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Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Dough on a Stick (Alternate Title: Welcome to 40!)
I try not to be a blamer in my life, and for the most part, I think I'm good at it. Honestly, most of my character traits and life decisions come from me seeing a behavior/choice and thinking, "Yeah, I'm going to try to do not that" and adjusting accordingly.
One thing that has always bothered me is the idea of being a tattletale or blamer.
I'm not saying I NEVER blame or tattle, because let's be honest, I do, without even realizing it sometimes.
And I'm not saying I don't have the URGE to tattle or blame, because oh Bessie, you got no idea. The force is strong in this one.
So that takes us to the number one thing I want to blame on anybody or anything but me: my eating habits.
They are, in a word, terrible. They're terrible because that serves me in some way, according to my wise workout instructor. I think that way is summed up in one word: deliciousness.
Food is delicious. I love it a lot. However, food is not a good influence on my life. It's like that one friend you have that you get together with periodically and you always MEAN to make good choices as a unit, but the next thing you know you're both covered in donut glaze and at least one of you is missing a shoe, and neither one of you can remember how to get to that one chick's apartment who lives within walking distance.
I think compulsive overeating is the term, but that makes me sound like I have a condishun, and that's not the case. I just love food. I love it. I love to think about it, look at pictures of it, and eat it. I love to plan recipes and add secret ingredients, and I firmly believe a little extra vanilla is vital in a dessert, just as a little extra garlic in an entree isn't gonna hurt anyone.
So then I have that first bite, and oh my God I nailed it, so I have to keep eating, or oh my God did I not nail it? I better have another bite to see for sure, or oh my God this is terrible, but I hate to waste food, so I have to keep eating.
See the pattern?
All of this has resulted in hundreds of pounds gained and lost over the years: 20 pounds here and there, but usually more in the five to 10 pound range, over and over and over again.
But mostly, I have gotten away with it, by working out or moving enough to keep it from getting really bad.
However, I'm noticing something: either I'm eating a lot more or it's getting noticeably harder to beat the system. And my weight gain is a little different than it used to be. It's like I'm accumulating more...sag.
I said it. There's more droop. It's an almost imperceptible melting effect. I mean, dear God, is my belly button actually disappearing behind a curtain of falling skin? And what is my chest DOING? Is it actually dipping down to help me look for my belly button? Why do my upper arms morph into flying squirrels when I wave furiously at someone? And is my leg skin...starting to fall?? Where will it land? Around my ankles? Will it just drape in folds eventually, all the way down? Is my skin actually getting bigger? What is even happening?
So every Sunday I have a stern talking-to with myself. I'm all, self, listen. We're older than we've ever been and now we're even older.
And now we're even older.
And now we're even older.
You know what I'm saying. So then comes the hey, health, longevity, mood stabilization are actually GOOD things, so maybe just stop, please just at least consider stopping eating like you used to when you thought you were comfortably married and would never have to be in the dating pool again. If you could just try that, just give it a little try, a little try never hurt anybody, and then maybe the flying squirrels won't actually look like they're going to sail right off your arms, and maybe your legs won't slowly morph into skin drapes.
And then I'm like, hey, self, great idea, I could NOT agree more!
And I mean it. Until, say, Monday at 3 p.m. when I'm in the end stages of starvation even though I've consumed a very reasonable breakfast and lunch. Then I attack a jar of peanut butter with a spoon that barely fits in the mouth of the jar, and boom, another day is lost.
So then I go to Fit Club (which I won't be attending for six weeks now due to a longish-term commitment) and my sister, who is amazing, but only 30 years old, mocks me openly. She means well. She tells me that the flying squirrels will be larger and more aggressive if I don't punch harder, that my leg folds will be worse if I don't do higher knees...and she snickers a lot. Far more snickering than I like to have directed at my body skin.
The point is that I think of all this, I get down on myself, I start to openly question at what point I filled up with so much self-loathing, and then I remember the 1997 Baz Luhrmann song, based on the Mary Schmich article of the same year that was a list of bits of advice to graduates in speech format: Wear Sunscreen.
Schmich started by extolling the virtues of sunscreen, and imploring young graduates to start wearing it immediately, in order to save years of regret later. She followed a specific-to-broad-to-specific format from that point, and hit on this line early in the list:
But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.
Sigh. Okay. I get it. So I started paying closer attention to these thoughts I had about my body's tendency to embrace gravity a little too zealously, and realized that, when traced back to my lazy, lazy roots, I AM a blamer. And the person I make these excuses to every single day...is myself. My internal dialogue goes much like this:
Well, I CAN'T do high knees, because sometimes that one knee hurts.
I mean, if they want me to throw up on this floor, sure I'll go as hard as they do.
They're lucky I'm even here today. I'm super hormonal. So much bloat.
The last time I did this workout was in Bangor, Maine. It was a simpler time.
And on, and on, and ON. So I'm going to try a thing where instead of constantly blaming something else for my lack of drive, I'll just put some of that energy into jumping-jack pushups or whatever the hell is happening,
and see how that all shakes out.
I'll let you know how it goes. But until then...
trust me on the sunscreen.
One thing that has always bothered me is the idea of being a tattletale or blamer.
I'm not saying I NEVER blame or tattle, because let's be honest, I do, without even realizing it sometimes.
And I'm not saying I don't have the URGE to tattle or blame, because oh Bessie, you got no idea. The force is strong in this one.
So that takes us to the number one thing I want to blame on anybody or anything but me: my eating habits.
They are, in a word, terrible. They're terrible because that serves me in some way, according to my wise workout instructor. I think that way is summed up in one word: deliciousness.
Food is delicious. I love it a lot. However, food is not a good influence on my life. It's like that one friend you have that you get together with periodically and you always MEAN to make good choices as a unit, but the next thing you know you're both covered in donut glaze and at least one of you is missing a shoe, and neither one of you can remember how to get to that one chick's apartment who lives within walking distance.
I think compulsive overeating is the term, but that makes me sound like I have a condishun, and that's not the case. I just love food. I love it. I love to think about it, look at pictures of it, and eat it. I love to plan recipes and add secret ingredients, and I firmly believe a little extra vanilla is vital in a dessert, just as a little extra garlic in an entree isn't gonna hurt anyone.
So then I have that first bite, and oh my God I nailed it, so I have to keep eating, or oh my God did I not nail it? I better have another bite to see for sure, or oh my God this is terrible, but I hate to waste food, so I have to keep eating.
See the pattern?
All of this has resulted in hundreds of pounds gained and lost over the years: 20 pounds here and there, but usually more in the five to 10 pound range, over and over and over again.
But mostly, I have gotten away with it, by working out or moving enough to keep it from getting really bad.
However, I'm noticing something: either I'm eating a lot more or it's getting noticeably harder to beat the system. And my weight gain is a little different than it used to be. It's like I'm accumulating more...sag.
I said it. There's more droop. It's an almost imperceptible melting effect. I mean, dear God, is my belly button actually disappearing behind a curtain of falling skin? And what is my chest DOING? Is it actually dipping down to help me look for my belly button? Why do my upper arms morph into flying squirrels when I wave furiously at someone? And is my leg skin...starting to fall?? Where will it land? Around my ankles? Will it just drape in folds eventually, all the way down? Is my skin actually getting bigger? What is even happening?
So every Sunday I have a stern talking-to with myself. I'm all, self, listen. We're older than we've ever been and now we're even older.
And now we're even older.
And now we're even older.
You know what I'm saying. So then comes the hey, health, longevity, mood stabilization are actually GOOD things, so maybe just stop, please just at least consider stopping eating like you used to when you thought you were comfortably married and would never have to be in the dating pool again. If you could just try that, just give it a little try, a little try never hurt anybody, and then maybe the flying squirrels won't actually look like they're going to sail right off your arms, and maybe your legs won't slowly morph into skin drapes.
And then I'm like, hey, self, great idea, I could NOT agree more!
And I mean it. Until, say, Monday at 3 p.m. when I'm in the end stages of starvation even though I've consumed a very reasonable breakfast and lunch. Then I attack a jar of peanut butter with a spoon that barely fits in the mouth of the jar, and boom, another day is lost.
So then I go to Fit Club (which I won't be attending for six weeks now due to a longish-term commitment) and my sister, who is amazing, but only 30 years old, mocks me openly. She means well. She tells me that the flying squirrels will be larger and more aggressive if I don't punch harder, that my leg folds will be worse if I don't do higher knees...and she snickers a lot. Far more snickering than I like to have directed at my body skin.
The point is that I think of all this, I get down on myself, I start to openly question at what point I filled up with so much self-loathing, and then I remember the 1997 Baz Luhrmann song, based on the Mary Schmich article of the same year that was a list of bits of advice to graduates in speech format: Wear Sunscreen.
Schmich started by extolling the virtues of sunscreen, and imploring young graduates to start wearing it immediately, in order to save years of regret later. She followed a specific-to-broad-to-specific format from that point, and hit on this line early in the list:
But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.
Sigh. Okay. I get it. So I started paying closer attention to these thoughts I had about my body's tendency to embrace gravity a little too zealously, and realized that, when traced back to my lazy, lazy roots, I AM a blamer. And the person I make these excuses to every single day...is myself. My internal dialogue goes much like this:
Well, I CAN'T do high knees, because sometimes that one knee hurts.
I mean, if they want me to throw up on this floor, sure I'll go as hard as they do.
They're lucky I'm even here today. I'm super hormonal. So much bloat.
The last time I did this workout was in Bangor, Maine. It was a simpler time.
And on, and on, and ON. So I'm going to try a thing where instead of constantly blaming something else for my lack of drive, I'll just put some of that energy into jumping-jack pushups or whatever the hell is happening,
I'll let you know how it goes. But until then...
trust me on the sunscreen.
Monday, August 17, 2015
I Am.
Have you ever had one of those songs that just stick with you and become, for the moment or several anyway, your personal anthem? A song that doesn't necessarily define you as a person, but at least rings true with a situation or era of life through which you're coasting/slogging?
Music is my lifemate. If I could live every moment of my life like it was a music montage, I would happily acquiesce. Think of all the useful shit that gets done in a music montage! I always refer back to my first memory of the montage, in the 1984 epic genius film "Revenge of the Nerds," during which an entire frat house was changed from structural kindling to an up-to-code, upstanding residence in about 30 seconds.
THIRTY SECONDS. I would remodel so hard if I could do it that way.
But I digress.
The song of the times is called "I Am" by Awolnation. Lyrics, for reference:
"I Am"
These friends of mine will come and go
I’m the first to leave and last to know
I’ll be swimming in a face of flames
For these friends of mine I’ve overpaid
And I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
Veins are glistening
So thanks a lot for listening
I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
Well I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
Well I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know
Hypnotized from the day you were born
So that's my personal song now. Let's couple it with a post about grief, shared by my uber-friend Tami Jones:
I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not.
I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents...
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. But I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.
Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too.
If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
I have found my pieces of wreckage to which I cling each time the waves hit, and, unlike a couple of months ago when I clung to whatever may have been floating past at the time, these are sturdy and healthy.
It's been quite a summer. I have suffered loss as a result of death twice. I have suffered loss in the form of my son starting college. And there have been a few instances of loss in relationship form, which are intensely painful but becoming more and more manageable.
And every day I see others around me suffer loss of some kind and begin the slow-motion, defeated paddling that occurs with endings as the first wave rises above them, unrelenting and unforgiving and absolutely unavoidable.
For those of you who are facing that "Perfect Storm" moment even now, please remember this:
There are so many of us who have been through it and come out the other side.
And ALL OF THESE THINGS MAKE YOU WHO YOU ARE.
Think of where you were. Think of where you are. And marvel at the growth and change that sheer damn living brings. Every single instance of pain, or joy, or loss, or gain, has shaped you. EVERY ONE OF THEM. Whether you asked for that growth or begged to be shielded from it, it has found you and molded you, gently or roughly. It is this very phenomenon that has caused me to have two lists:
1. My Bucket List
2. My Unintentional Bucket List
I also have altered the title of events to fall under one umbrella: "Collectible Life Experiences."
Instead of, say, "Cool Shit That Has Happened to Me" and "WTF, Life!?"
If past me had been told that there would be a summer during which I would lose my most loving uncle, my best friend/ex-husband, and my son, ALL IN THE SAME TWO MONTHS, I would have said, "Get right out of town!"
Then I would have removed one of my shoes, probably the left one, and thrown it at said messenger.
Then I would have run away in a zigzag pattern to avoid being hit again.
Then I probably would have tripped, either because I was wearing one shoe or because that's who I am as a person.
But what I wouldn't have known then was that I would have been able to handle it.
And that is why we don't know things such as the exact date of our death.
Ruminating about what has come before us or what lies ahead of us does us exactly no good. We only have this moment. THIS moment. Right now. Because we all know that nobody makes it out of this thing alive.
All we can do is seize who we are in this given moment, and then do the best we can with it.
THE BEST WE CAN. Not the right thing. Not the wrong thing. Only the thing that best helps us get through it.
So love yourself. No? At least like yourself. I look at it like this: if I want to watch Netflix for six hours, I want to watch Netflix. Great idea, self! I couldn't agree more!
You are equipped with everything you need, whether it seems that way at the time or not. Remember it. Lean on it. And live it.
And while you ruminate on that, take the time to notice how much my son looks like me. And then message him. He'll be so excited.
Music is my lifemate. If I could live every moment of my life like it was a music montage, I would happily acquiesce. Think of all the useful shit that gets done in a music montage! I always refer back to my first memory of the montage, in the 1984 epic genius film "Revenge of the Nerds," during which an entire frat house was changed from structural kindling to an up-to-code, upstanding residence in about 30 seconds.
THIRTY SECONDS. I would remodel so hard if I could do it that way.
But I digress.
The song of the times is called "I Am" by Awolnation. Lyrics, for reference:
"I Am"
These friends of mine will come and go
I’m the first to leave and last to know
I’ll be swimming in a face of flames
For these friends of mine I’ve overpaid
And I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
Veins are glistening
So thanks a lot for listening
I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
Well I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
All of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
Maybe all of these things made me who I am
And I am
Only looking up when my head’s down
Well I guess I wanted, I guess I wanted
I just want you to know
Hypnotized from the day you were born
So that's my personal song now. Let's couple it with a post about grief, shared by my uber-friend Tami Jones:
I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not.
I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents...
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. But I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.
Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too.
If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
I have found my pieces of wreckage to which I cling each time the waves hit, and, unlike a couple of months ago when I clung to whatever may have been floating past at the time, these are sturdy and healthy.
It's been quite a summer. I have suffered loss as a result of death twice. I have suffered loss in the form of my son starting college. And there have been a few instances of loss in relationship form, which are intensely painful but becoming more and more manageable.
And every day I see others around me suffer loss of some kind and begin the slow-motion, defeated paddling that occurs with endings as the first wave rises above them, unrelenting and unforgiving and absolutely unavoidable.
For those of you who are facing that "Perfect Storm" moment even now, please remember this:
There are so many of us who have been through it and come out the other side.
And ALL OF THESE THINGS MAKE YOU WHO YOU ARE.
Think of where you were. Think of where you are. And marvel at the growth and change that sheer damn living brings. Every single instance of pain, or joy, or loss, or gain, has shaped you. EVERY ONE OF THEM. Whether you asked for that growth or begged to be shielded from it, it has found you and molded you, gently or roughly. It is this very phenomenon that has caused me to have two lists:
1. My Bucket List
2. My Unintentional Bucket List
I also have altered the title of events to fall under one umbrella: "Collectible Life Experiences."
Instead of, say, "Cool Shit That Has Happened to Me" and "WTF, Life!?"
If past me had been told that there would be a summer during which I would lose my most loving uncle, my best friend/ex-husband, and my son, ALL IN THE SAME TWO MONTHS, I would have said, "Get right out of town!"
Then I would have removed one of my shoes, probably the left one, and thrown it at said messenger.
Then I would have run away in a zigzag pattern to avoid being hit again.
Then I probably would have tripped, either because I was wearing one shoe or because that's who I am as a person.
But what I wouldn't have known then was that I would have been able to handle it.
And that is why we don't know things such as the exact date of our death.
Ruminating about what has come before us or what lies ahead of us does us exactly no good. We only have this moment. THIS moment. Right now. Because we all know that nobody makes it out of this thing alive.
All we can do is seize who we are in this given moment, and then do the best we can with it.
THE BEST WE CAN. Not the right thing. Not the wrong thing. Only the thing that best helps us get through it.
So love yourself. No? At least like yourself. I look at it like this: if I want to watch Netflix for six hours, I want to watch Netflix. Great idea, self! I couldn't agree more!
You are equipped with everything you need, whether it seems that way at the time or not. Remember it. Lean on it. And live it.
And while you ruminate on that, take the time to notice how much my son looks like me. And then message him. He'll be so excited.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Things I Learned from Nevada Fitness Club, Part Six: Cize.
An interesting thing happened yesterday. I turned 40.
So, that's over. Moving on. Tonight I went back to the Fitness Club for what I thought was going to be a casual 21 Day Fix with weights.
First of all, screw the 21 Day Fix with weights because shoulders. And too much pep. And it interrupted a good nap.
So I'm suffering through that, feeling all 40-esque, but it was only a half an hour, right, so who even cares about a little sweat? And what else was I going to do? I had broken my corkscrew earlier, and the only bottle of twist-top wine I had was just okay. Side note, tonight I realized maybe I have a drinking problem.
But this isn't about my drinking problem. It's about what happened after the 21 day devil shoulder wtf fix.
And that something that happened was Cize.
Cize is Shaun T of Insanity and T-25's latest workout phenom. It's entirely dance-based, so the idea is kind of that you don't realize you're exercising. The inherent problem in the whole operation is that I basically can't walk without tripping.
When I've got a pleasant buzz to hard drunk on, though, I still can't walk without tripping, but I don't care. I also believe, in these booze-clouded times, that I not only have the right to dance, but that not dancing would be to deprive the world of a greatness heretofore unseen.
However, tonight, at the Community Center, I wasn't drunk. I wasn't even a little bit drunk. So when Brad fired up the 'Cize, my instinct was to trip-walk right out of that damn gym. However, I had a little time to kill, and I had just seen Trainwreck and wanted to learn a dance like Amy Schumer uses to land the guy, so I told myself I'd stay for five minutes.
The problem, again, was that I really had never danced sober.
We got started at a nice slow pace, slow enough that I got excited. I can totally do this, I thought. And this is where being a dreamer gets you. Before five minutes was up, I had imagined myself right into the Jennifer Lawrence part of Silver Linings Playbook. I WAS Jennifer Lawrence in Silver Linings Playbook. And by that I mean the dance part, not the part where Bradley Cooper can't get over his ex, because let's be honest here, I already lived that whole part of the movie. Over it.
I was ready for the glory. I was ready to stick the landing and live happily ever after with the guy who saw me dance and was blown. away.
And also he was hot, and totally into me, but not too much, because then it's clingy and just no.
The motions and tempo continued to increase, but I was keeping up, and there were even times where I felt like I stuck the move hard. And then my fantasies commenced again, but more in depth. I decided that I would probably go clubbin', because that's a thing that I literally never do, and that my range and skill would be so obvious that the room would form a circle around me in no time. A circle that would remain unbroken...until the crowd parted and a man drew next to me. I had never seen him before, but that didn't stop us from moving in a complicated choreography that was completely in sync, not to mention stupid acrobatic, and culminated in me leaping into his arms and flying while he spun me like pizza dough, at which point the crowd would go wild and he and I would then go get some donuts or whatever.
For the first time, I understood that weird chick in high school who always danced alone in the middle of the floor, or tried in vain to get a conga line going while everybody looked at her like, you so crazy, goth girl.
This is also a perfect example of why all my grade cards mentioned that I daydreamed too much. But let's be honest, daydreams are so much cooler than not daydreams, amirite? C'mon now.
Science.
The point is, my five minutes turned into the whole 28 minutes, and I never felt like I was working out, so win. It's not even close to Insanity Max, so I'm sure the calorie burn is stupid low in comparison, but what isn't? Plus, mix that routine UP, right? Something something metabolism.
Anyway, it ended, and then I went and ate stromboli, and this is why I'll never be ripped.
So, that's over. Moving on. Tonight I went back to the Fitness Club for what I thought was going to be a casual 21 Day Fix with weights.
First of all, screw the 21 Day Fix with weights because shoulders. And too much pep. And it interrupted a good nap.
So I'm suffering through that, feeling all 40-esque, but it was only a half an hour, right, so who even cares about a little sweat? And what else was I going to do? I had broken my corkscrew earlier, and the only bottle of twist-top wine I had was just okay. Side note, tonight I realized maybe I have a drinking problem.
But this isn't about my drinking problem. It's about what happened after the 21 day devil shoulder wtf fix.
And that something that happened was Cize.
Cize is Shaun T of Insanity and T-25's latest workout phenom. It's entirely dance-based, so the idea is kind of that you don't realize you're exercising. The inherent problem in the whole operation is that I basically can't walk without tripping.
When I've got a pleasant buzz to hard drunk on, though, I still can't walk without tripping, but I don't care. I also believe, in these booze-clouded times, that I not only have the right to dance, but that not dancing would be to deprive the world of a greatness heretofore unseen.
However, tonight, at the Community Center, I wasn't drunk. I wasn't even a little bit drunk. So when Brad fired up the 'Cize, my instinct was to trip-walk right out of that damn gym. However, I had a little time to kill, and I had just seen Trainwreck and wanted to learn a dance like Amy Schumer uses to land the guy, so I told myself I'd stay for five minutes.
The problem, again, was that I really had never danced sober.
We got started at a nice slow pace, slow enough that I got excited. I can totally do this, I thought. And this is where being a dreamer gets you. Before five minutes was up, I had imagined myself right into the Jennifer Lawrence part of Silver Linings Playbook. I WAS Jennifer Lawrence in Silver Linings Playbook. And by that I mean the dance part, not the part where Bradley Cooper can't get over his ex, because let's be honest here, I already lived that whole part of the movie. Over it.
I was ready for the glory. I was ready to stick the landing and live happily ever after with the guy who saw me dance and was blown. away.
And also he was hot, and totally into me, but not too much, because then it's clingy and just no.
The motions and tempo continued to increase, but I was keeping up, and there were even times where I felt like I stuck the move hard. And then my fantasies commenced again, but more in depth. I decided that I would probably go clubbin', because that's a thing that I literally never do, and that my range and skill would be so obvious that the room would form a circle around me in no time. A circle that would remain unbroken...until the crowd parted and a man drew next to me. I had never seen him before, but that didn't stop us from moving in a complicated choreography that was completely in sync, not to mention stupid acrobatic, and culminated in me leaping into his arms and flying while he spun me like pizza dough, at which point the crowd would go wild and he and I would then go get some donuts or whatever.
For the first time, I understood that weird chick in high school who always danced alone in the middle of the floor, or tried in vain to get a conga line going while everybody looked at her like, you so crazy, goth girl.
This is also a perfect example of why all my grade cards mentioned that I daydreamed too much. But let's be honest, daydreams are so much cooler than not daydreams, amirite? C'mon now.
Science.
The point is, my five minutes turned into the whole 28 minutes, and I never felt like I was working out, so win. It's not even close to Insanity Max, so I'm sure the calorie burn is stupid low in comparison, but what isn't? Plus, mix that routine UP, right? Something something metabolism.
Anyway, it ended, and then I went and ate stromboli, and this is why I'll never be ripped.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
And in the End, the Love You Take...
Tonight, I got the last load of items from my house and double-locked the front door.
Just like that, it's over.
Sometimes, as you write the chapters of the book of your life, you don't understand that each one has to end. You might understand, in a logical way, that none of us get out of here alive.
But you don't truly process it until you have to.
It is still surreal to me, even as I complete yet another move, even as I grasp the reality that as my thirties are drawing to a close, that so too is the chapter of my life that I considered the most pivotal.
My dad frequently quoted a poem to me in my youth, called "Don't Quit." He gave me a framed copy of it some years ago, and I keep it at my bedside.
Not that I need to. The words, along with those of Rudyard Kipling's "If", are, at this stage of the game, seared into my brain.
When things go wrong, as they sometimes will
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill.
When the funds are low, and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must
But don't you quit.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, but then again, what is? How often do things play out exactly as we envisioned?
When Bill died, I turned, in my grief, to a friend who helped me to sharpen my focus while simultaneously dulling my pain.
He asked me what I wanted in life, and told me to define it specifically and in writing.
There were two things on my list.
1. To live in a loft
2. To get a job as a professor, ideally teaching writing
I thought I had it figured out, essentially. What I didn't remember was that life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
My goal was to be out of Nevada when my son was, in August 2015.
However, I realized that it was perhaps best not to make too many decisions, too fast. I had all but officially left Nevada, and my belongings HAD officially left Nevada, when I realized that it was not yet time. As soon as I understood that, I texted a friend who owned rentals and asked if anything was open.
As it happened, he had a loft that had just become available.
And it was amazing. This is my view right now as I type.
I had also applied to a couple of places in Joplin, Freeman Hospital and MSSU. I had two interviews, and got both jobs. The first was not what I had initially thought. The second culminated in a phone call telling me that the job had been mine, but the person I would have replaced had withdrawn his resignation.
It seemed as though I wasn't meant to go quite yet.
And then, a third interview...as a professor of English Composition. As a professor who would TEACH WRITING.
"Your M.A. is in Communication, but given your various experiences and recognition of your writing, I think you may be a wonderful fit to do some adjunct teaching in our department," the email read.
The interview was five minutes long, followed by 25 minutes of discussing my thesis research. She offered me the job before I left, as an adjunct professor of two separate sections of Comp 101.
That met...in the middle of the day.
That paid...significantly less than my current salary.
It's interesting, life. There were two things I asked for, and, basing this on a technicality, I received both.
However, my Nevada time is not over. Not only because I don't want to move again, but also because life is a process. I'll start my forties here, and who even knows what will happen, but here is what I do know.
1. The donut shop is within walking distance.
2. And White Grill
3. And Dairy Queen.
Livin'. The. Dream.
Plus...
Just like that, it's over.
Sometimes, as you write the chapters of the book of your life, you don't understand that each one has to end. You might understand, in a logical way, that none of us get out of here alive.
But you don't truly process it until you have to.
It is still surreal to me, even as I complete yet another move, even as I grasp the reality that as my thirties are drawing to a close, that so too is the chapter of my life that I considered the most pivotal.
My dad frequently quoted a poem to me in my youth, called "Don't Quit." He gave me a framed copy of it some years ago, and I keep it at my bedside.
Not that I need to. The words, along with those of Rudyard Kipling's "If", are, at this stage of the game, seared into my brain.
When things go wrong, as they sometimes will
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill.
When the funds are low, and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must
But don't you quit.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, but then again, what is? How often do things play out exactly as we envisioned?
When Bill died, I turned, in my grief, to a friend who helped me to sharpen my focus while simultaneously dulling my pain.
He asked me what I wanted in life, and told me to define it specifically and in writing.
There were two things on my list.
1. To live in a loft
2. To get a job as a professor, ideally teaching writing
I thought I had it figured out, essentially. What I didn't remember was that life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
My goal was to be out of Nevada when my son was, in August 2015.
However, I realized that it was perhaps best not to make too many decisions, too fast. I had all but officially left Nevada, and my belongings HAD officially left Nevada, when I realized that it was not yet time. As soon as I understood that, I texted a friend who owned rentals and asked if anything was open.
As it happened, he had a loft that had just become available.
And it was amazing. This is my view right now as I type.
I had also applied to a couple of places in Joplin, Freeman Hospital and MSSU. I had two interviews, and got both jobs. The first was not what I had initially thought. The second culminated in a phone call telling me that the job had been mine, but the person I would have replaced had withdrawn his resignation.
It seemed as though I wasn't meant to go quite yet.
And then, a third interview...as a professor of English Composition. As a professor who would TEACH WRITING.
"Your M.A. is in Communication, but given your various experiences and recognition of your writing, I think you may be a wonderful fit to do some adjunct teaching in our department," the email read.
The interview was five minutes long, followed by 25 minutes of discussing my thesis research. She offered me the job before I left, as an adjunct professor of two separate sections of Comp 101.
That met...in the middle of the day.
That paid...significantly less than my current salary.
It's interesting, life. There were two things I asked for, and, basing this on a technicality, I received both.
However, my Nevada time is not over. Not only because I don't want to move again, but also because life is a process. I'll start my forties here, and who even knows what will happen, but here is what I do know.
1. The donut shop is within walking distance.
2. And White Grill
3. And Dairy Queen.
Livin'. The. Dream.
Plus...
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Repeating the same stories over and over.
The way he said "Love you Jenny" and "Love you kiddo."
The way he dried off with his towel.
Popping my zits and saying "ew" and calling me a groder.
Just saw Tina Kruse with her kids, wonder if any of them are mine.
His perfect steaks
Kevin Hart
Vegas
Baltimore
"Fuck a bunch of dumb shit"
Holding my boob
Rodney Carrington
His notes
His pinky toe
Putting his feet on my lap
Telling me we were perfect for each other
Never, ever giving up on me, even when I gave up on him
Being patient when I got crazy
His perfect ass
His legs
Please come here. I love you and need you please.
Be Thankful.
A friend of mine halted my mourning briefly when he told me to shut up and be thankful for my life.
He actually said it more forcefully, and I stopped crying and became furious.
I believe what I said was, "I'll thank you for this later, but for now? SHUT UP."
Be THANKFUL? My best friend, my husband, my housemate, my former husband, all of those things rolled into one that Bill was, had just died. I had to pack up our life and move within a few weeks. Our plan was long since abandoned. Be THANKFUL?
Another friend coached me on finding the positive for every negative. That felt similarly hard.
Praying was mostly crying and asking "Why?"
And then yesterday, I moved. I watched as our bed was carried away, as our memories were divided, loaded, and driven away, packaged neatly like those shared years were just that simple.
I gripped the Señor Frogs giant cylindrical neon cups from Vegas, straws still contained within, for a little too long.
A lot too long.
I inhaled the scent of the house (and every home has its own) as deeply as I could, knowing I would still forget and crying at the thought.
I cried off my Tattoo liner. My Kat von D TATTOO LINER.
It's waterproof.
And then, curiously, I began to notice things.
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