Mama’s Going to Be a Gladiator

Published in The Broomfield Enterprise, 2/10/08 “It would make sense,” my husband said, “if you had ever expressed even once in the last sixteen years that you had a remote dream of becoming a Gladiator.” I had just told him that the casting directors from the television show “American Gladiators” would be in Boulder in just two weeks and he didn’t quite understand why I would want to go hang out with the ‘roid-raged muscle heads that would be roaming about. Would I be disappointed if I didn’t make the cut? Would I need to use several personal days from work to nurse myself back to health? It was, quite simply, the weirdest marital conversation we’d ever had. The following evening, I explained that, in addition to me going, I had talked a friend of mine into joining me. (Me: “Come on—it’ll be fun!” My friend, flipping through random, blank pages of a scheduling book: “Geez—I have a thing, at the thing…with a guy…from the splazitjgj…” Me: “You are just making up words.” My friend: “No I am not.” Me: “C’mon—it’ll be fun!” My friend: “You know what? I’ll do it!” Me: “Well—if you do it, then I’ll do it!” My friend: “What?? I’m only doing it because you want to do it!!” Me: “I have to go now.”) The look on my husband’s face as I recounted our exchange was that of someone who was sadly wondering why he could not just be married to a normal woman who wanted to take some time off to have a facial at the day spa instead of one who wants to pal around with singularly-syllable-named adults who drink diesel fuel in their coffee cups each morning. My intent, however, was never to actually be cast on the television show or “hang” at the free weight stand howling with “Wolff”. I have no interest in wasting my fifteen minutes in the reality TV realm or becoming any type of “famous”…no interest in carrying around little dogs and conveniently “forgetting” to wear underpants as I exit the back seat of a low riding car in front of twenty photographers. Like most mothers, the hours of my day are wrapped around volunteering to make Valentine’s Day party decorations for the classroom, reading library books with my kids, checking over homework, making the lunch bag, the snack bag, the “100 Days of School” collection bag, gathering clothing for the charity, driving the kids to basketball games and karate classes, and doing all the things that most mothers in America do for their children. We do these things because we want to, because we love our children. Because we want to provide our kids with every opportunity to learn and grow and understand that they are loved and worthy and have the potential to blow the doors off this world as they mature and evolve. But every now and then, a mother needs a little break. A mother needs to step out of her skin, to escape from her routine-laden box and spend one day—just one–not making lunches and snacks and decorations. In short, there are just some days when Mama needs to kick some Gladiator a%%. So, I’m planning on going to the Gladiator tryouts instead of going to the day spa to have my age spots looked at. Now all I have to do is come up with a name for myself. So far, “Issues”, “Bad Body Image” and “Disorder” have been suggested by my family and friends, but I’m still working on it…