wake up every morning of your life knowing — really knowing — on a very visceral level that something’s just not aligned correctly. Something’s a little off – askance, as it were. It became quite apparent to me as I reached my teenage years that this was most definitely NOT the body that I signed up for. The realization scared me to death. It was like out of nowhere, I awoke to find myself …

Embracing My Bad Side: 11 Unflattering Selfies

On a lazy Saturday in September, I intentionally posted 11 of my most unflattering selfies on Facebook — just because. Well, not precisely “just because.” Here’s the what, the why, the how and the what happened of that frivolous undertaking.   The Experiment “Ugly selfies” are nothing new. Nearly five years ago, Bay Area poet Sonya Renee Taylor helped popularized the trend with “Ugly Picture Monday” on her Facebook page. She encouraged other women to join the pictorial exercise, which became a way to laugh at oneself and/or boldly pronounce one’s self-acceptance. For reasons that had little to do with being funny or displaying courage or promoting confidence, I too wanted to join the unprepossessing parade with my own “ugly” photos of my face and my body. I use the word “ugly” loosely, because I, like you, know that I’m not the worst-looking creature to ever walk the earth. And I, like you, have enough sense to know that not looking like Kerry Washington or Kim Kardashian or Karlie Kloss is not what makes one …

Mommy Hottest: Why I’m Not Sacrificing My Sexy for My Kids

“A mother’s arms are made of tenderness and children sleep soundly in them.” —Victor Hugo “Stacy’s mom has got it going on.” —Fountains of Wayne Last month, my husband came home after a week of work travel. He brought me this incredible dress from a street market in London — a steampunk mashup of leather and lace with a thin brass chain dangling from the neckline that somehow reads as both sweet and sexual. It’s the kind of completely impractical piece of provocative clothing he knows I adore but would never buy for myself. I went into the bathroom, slipped it on, then walked back into our bedroom. His face lit up. “I love it,” he said quietly, looking at me like I was the only person on the planet. Our two boys, who’d been busy opening the souvenirs he’d brought them, stared at me. “Awkward silence,” the 8-year-old stage-whispered. And then this, from the 12-year-old: “Mom,” he said, “you don’t look like you.” Lately, that’s the problem. Society has finally caught up with the fact …

She Quit Corporate America to Become a Beauty Blogger — That Was Only The First Challenge

Beauty blogging is very different than it was when I started in 2007. In fact, everything about beauty blogging and my life in general has changed. Back then, I was living an entirely different life: a 15-year career in corporate America as a human resources executive, living in the South, with no real creative outlet. I started out creative (I went to school for art,) but my father put the pressure on my sophomore year to “get a degree you can eat on.” So, I switched to Business. The need for approval had been established when I was young. Interestingly enough, it would come back to haunt me almost my entire life. Once on the winding ladder to company success, I blindly kept climbing. Externally, I became a very successful HR professional — but inside I was dying. Over 100 pounds overweight, I drank myself into a stupor at happy hours and was utterly miserable. I wanted — I NEEDED — to do something different. It was during that time that I decided to follow …

To Boob Job or Not? That Was the Question

I stood obediently still in the bridal shop as the seamstress fussed with my wedding dress. A saleswoman watched from across the room. “Give her a little shape up top,” she called out, loud enough for every customer in the store to hear (and possibly those in the shop across the street). “I’m trying,” the seamstress yelled back, “but she’s got nothing. Nothing!” Like every small-breasted woman, I’ve got tons of stories like this one, tales of humiliation, longing and finally, resignation that the boobs I was born with were not going to get any bigger on their own. Angst over my boob-less-ness started early. At age 12, the one girl in my summer camp bunk with sizable breasts — Jodi S. — was a celebrity. She wasn’t particularly pretty or charming, but her boobs made her a star. My prepubescent friends and I were fascinated with the way those puppies looked encased in a plain white bra, on display in a pink bikini, taut under a tee shirt, or swinging loose in a flannel …

Margit’s Note: Love That Body

My body and I have come to a comfortable agreement. We tolerate each other. We still fight on a daily basis, but we’ve learned to agree to disagree. Do I love my body? Tough question —sometimes yes and sometimes no. I am round and large and overweight and strong and curvy and beautiful and a work in progress and meh and all of these things. I try never to utter the “ugly” word, but let’s be Real (I’m looking at YOU body wash brand), there are days when I feel downtrodden, when a dash of lipstick just can’t hide the stress and the angst and the unwashed hair. I still battle the bullying voice of a few 1979 seventh graders who’d leave nasty “fat butt” notes in my locker. Then I look back at photos and think, “holy hell, I was a regular looking kid!”  Awkwardly tall with thick brown hair, a chubby-cheeked smile, a Phoebe Cates wannabe. (Was she not the shizznit?)                           …

Siblings at Odds: He’s an Evangelical Preacher, I’m an Atheist

Is he a good person? Yes. Am I a good person? I try to be. Do I love him? Yes. Do I like him? What, like all the time? It’s complicated. This is us, 38 years ago. Look at those smiles. They aren’t forced. There’s love there, connection. We were born six years apart, too far to be peers or really even friends. This photo may have been snapped during our happiest time as siblings. Once I started talking, I became annoying. I’d belt out the Annie Soundtrack at the top of my lungs and he’d grit his teeth, knowing complaints wouldn’t get him anywhere. I would rat him out for the tiniest indiscretions. He’d kick me in the back seat of our VW Vanagon camper then smile innocently and shrug when my dad met his eyes in the rearview mirror. We were essentially two only children living in the same household. One handsome, athletic and wildly popular. The other chubby, musical and an abysmal social failure. I do not remember us as close. Only …

The Walker Kids Are All Right

We, the Walkers, are a tough crowd. Thanks to our loving and clever parents, we saw This is Spinal Tap in the theatre, which was pretty cutting edge at the time. We grew up memorizing lines from Raising Arizona and, when the Sunday comics were passed around, we knew why Doonesbury and Bloom County were funny. We made fun of each other like seasoned stand-up comedians, going for the laugh even if it was a little too sharp. When my sister Megan walked in after a particularly pixie-esque haircut, my brother Christopher looked at her and said: “Don’t ever do that again.” It was easy to get along for the most part because the three of us are close in age. My sister and I are 17 months apart, and my brother and I are 20 months apart. Megan is a Type-A firstborn; anything she does is done well, done to perfection. Trust me. Whether she is painting a bathroom, volunteering at school or making hollandaise, she is at the top of her game. She …

When Number Two is Number One: My Big Little Brother

Never forget. This is what we’re told about September 11th. Most of us couldn’t forget if we tried. The images of twisted steel and even more twisted faces have grabbed our memories with a grip that will not ease. What we remember differs from person to person depending on how close each stood to the epicenter. My dearest friend on the East Coast, who was working in the adjacent building, keeps the memories the media cannot convey — the moans of breaking metal, the smells of a city ablaze, the breath of a stricken populace racing by. My dearest friend on the West Coast remembers only that her local coffee shop didn’t open that morning. I, protected by the tall walls of a Missouri college that fateful day, have a dimming recollection of cancelled classes and a candlelight vigil on that particular 9/11, but September 11th has always been a day of seismic change for me. Because my brother was born that day. Shaun was the second and final child of my parents, and as …

After a Loss, My Sister Stopped My World From Falling Apart

  When I think of my big sister, I think of that person who always knows what to say and always knows what to do. I can count on her to come up with a plan or solution to just about any problem. She’s my lighthouse. I imagine a little lighthouse that is white with a deep blue trim, sitting as strong and firm as the rocky coast it’s perched upon, lighting my way for a safe passage. I’m the ship, sailing up and down the coast from port to port. I sail past the lighthouse and wave. Give a little “all is ok!” sign as I pass. My sister winks back and lets me know all is right in her world too. As one would expect, every now and then my ship sails through a storm. “Ok, I can handle this,” I think as I grit my teeth, grab the wheel and tug on the lines. I steady myself, weather the storm and give my usual wave to the lighthouse up on the rocks. …

Margit’s Note: The Language of Siblings

There we are: a trio of Detweiler kids, rolling around in the back of a Ford Country Squire, seatbelt-free, chanting nonsense-filled songs we’d make up on the fly: “Apple tree, apple pee!” Potty talk makes everything better. We pinch, kick, cry shriek with laughter until one exasperated parent yells, “Stop your blather.” Which makes us laugh even harder. BLATHER?? We repeat in a fancy pants voice,  “BLAAAATHER?” Stifling our hysterics is impossible. Hopefully this doesn’t result in the car being stopped. Because after all, I’m the oldest, and the one perennially, “in charge.” *** I read somewhere that when you have one cat, the cat bonds with its owner, but with two cats, the cats bond with each other —the impact siblings have is something like that.  My sister, brother and I speak a language we share with no one else — words and memories to make us gasp with laughter, innocuous-seeming phrases that will turn us red with anger.  No one else can get under your skin quite like a sibling. One of 1,000 examples: I used to joke …

The Girl in the Gray Flannel Suit

Before I moved to Bridgeport — Connecticut’s only really big, bad city — I commuted into Manhattan out of a station in Westport. A bit of trivia: Westport is the town that played the role of EverySuburb in the 1955 bestseller The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, reissued with a forward by Jonathan Franzen, and in the hit movie, starring Gregory Peck. You likely haven’t read the book or seen the movie (I did, only just in advance of writing this), but I bet the title triggers the image of its protagonist: the button-downed, soul-squashed, bread-winning husband/middle-manager who takes his place on the platform every weekday morning at 6:34 a.m. at the exact spot where the door will open, briefcase and folded-up New York Times in hand. What you probably don’t know: On the Westport platform and at that time in the morning, not much has changed. Many mornings it was a sea of grey-suited men, most of whom resemble Dick Cheney at some point in his life, and me. The youngest among them have …

The Rebirth and Reuse of Great Global Cities

“Vital cities have marvelous innate abilities for understanding, communicating, contriving, and inventing what is required to combat their difficulties… Lively, diverse, intense cities contain the seeds of their own regeneration, with energy enough to carry over for problems and needs outside themselves.” — Jane Jacobs Whenever I take a stroll on New York’s Highline, I think about the creativity, ingenuity, money, politics and gumption it took to bring it to life. What some might have seen as an old, decrepit railroad trestle, others had the vision to retrofit it into a lush, elevated park that has added immeasurable pleasure to Manhattan dwellers and visitors alike. This is sustainability in action: an urban infrastructure turned urban green machine, improving air quality, affording new views of the city and providing a happy respite from the hustle. Why is this so important? The environment that surrounds you is the quality of your life. It’s as simple — and as incredibly hard — as that. During its upcoming summit on September 25, the United Nations is adding “Sustainable Cities …

How to Become a Car Person In Just 3 Short Years

In my 18 years in New York City, I relied on the subway every single day of my life just like everyone else. First, it was the G to the L. Then, the G to the 7 or maybe the G to the E. Then, there was the L to the N, the G to the F, the L to the 2 (and that horrible tunnel between them), and finally the 4. Just the 4. Live and work long enough in NYC, and you’ll earn the privilege of a single-train commute. For years, I traipsed through wind and snow, uphill both ways to the subway — not an old saying in this case, but likely actually true based on NYC Sanitation’s snow removal efforts. I walked in sub-zero temps and felt my eyeballs start to freeze. I plodded through swampy humidity with sweat rolling down my back. I darted around bewildered tourists at the top of the subway stairs. I always got on the train at the exact door that would match my preferred exit …

Next Stop: Harrassment. Why I Won’t Take Public Transportation

I didn’t need Pope Francis to tell me global warming was a thing. I’m one of those folks who doesn’t willfully shut their eyes to scientific evidence. I was even on my high school’s recycling committee way back when. (True story: My class ring has a dolphin on it majestically swimming though the center of the recycling arrows symbol.) I cannot support, however, what is probably one of the best ways for your average person to help out the Earth: taking public transportation. After spending five years enduring daily harassment on my commute to work, I would torch a planet full of dinosaurs for fuel so that I could travel in the protective, asshole-free bubble of my own car. I was born and raised in Philadelphia and lived there until I was 32 years old. That killer combo of living in a large city and being a woman means I’m no stranger to street harassment. A “Hey, baby,” here, a “That’s what I’m talkin’ about” there. Or sometimes worse. But that’s life in the big …

Zen and the Art of the Crafty Commute

As someone who makes her home in a tree-lined, mostly hipster-free (knock wood), very outer area of the most desirable outer borough of Manhattan, I spend an inordinate amount of time commuting. Despite the rumblings of further encroaching gentrification, I’m blessedly still just a little too far from the maddening crowd. Yet another Fashion Week event invitation? Not all that interesting if it means spending extra hours on the back and forth. Tribeca Film Festival? You’ll need a pretty compelling line-up for me to spring for a cab back home. And, yes, I did just turn down an invitation to the cocktail party gala for the Frieda Kahlo exhibit up in the Bronx because no one offered to send an Uber. While I schlep back and forth on the F train to meetings or dinners or cocktails or basically anything worth doing, I tend to complain mightily. And I always have a plan of attack. I avoid eye contact, avoid frottage and try to have something to focus on other than the smells and sound effects …

The Ritual of Flying and Crying

The window seat on airplanes has always been my refuge. I can turn my face into it to hide my tears, or I can focus on a cloud while flashing back to an 11 year-old quietly sobbing on the nine-hour journey from London to Vancouver. Most of us experience at least one traumatic event that shapes and alters everything to come. As a child, my move to Vancouver had a shocking air of finality. I watched my whole extended family gathered at Heathrow Airport to see us off. There were various aunts sobbing, stoic uncles wiping deceptive trickles off their cheeks and unaware cousins who scoffed at the hoopla around them. I opted for a British stiff upper lip, hoping it would allow me to show a sense of decorum and unflappability. As I stood by the departure gate, I felt like I was going into exile. My younger sister and dad made the first move to go on ahead and waved back happily. This prompted a twinge of betrayal in me. How could they …

Margit’s Note: How Are You Getting There?

“Down below the street can you dig the steady beat it’s the subway. Subway!” There’s this groovy Sesame Street musical bit with muppets-as-straphangers that still plays in my head, some 40 odd years later, as I venture underground. There’s still a whiff (and I do mean a whiff) of novelty to the journey. Most days I loathe the commute, but on some special days — when someone’s not manspreading into my business or I haven’t entered a car where a kindly human has left a package of smell — I get a seat, pop out my Kindle and it’s actually quite pleasant. But let’s be honest: more often I feel annoyed, I’m wedged in someone’s armpit and am just trying to find a wall to lean on so I don’t get kicked by the kid doing a backflip next to my head. What time is it? Showtime folks, showtime. As New Yorkers, we love to discuss our routes and travel methods. I could take the F train, but then do I have to change at West …

What Ever Happened to Customer Service? Meet Bette

What the world needs now is a customer service vigilante. Her name: Bette. (Bette is short for Better, as in Better Customer Service.) Bette is not a caped crusader, though. Bette wears a 1980s skirt suit. The jacket has shoulder pads and an asymmetrical hem. The matching knee-length skirt is formfitting — not 21st century formfitting but pre-Herve Leger formfitting (i.e. touching, not hugging, her in all the right places). Bette wears black square-toe heels and maroon lipstick. Her cheeks are sometimes stained with excess rouge. She is attractive, but she’s formidable. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor makes you shudder. Bette is my imaginary hero. She is the avenger whom I wish would pop up whenever a cashier yells, “Next!” instead of cheerfully asking, “May I help you?” (And, no, a sullen “May I help you” sans the lilt of a question mark doesn’t count.) I wish Bette were there to break up a conversation between two cashiers who are so busy talking to each other that they haven’t bothered to …

Mom, Interrupted: Let Me Finish My Sentence

“Mom, can the new kid in my class come over sometime and…” Click. “The new kid in MY class from Japan brought in this candy today that tasted like…” Click. “Somebody said there was a bug in the noodles today, and my whole class was, like, screaming…” “Tristan’s mom is having a baby…” “Sweetheart, can you please get my watch fixed before… “ Click. Click. Click. Somehow my entire existence has become a live-action website. Each day hurtles at me at warp speed. But it’s not like it was when I was growing up, when life seemed to unfold in a forward motion not unlike the 1970s TV shows I watched after school. Instead, life in my family today seems as if it’s its own social network of bang-bang status updates – an unyielding series of nested hyperlinks, one after another, mouse click after mouse click after mouse click. They carry me, like a cognitive tidal wave, away from whatever it is that I’m trying to say and think. [pullquote]Perhaps we’re afraid our overscheduled 40-something …

Teaching My Son to Be Nice to the Robots

“Siri. Siri, you’re stupid.” My son — the most polite, sweetest, kindest little boy I know — is at it again. “Siri, I think you’re ugly.” I cringe. I yell from my office, “CALVIN! Stop being mean to Siri!” “But Mom, she’s not human!” he yells back from his nest of pillows on the couch. Yeah, I think to myself. That’s exactly what people said about their slaves 150 years ago, isn’t it? It’s what the Nazi’s said about their victims in the ‘40s and what ISIS says about Yazidi women today. Is that where the bar lies in this household? Is this our acceptable level of conduct? Calvin, like many children of his generation, learned the word “acceptable” even before he learned to walk. He used to toddle around and scold his stuffed animals with that big, grown-up word. “No ass-ET-ball,” he’d chastise, wagging his chubby finger at Elephant, who is, unsurprisingly, a stuffed elephant. “NO ASS-ET-BALL!” [pullquote]“But if you can’t learn to be nice to the robots, then you can just…just…FORGET about having a robot. …

Margit’s Note: Darling, Your Manners Are Showing

At brunch last Sunday, in one of the quaintest, grass-fed-filled Brooklyn establishments, my husband and I asked for a refill of our coffee mugs. Smiling, the server speedily took away the mugs and replaced them with two “to-go” paper cups of coffee. We hadn’t asked for the check — heck, we weren’t even finished with our omelets. But without so much as asking us if we wanted them, she slid the paper cups in front of us. A not-so-subtle cue to hurry up and scram. This wasn’t the first time this had happened; pushing diners along is part of a growing trend to ditch civility and opt for turnover. The Washington Post wrote about this back in June, citing the trend of clearing before everyone was finished noting “restaurants have abandoned, or simply overlooked, a classic tenet of service etiquette.” Allow me to channel Andy Rooney for just a minute. (You don’t know who Andy Rooney is? SIGH. What are you doing on this site?? Harrumph.) What the hell is happening to good manners? And …

Mother of Game: Lessons from the Sidelines

I sat in the gym with my ass flattening on the wood bleacher. This occasionally alternated with sitting on soccer fields where the same ass is suspended more forgivingly in a camp chair. It’s a butt-annihilator, but I prefer the gym. I have no memory of what I did during weekends before basketball and soccer fused themselves to my being like an exoskeleton. Was I at the theater? Pickling breakfast radishes? Whatever I was doing didn’t include camp chairs — a product both nifty and humiliating. My son’s team was getting crushed. This was local basketball and different from the travel team he also plays for — this one has volunteer coaches with a gentle vibe. Not harrowing. But feelings creep in. There are impotent frustrations. If only they did this, they’d be winning. If only I could shout some advice to my son, Griffin and the other kids, this game would turn around. I’ve never played basketball, not a single game, but I’m convinced I’d coach to victory. The previous time I’d given in …

Just Say No: Ending My Strange, Candy-Wrapped Addiction

It’s such old news. So passé. I don’t even want to talk about my addiction. It’s like still wearing skinny jeans when everyone has moved back to boot cut (again). Like smoking when everyone else is vaping. (By the way, what is vaping? No idea.) “Isn’t it all so 2013?” I asked Karen, our social media editor, over our weekly coffee. “Yeah, but you’re still addicted and so is everyone else. I think it’s important to discuss it.” So, here it is: I still play Candy Crush for, maybe, a total of an hour every day. On the subway to and from my office. In bed before I fall asleep. On the can. Sorry, but I need to come clean with the whole truth. I’m not killing puppies or destroying my lungs (or my liver) — I’m just lining up jellybeans, creating color bombs and blasting meringues. It’s seemingly a harmless, albeit engrossing time-waster. My husband looks up from his Ta-Nehisi Coates book, pointing at my game. “Hey, there are three little red hotdogs you …

The Second Set: A SAHM Puts Her Tennis Game to Work

I charge down the line and join my doubles partner at the net. We are prepared to crush anything that comes our way. It’s a glorious spring day and we are dominating our first match of the season. Our opponent sends a lob in my direction, but unfortunately (for her) it doesn’t catch enough height to clear my head. I rotate my body sideways, point upward to locate the ball in the glistening sun and wind my tennis racquet around in perfect form before delivering the devastating overhead shot that could win us the game. “Deeeeep,” our opponent calls from the other side of the net. “Are you freakin’ kidding me,” I say, under my breath, certain that the ball was way inside the line. My partner Chrissy runs over, tells me to “shake it off” (who the hell is she, Taylor Swift?) and convinces me to keep playing. We win the match on the next point, shake hands with the ladies we just defeated and smile as we head off the court to have …

I Would Probably Beat You at SET (And I Don’t Feel Bad)

Do you know the game SET? It’s a card game of visual perception that has won a ton of awards — but that’s not why I love it. I love it because…well, because I’m great at it. I’m not being conceited. It just comes easy to me; in fact, I was shocked to find it does not come naturally to everyone. I’ll elaborate, but first I want to tell you about the game. [pullquote]When I’m playing SET, I am entirely and blissfully in the moment — and I’m in it to win it (which I usually do.)[/pullquote] SET is a race to find sets of three cards where the features on each of the cards are either all the same or all different. There are four features to compare: color (red, purple or green), shape (oval, squiggle or diamond), number (one, two or three) and shading (solid, striped or outlined.) It’s an all-out competition, with no taking of turns and no element of luck — the player who finds the most sets wins. SET is …

Why I Finally Got My Very Own Minecraft Account

One day several years ago, the kids are playing Minecraft and I hear this from the other room: “Okay! Meet you at the head shop!” My parental ears perk up, and I casually call, “Wow, they have head shops in Minecraft? What do they sell?” “Heads, Mom. What do you think?” Then and there I decided it was worth the investment for me to get a Minecraft account too. My kids have been playing Minecraft for almost four years, but aside from installing “mods” (software modifications) for them and playing all-around IT support, I just wasn’t that interested in it. I tried it but mostly for their safety, to see what was going on. The kids were thrilled I had joined, but my first experience just wasn’t that exciting so I bailed. No real head shops. I just remember punching trees to get wood, killing sheep to make a bed and gathering seeds to grow food. I really found it boring. At the time I didn’t know that that was just a tiny part of how …

My Best Sports Moment Ever: That Kickball Homerun 35 Years Ago

The daily recess kickball game told you pretty much everything you needed know about the pecking order at our tiny school. The little kids stuck to the swings and slides on the grass; the fourth-graders were allowed to play the fifth- and sixth-graders in a parking lot kickball game. There were just 16 of us in the fourth-grade class versus twice as many older kids. None of them particularly liked me, the new girl. I had bushy hair and an annoying habit of showing off my vocabulary. One day at lunch the kids formed a circle around me and demanded I recite big words. I probably deserved it. I had never played kickball before. The game made enough sense, but I was not what you would consider “sporty.”  The whole sequence of running up to a rolling red rubber ball, calibrating your speed just so to get a good “smack!” and kicking the ball beyond your opponents’ reach confounded me. In the outfield, I usually misjudged where the ball was going to land and let …

Margit’s Note: Games People Play

Stretched out on the shag carpet with your pals, you’re Operating. All eyes are on Kim, who is delicately attempting to pincer the Charley Horse, quivering and steadying when BLEEP! The nose is ablaze. HA! Let me show you how it’s done, SHAKEY. It’s the first time you ever talk smack. You feel a little bad about it. (Nah, not really — that’s 48-year-old you talking.) There will be more smack to come in life. On the field hockey field, getting in your opponent’s head and then losing. Dramatically. Driving to the away game explaining to your 10-year-old daughter that you can’t always win, but there’s something called sportsmanship. (Sportspersonship?) Or, you can’t always win, but you keep trying. Even when the other person is across the way waving their giant “Number 1” foam finger in your face, you don’t quit. You try to get better. And sometimes you have to wait for your “J-Mac” moment to shine. There are valuable life lessons in every game — whether played with a racket, a joystick or …