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I know a real neat guy. And when I say neat, I mean ripped.

The man on the right is a model, muscle man, Master Personal Trainer, and pretty much any other amazing thing you can think of to say about an Adonis. I mean, Dude rocks it. No matter what 'it' is. The best part is, he isn't even an asshole. He's actually a really nice, friendly, cool guy.

 Not that he hasn't heard the accolades a million times (today), he is very humble about his amazing physique and amazingness. He is a real person, with real feelings and a real life. He works hard every day, all the time; inspiring others and doing good things that both show, and don't show.

Because he is that amazing.

Ripped. Humble. Real. Amazing.

He posted on his Facebook the familiar adage, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?"
Hmph. Easy for Adonis to say. I mean, look at those...everything. I seeeriously doubt he has ever fallen to the temptation of laying on the couch and waking up to dry mouth from all the pistachios or Cool Ranch Doritos he ate while watching 48 Hours Hard Evidence . He epitomizes motivation. He sweats commitment and hard work. The man wakes up and makes a Dedication Smoothie.

I scoffed. I wondered. If I could not fail? What would I do?
And then, I got distracted by something shiny. You read that right, I  failed at thinking about not failing.

But, the question lingered in the back of my mind like those mismatched socks on the couch. I asked myself what is stopping me from doing anything I even remotely think I could do, really? I learned, it isn't my fear of failure that holds me back from achieving. I totally believe that I could do anything I wanted to do. But, I am a farmer of excuses. Planting laziness, harvesting reasons why I "can't" achieve something.

Let's assume that I would like to be a body builder.  How come I'm not trying to be a body builder if that is something I want to do? And, by the way, I'm pretty sure that I could be a body builder for like, a few days.
 But, eventually, that would get hard and I would have to go back to watching Toddlers and Tiara's and Sister Wives. Let's not forget Dance Moms. Oh, and of course 16 and Pregnant. Booyah. That's some messed up shit. But, I digress.

Besides the fact that on the inside, I'm a body builder, on the outside, I lack three things that hold me back: Muscles, motivation and discipline. Money for training, tanning, teeth whitening, hair lightening and a shiny bathing suit and high heels to wear in competitions might help, too.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring to you my resounding excuses. And that's all they are. Excuses. If I wanted the money, I could raise the money. I'm sure Complete Nutrition is dying to sponsor a 37 year old mother of 4 in an amateur body building contest.

The truth is, all of my excuses could easily be called something else: Controllables. My excuses have not been put on me, outside of my control. I choose them. I pick them up, and carry them all day long.  My excuses aren't disabilities, handicaps or accidents. They are not things that 'happened' to me. My excuses are what I go to instead of working hard for the things that truly matter. Because working hard is hard. I'm living like I "can't", but the reality is I "don't".

 I'm able bodied. I'm a whole person living a half life. My excuses only empower me to never achieve. Ewe.

The epiphanies could go on and on, but I have exceeded my quota of realizing wisdom for one day. It really comes down to choices. Choosing to go after it, or not. It comes down to choosing inspiration. Motivation. Discipline. Some folks choose those things and blow them out of the water, like my dear friend on the right. His results are commendable, admirable. Inspirational.

Amazing.

Then there are people who have every reason, legit reasons, understandable reasons, to say that they 'can't'. Yet, they choose to live a whole life despite the adversity life has given them. Those people become Special Olympic Champion Power Lifters. Their choices power their 300 lb squats, 245 lb bench, 315 lb dead lifts.

Inspiration reveals itself in different ways. And I promise you, it isn't in the Season Finale of Sister Wives or at the bottom of a bag of pistachios. Sometimes inspiration takes the shape of Adonis. Sometimes, inspiration strikes a proud pose next to Adonis.

 And that's the kind of inspiration that has the power to change "What would I do..." into "What if I Did?"

A Willing Prisoner

"I'm ready for breakfast!" My son's order for waffles, sausage and mini-pancakes is barked at me before I even get a proper greeting.

"How about, good morning mom? Hi mom? You must have slept so well, you look radiant?"

He rolls his ten year old eyes in unison with a 'whatever' sigh.

"And, I don't like that V8 juice, I'd rather have orange juice."
I let that one go, too, because he just looks so damn cute in his striped pajamas and bedhead.

"Will you please get the syrup out of the pantry?" The martyr side of me kicks instinctively into high gear, with hopes that he will be moved to help, simply because I am just shy of squeezing fresh orange juice for him. I hear him open the pantry with loud body language.

"Oh my gosh! You said you were going to buy the good syrup! Why did you buy the store kind, again!"

And that was it. The catapult that launched my son on an unforgettable guilt trip with yours truly. And I assure you, no one can lay a good guilt trip like Mom.

I didn't even try to stop myself from using the usual cliche's. I even harped on those poor children in China who never had-and probably never will- have syrup. Oh, you are so lucky, you don't even know how lucky you are. When I was your age..." I went on and on stopped before I got to my 'barefoot walks to school in the snow, uphill!' But I did not leave out the fact that I am not his servant.
I inserted a few, "I don't even know why I try", "I work so hard", and even the classic, "Everything I do is for you." And, all I ask in return is for you to dip your perfect pancakes in 1/4 cup of store brand, sugar free, dollar-ninety-nine syrup.

I'm such a bad mom, I don't know how you even find the will to wake up every day.

Oh, that was good. I think I really got through to him with that 'perfect pancake' bit.

I hovered over my son at the table while he ate. I carried on with a tragic monologue that would have made Shakespeare proud. My son tuned me out, and, truth be told, by the time he was done gagging on generic syrup, I had tired of my own voice too.

He was excused, and ordered to his room to get dressed. I steadied myself for some 'but it's Saturday!' push-back, but it never came. Tail between his legs, he went to his room and came back dressed. That 'perfect pancake' thing was more effective than I thought.

I patted myself on the back with dishpan hands.

While I might be trapped by my instinct and legal obligation to feed my son, I am free to feed him store brand syrup and remind him to like it.