Getting the Power Up

The scene is this: it’s the day before Thanksgiving, 2008. A Wednesday, naturally. Over the four days prior to this particularly dreadful day, my heart and mind had been trampled by a vast array of assorted traumatic events and emotions: having potentially lost one of the most important people in my life, dealing with new breeds of stress at work, trying to decide whether to stay in grad school or not, several family issues cropping up here and there. And in dealing with this, I found sleep impossible. So Tuesday night I took my standard three over-the-counter sleeping pills. Long story short, by the next night I no longer trusted myself to be alone. So a benevolent friend invited me on a short road trip the next night and my immediate mental reaction was “Of course I’ll go. That increases my chances of being hit by a large truck.” Sharp as she is, friend made me take one of her kids in the car with me. Good call.

Grateful for the change of scenery and happy to see this friend’s sister for the first time in ages, I was already feeling a tiny bit better by the time we got to Columbus. I hauled my overnight bag into the guest bedroom and friend and I collapsed across the bed while her two kids piled on top of us. The oldest (7), snuggled up next to me as I stared at the ceiling fighting back tears. He looked at me, took a deep breath and said, quite randomly:

“Hey, Leslie, you know how when you’re playing a video game the first level is really really easy? Then the next level is still easy, but not as easy as the first one? Then the next one is a little bit harder than the second one? And then the next and the nextandthenextandthenext….”

“Yes, Sean, I know…”

“Well, they do that on purpose, don’t they?  They make the first level really easy so you’re ready to do the second level, then the second level is a little harder so that you can handle the third level. So each level is just like practice for the next level. So if you can get through this level, you know you’re ready for the next one.”

Then he got up and ran into the kitchen.

I remained there for quite some time after my friend, too, departed for the kitchen, ceiling-staring and thinking about what Sean had said. Either he’s very intuitive and perceptive or totally random, or I’m reading way too much into what he said. Regardless, I stayed still, trying to imagine what level could possibly be worse than this, and the last of the tears I had for that situation fell from my cheek onto the nondescript, guest-bed comforter. Then I wiped my eyes and stood up, shook it off, and followed the crowd into the kitchen.

I beat this level, but not without sustaining some pretty major damage. But that’s okay. I’m taking time to heal, and when I’m powered up again, I’ll get back in the game. Significant health already restored, prognosis promising. And as much I hoped that week would be the hardest level I’ll have to get through before beating the game, I keep in mind now that it’s just practice for the greater challenges that lie ahead.

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No, Seriously – It’s Not Easy Being Me

I’m driving myself crazy. I can’t *imagine* the effect I’m having on those around me.

First, I’ve been mad at one person, off and on, but generally consistent. And I. Don’t. Know. Why. No effing clue. No clear, discernible reason. So I cling to the only thing I can – constant unavailability. Which is not this person’s fault. All of this perfectly reasonable, understandable stuff. And while I can’t help but feel even the tiniest bit justified, I know I’m being completely unreasonable and petty. But I can’t seem to hold back. So I unleash whatever stagnant fury I’ve built up inside and this person takes it – infuriatingly indifferent to its intended effects. Then I realize I’m being a crazy person, but can’t figure out how to reconcile that understanding with the fact that *something* is bothering me, and dammit, I deserve for it to be addressed. Only I don’t know how to do that, because I don’t know what it is. So I apologize. *I* apologize. Not for feeling the way I’m feeling, but for lashing out against this person because of it. Which is okay, I guess. In the end I realize that I’m not mad at this person at all, which only makes me mad at MYSELF for lacking resolve. What particular brand of crazy is that? It must be new and there must have been a sale, because I’m apparently all stocked up.

I hear people getting bored with me.  Doesn’t matter that I’m bored with my job, doesn’t matter that I’m hating school, doesn’t matter that I’m about to tear my skin off. I don’t even care anymore, so I know nobody else does. I’ve entered semi-isolation just to try to spare some of those around me (others, like above, aren’t so lucky… sorry… I’ll make a mental note that you got to bear the brunt of this and move your name to the top of the “Please Spare the Following People…” list next time).

I know at the root cause of a lot of this is WHIJ, and I’m dealing with that. Maybe when I can start to figure that out I can let go of some of this.

But I think I also get antsy if the pot isn’t stirred up every few years or so. Coming up on three years in current job, according to the studies, it’s typical for my generation to want to move on by now. I – and the majority of my peers – haven’t held a job longer than 5 years since college. I think what’s frustrating me on that front is that I don’t know what I want to move toward. I’d love to chase my dream but now there’s the student loan, the growing 401(k), the benefits and tuition reimbursement and flexible scheduling. All working to dry up that corporate concrete around my feet.

And as if it were bad enough, we’re apparently living in the end times. People losing homes. Gas is more than four times what it was when I started driving. But is still cheaper than milk! You can drive, but you can’t eat! I read a meme that says “In Soviet America, banks borrow money from you.” The Dow plunges farther than it ever has. EVER. Not since 1929 – EVER. But of course it bounces back. As America will. As I will.

Two days ago I spoke of finding the good in even the crappiest of times. So here.

I still believe America is the greatest country on the planet. I still believe we’ll win whatever conceptual war we’re fighting wherever today. And even our bad days aren’t that bad.

I still love the people in my life, even when I’m mad. I did note today that, while *I* may understand that, the other person may not. When I’m upset or while I’m tongue-lashing or criticizing the people I love, I keep in the back of my mind that I can let them know how I feel because I love them. I count on that fact to remind me that no matter what, no matter how bad I feel or no matter what I say or they say, I want them in my life and that the love I have for them is stronger than the anger I feel right now. But I don’t think they know that sometimes, and I never seem to take into account that they may not feel the same way. I should tell these people more often that I love them. I used to do that.

I have some time off tomorrow. Maybe I’ll use some of that to get to the bottom of what’s going on and get the old Green back. I think we all liked her a little better.

Whispered Conversations in Overcrowded Hallways

I have a friend at work. Actually, one of my better friends. My work husband. He’s wonderful, and if he wasn’t married, he’d be everything I’d ever want in a man. Despite being only two years older than me, he is – as I find often to be the case – infinitely wiser and more insightful than I am. Sometimes just having one conversation with him puts my entire life into a new perspective.

Today we chose an atypical lunch rendezvous a little off the beaten path, not very populated when we arrived at our signature-early hour of 11:00. As is usual when there are few ears about, the conversation soon turned serious after some belly-shaking laughs and harmless jokes.

A friend of his lost his job today. Two months ago, this friend and his wife bought a house. Their son was sick earlier this year with e. coli and was in the hospital for nearly three months. Their marriage is in a very rocky place. My friend and I discussed how horrible it must be and how we felt for them. Then we realized that, for the past few weeks, we’ve done nothing but complain about how horrible our lives are. How much we’re sick of our jobs, how we despise being adults, how nothing ever goes right. Suddenly the mood turned very somber and humble. So we began thinking of the good things to come out of even the lowest parts of the past few weeks.

I told him about the tree I discovered at Cave Hill and how it made me realize how tiny and insignificant I am here in this life. He spoke of a run-in he had with an ex-girlfriend who looks amazing but has nothing whatsoever to offer and only made his (wonderful! I love her!) wife even more appealing after so many years of marriage. I spoke of a particularly painful relationship and how it has made me stop and think about what I really want in a partner and has helped me set some realistic expectations of what that should look like and how I should feel about that person when he comes along. How it’s made me grow up gradually until, here and now, I find myself ready to do the right thing, at peace with that decision.

And I thought – but did not speak – of What Happened In July. Maybe there are events that mark milestones on our roads to maturity. Growing up seems to be a slow and steady process, and I could see that evolution taking place over the years and fought it kicking and screaming. But I think we all have things that happen, and after which we are never quite the same, for better or worse. As painful as it was, I’ve struggled to find peace with it. I think the only way to move past it is to look at how I’ve changed and work towards embracing that. That’s the struggle – to give it meaning, not to get over it.

In the end, we decided that life is a zero-sum game in a zero-sum world. You must harbor some evil to find the good in yourself. There must be beauty to offset chaos. There are equal parts day and night. Maybe the trick to getting through the bad times is finding the part that balances them out. If you can do it, you may never get ahead for very long, but you also never hit rock bottom.

There are very few people in this world I like, a couple I respect, and even fewer who I revere. I hold nothing short of reverence for him. He gives me back the world when I think I’ve lost it.

I thought it would be easier if someone knew…

I was wrong. It only makes it more real. Familiar images now bring tears to my eyes and empty rooms feel emptier. I used to tune everyone out because their stories didn’t interest me. Now I tune them out because it hurts too much.

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Back to My Roots (and Slicing Open My Eyeball)

The Reba concert at Caesar’s the Horseshoe Casino last night was, to put it simply, a life-altering experience. Nothing short of spiritual. It began with me accidentally poking myself in the eye with the corner of my ticket stub as I went to put on my sunglasses. And it still hurts like a bitch.

Some context:

It’s 1989. I’m seven years old, sitting between my parents in my Dad’s old orange truck, and a song comes on the radio. I listen for a moment, then turn to my mother and say “Mama, that’s a really pretty song.” So Mom buys the cassette tape for me and I play it over and over and over.

The song was Reba’s “Walk On.” It’s the first song I clearly remember hearing, other than my mother singing “You Are My Sunshine” to me as a child. And so, at the early age of seven, I became a rather devoted Reba McEntire fan.

Fast forward about seven years. Now 14 years old, I’m trying to make sense of my life, looking toward a future I don’t want. It hasn’t even occurred to me to go to college; it’s simply not an option. College is something that other people do, not people in Salem, and certainly not a girl. We go work in the factories. (Girls can work in factories, but can’t go to college). And one night, there’s a made-for-tv-movie on the television starring my favorite singer, titled after one of my favorite songs. And in this movie, the leading lady overcomes myriad obstacles to pursue her dream of graduating college and making a better life for herself and her family. And something shifts.

And six years later, I graduated college, despite the complete lack of support (financial or emotional) from my family, the grueling hours, the too-heavy courseloads and multiple jobs I needed to work to keep myself afloat during that time. Just so happened that, during those years, Reba launched a personal crusade as an education advocate, releasing a music video along the same theme as the television movie, multiple interviews and articles and speaking engagements. Just another cause for a celebrity to champion. But she kept me sane, kept me committed. The support that I so desperately needed from my family, I found in her instead.

Present Day, July 12, 2008:

Maybe that’s corny, cheesy, juvenile. But it’s real.

And aside from all that, my god, I love her music.

She did a lot of older songs last night, in what I guessed to be an attempt to appeal to her aging following (Brandi and I were among some of the youngest there last night) and I *LOVED* it! When she sang “Walk On,” I came unglued. Right back in that truck at seven years old. I got all warm and fuzzy inside.

Soon after, she ended with “Is There Life Out There?” and that same something that shifted in me at 14 shifted again. I actually teared up. Everyone was on their feet, crowd going nuts, etc. And soon the chanting and screaming began, demanding everyone’s all-time favorite Reba song. . .

And she was back, in her signature red dress, and gave the most commanding performance of “Fancy” that I’ve ever heard. We danced and clapped and sang; people were crying, hands raised like they were in church. It. Was. Amazing. I would have paid twice what I paid for two tickets just for the last 15 minutes of the show.

In the end, I ended up with a sliced eyeball, a $30 t-shirt, shattered vocal chords, and a renewed appreciation for a woman who unwittingly played a key part in turning me into the person I am today. And who unwittingly helped name my cat.

That’s a good night right there.

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Back on Track

Things I need to do to get my life back together:

General

1. Clean this place up, because it’s nasty
   • Saturday, after class
2. Get Fancy’s shots
   • Make appointment next week
3. Get haircut and manicure
   • Make appointment next week
4. Do laundry
   • Sunday, after Father’s Day visit
5. Commit to ten minutes of general cleaning/straightening after work every day

Finances

1. Open a savings account
   • Monday morning
2. Direct deposit that extra $100 per paycheck from my 6.5% salary increase into savings account immediately, before I get used to having it
   • Monday morning
3. Pay off car and loan from bank
   • August, when residuals from financial aid come in
4. Amass two month’s retained earnings and automate all bills
   • By the end of August
5. Increase 401(k) contribution to 10%
   • September 1
6. Purchase and *use* Quicken or Microsoft Money to track expenses
   • Next week

Physical Health

1. Go grocery shopping to stock up on healthy stuff
   • Saturday, after cleaning
2. Commit to cooking dinner at home at least three nights a week
3. Commit to no more than two meals “out” per week
4. Exercise for at least 45 minutes Monday through Friday
5. Remember to take prescribed meds and multivitamins every day
6. Monitor blood pressure once a week
7. Stop going to bed as soon as I get home from work
8. Hide all the sharp objects

Mental Health

1. Be more honest with myself about what scares me, what I do or don’t want, and what really bothers me
2. Stop triangulating
3. Find healthy outlets for frustration and sadness
4. Focus on the facts

Education/Personal Development

1. Pay tuition
   • Reimbursement check should arrive within the week
2. Study and homework every night for at least one hour
3. Explore possible careers in executive recruiting
   • Schedule informational interviews at Heidrick & Struggles during Chicago trip
4. Complete and mail U of L mentor program application

Family

1. Try to call parents once or twice a week
2. Take Alex to Holiday World or Kings Island this summer
3. Call or visit Alex during his weeks with Kyle
4. Call Tommy to catch up
5. Get Dad a Father’s Day gift
   • Immediately, if not sooner

Friends

1. Be more supportive
2. Spend more time with them

Selective Memory

I’ve forgotten why I was so angry, so hurt, so upset. I can’t quite remember exactly what it was that triggered the thought in my head that I had to do what I did. Memory of the conversation itself now seems muddled and garbled, like something from a bizarre nightmare, or a CD that skips, with only meaningless snippets of sound seeping through. I don’t remember the speech I had spent that entire day rehearsing. I don’t remember every response. I have forgotten how it ended and why it began.

And I fear this. My normally sharp memory seems to have turned on me, making me question prudence and reality. It is denial, I’m sure, or an absurd rationalization. I only know that I feel several conflicting emotions. I simply don’t know which ones are true anymore.

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Need Vs. Want

Things I need to be doing:

1. Cleaning apartment
2. Taking out the trash
3. Writing the speech I’m supposed to deliver at the MBA open house tomorrow night
4. Studying for Accounting quiz
5. Prepping for Technology Management project
6. Exercising
7. Calling my primary care physician like my therapist told me to do
8. Ironing tomorrow’s suit for work
9. Eating something

Things I want to do:

1. Sleep
2. Scream

Getting Some Perspective

Every time I read it, and every time we make them, I become a bigger fan of PostSecret. I’ll be mailing in my own first secrets tomorrow and waiting with bated breath to see if they make the Sunday Secrets page.

Tonight, I found the video below on YouTube. It’s a collection of the saddest PostSecrets ever in the history of time, or something like that. Sadly, there are plenty of them to which I can honestly relate, just a little too much for my comfort. Even more tragically, there are plenty that I doubt anyone can relate to. Things like this don’t usually make me cry. But after two badly-needed great days to follow up nearly a month of feeling unhappy from the time my feet hit the floor until the time my head hit the pillow (just wait for the last secret on this video), I realized how lucky I am, and the floodgates opened.

Thanks, Frank. Godspeed.

Also, one of my favorites of all time:

Here’s one I understand:

And the funniest:

Coming out of it

I can’t believe what a difference a day makes. Or an hour. Or a conversation, for that matter.

One night when you meet someone new.

One conversation over grilled chicken salad that finally wakes you up.*

One hour during which you laugh instead of cry.

One evening spent loving life with the people who always get you through it, without judgment, without pretense or guile, and without making you feel worse instead of better. Those who have been there from the start, and will be there at the end.

Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, I don’t want to sleep. And I can’t wait to wake up.

*To my fellow HR associate – I checked Hallmark, and they don’t have anything like a “thanks for forcibly extracting my head from my ass” greeting card, so I’ll just say “Thanks!”

Happy Green

Where did you go this time? You swoop in and out of my life riding on circumstances and too heavily reliant on others to encourage your company. We need you back. Nobody seems to like the rest of us, and you keep us in check at least long enough so that they don’t have to be subjected to us. Used to be you were never stronger, never more pervasive than when he looked at us like he did today. I felt you there today, but weak and whimpering, a faded, muted version of your former brilliance. I imagined you beaten, dirty, bruised and broken, wondered if you would ever come back to me whole and healthy, and he saw it. Saw the sad loss of you reflected on my face and called me on it. Your absence weakens Strong Green as well. Funny Green misses you, too; she’s not quite the same without you. Studious Green tries really hard, bless her little heart, but she runs out stamina quite quickly. Career Green has basically given up, rarely even makes it through a full day at the office anymore. Gambling Green is enjoying a brief spike in activity, but she runs hot and cold.

But Neurotic Green, Self-Hating Green, Self-Punishing Green – your absence leaves a door open through which they can all emerge and dominate for a time, until we can build you back up. The havoc they wreak leaves me exhausted at the end of every day. One more thought, one more question, one more scenario at the end of every day, and I believe it might be enough to use up what little life energy I have left. I can keep the worst of us in check with whatever means I have available, for now. But without you, we live in peril of perpetual sedation, denial, and distraction.

Perhaps it’s my own fault. I hear you sometimes, muffled but fighting, and imagine you under the bell jar. You’re in there and we’re out here and there are no fewer ways in than there are out – give in or get it all. But the limited fight I have left in me is promised to other deployment. I just don’t have enough to break you out of that prison. But we’ll make a few compromises.

For now.

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I Don’t Know

I don’t know why I’m awake at 12:30 am when I have class in 8.5 hours.

I don’t know (or care) what kind of grade I’m going to get on those two papers I just half-assed at the eleventh hour. Literally.

I don’t know why I’ve been craving crappy food for the past couple of days.

I don’t know how I’ve resisted the self-destructive urges that still haunt me from my misspent youth, when I’ve wanted so badly to give in to them.

I guess I could be awake because I took a three hour nap immediately after work, not because I’ve been hanging around, wishing and hoping against all hope for something completely implausible.

I guess I could wind up with an A on both of these papers, though I learned absolutely nothing from doing them.

I could be craving weird food because I’m pregnant with the second Christ child.

I could be resisting those urges because I’m more mature now and better able to handle significant stress than I used to be.

None of that really seems all that realistic, though, does it?

I do know the implications and gravity of the situation.

I know how much there is to lose, and how much there is to gain.

I know how badly it hurts.

I know what you wanted to say.

I know what I see in your face.

And that, for now, gives me hope, if not peace.

The most important thing I don’t know, that I need to know if I’m to get through this, is what to do.

I suppose there comes a time in every life when a choice this rending meets us head-on. The choice to let go of something you love or to stand up and fight for something you love.

Making that choice is the easy part, difficult as it is. Figuring out how to do either of those – that’s the rub.

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How Many Stomach Flus am I From My Goal Weight?

Wow… if I lost two pounds every time I stayed up all night with my head in a toilet. . . wait, no, that’s so not worth it.

As an aside: Who’d'a thought that there was a REASON my doctor forbade me from eating sugar? One sugar cookie from the Pah Kitchen and I’m in hell. Or, rather, hell has taken up residence in my stomach.

The Days Go Marching One by One

I have very few memories of childhood, especially before age nine, but the ones I have are vivid as daylight. My mother kept the sugar in the largest of five porcelain graduated canisters shaped like mushrooms. The second largest held flour. The middle one held old necklace chains, reading glasses, and other miscellaneous items that needed repairing. The second smallest was always stuffed with the bright pink packets of the artificial sweetener that my mother dumped into her coffee in pounds, back before saccharine caused cancer. The smallest was perpetually empty.

In the largest, the sugar mushroom, there lived a small bluish-green plastic teacup from the tea set that my mother played with as a small girl. I remember it whole and complete, but when I found the cup recently, now safely ensconced in the large Tupperware canister full of flour in the fridge, it was torn down the side, soft and pliable and irrevocably discolored. I felt myself frown at the state of disrepair in which I discovered this relic of my youth while a thousand fragmented memories tornadoed through my mind with startling clarity as I slid a finger along the tiny broken handle.

When I was a little girl, very few things delighted me more than feeding the colony of ants that lived underneath my grandmother’s flower box on our front porch. I remember doing this well into my teens but my mother says that I began around five or six. As she narrated, an image flooded my mind’s eye: a five year old version of myself, with lighter, platinum hair, the same chunky thighs and endless curiosity. She would have carefully maneuvered a brown steel chair away from the kitchen table and leveraged her entire body weight to shove it over to the counter that remains, to this day, covered with bright orange Formica. She would have awkwardly climbed onto the chair to bring herself to enough height to lean across the counter to reach for the largest mushroom canister and life the lid. Knowing better than to plunge a tiny, germy hand into the whole of the sugar, she would have artfully scooped up a heap of the stuff and poured the entire contents directly into her hand, most of it simply overflowing and landing back in the canister, germs and all. Then, she would drop the blue/green teacup and clench her chubby fingers around her prize as she jumped from the chair with more confidence than she should have and ran, trailing sugar from her eager fist, all the way out the door and to the flower box on the front porch.

From there, I filled in the images with real memories from the later years that I can recall. I would deposit the loot in a small pile near the bottom of the flower box and then lie on my stomach, prop my chin up on my hands, and wait. On the best days, the sun would drizzle down as a warm, buttery glow that would cast a cool shade over me as it set behind the house. The bobwhites would coo and I would think about my grandmother, who simultaneously taught me to braid my hair and imitate the bobwhite in one afternoon. The mild summers were clean and comfortable, leaving the air so weightless that nothing stirred. Soon, the ants would discover the unbidden abundance and the fascinating ritual would soon follow. I would watch them for hours on end, each one carrying one single grain of sugar back to his colony. Often I would fall asleep there on the cool concrete and in the still air and wake up when my mother would call my name at that magical moment just before day becomes darkness. And all the sugar would have gone.

Those were good days.

As a sad smile played on my lips, I scooped and measured two cups of flour for the recipe in progress. Before I put away the canister, I turned the teacup over in my hands a couple of times. I looked at my mother and considered the gray that would fleck her hair if she didn’t fastidiously combat it with color and the lines that grace her face and the resigned mixture of sadness and wisdom in her eyes. I wondered what she remembered when she touched this cup.

Along with the cup, I put away thoughts of woebegone memories and rooted myself back in the present. In this life, a million miles away from the girl whose greatest happiness was feeding the ants, and in this world where people don’t live on curiosity alone. Glancing at my flour-covered hands, I started toward the sink to wash them. Then stopped. And dusted them off on my new jeans instead.

There are still good days to come.

The Un-Epidemic

I’ve been cleaning and putting away laundry all morning. Whilst putting away some clothes, I decided to try on some of the stuff I haven’t been able to wear in quite a while due to fatness, and to my surprise, everything except one jacket fits. I was damn pleased. But then I started thinking about things.

I read a lot of Kate Harding’s stuff over at Shapely Prose, and I agree with a lot of what she has to say. I haven’t experienced a large degree of fat hate projected towards me, but I have seen and heard it projected towards others, and I like Harding’s take on “fat acceptance,” which is a concept that I never knew existed until this past January. Her site encourages people to accept their bodies as they are, fat or not. It’s a good concept, and I agree with it wholeheartedly, but people often stumble over the health implications of it. Strange as it may seem, there are people who eat right for the most part, or at least, not any worse than skinny people eat, and are active and get plenty of exercise, who are still chubby. And really, it’s okay to accept that. Their heart rate, blood sugar, cholesterol, blood pressure, etc. may be perfectly fine (such as mine), but they just don’t seem to shrink.

Now me, I used to eat way worse than most people do. And I thought I was just fat, and that’s the way I was supposed to be. But since I’ve been working with my doctor and eating normally, I’ve dropped some weight. This is good, and I’m happy about it, but the point is to get healthy, not skinny. No desire to be one of those plastic-looking praying mantis/human hybrids.

Which brings me to the point of this entry. Where is this obesity epidemic that’s sweeping our nation? Because everywhere I look, I see people getting skinnier and skinnier. Of course, every so often you’ll meet someone who is obviously at a huge health risk due to their weight, but honestly, I’m the biggest person in most every room that I enter. So where are all these fat people who are driving up our healthcare costs?

Then I realize that the problem is the BMI, which I’ve begun to refer to as the Bullshit Medical Instrument. Shapely Prose has a whole section devoted to this. See, the BMI is currently THE tool that the medical community uses to determine if a person is normal, overweight, obese, or morbidly obese, whatever the hell those mean. Even worse, it’s a tool that those in the medical community even ADMIT is outdated, imprecise, outdated, incomplete, and outdated. See some examples, courtesy of Shapely Prose, below.

Shauna, Laurie, and Pippa are overweight:

Mindy is normal:

Fillyjonk is obese:

Robin is morbidly obese:

So is Moxie:

So, we’re all supposed to look like Mindy.

It’s bullshit. None of the girls in the pictures above are obese, or a health threat, but they’re included in the whole “1 in 4 Americans are obese and our country is a huge steaming pile of fat people that are costing us healthy people our healthcare dollars OH NOES THESE FAT BASTARDS MUST BE STOPPED!!” bullshit that is so often spat out by those outside of the supposed epidemic. I highly doubt Robin is at a huge risk for a heart attack or pigs out on pizza and donuts every night. I doubt that Shauna, Laurie, Pippa, or Fillyjonk are a huge strain on our healthcare economy. You know who DOES drive up the cost of healthcare? People who believe, because they’re skinny or otherwise, that they are “healthy,” (and therefore invincible) and do not even HAVE health insurance. Then they get hit by a bus or find out they have cancer, or break a leg or collapse a lung, and all of a sudden there they stand at the ER, wondering who’s going to pay for all of this. You know who pays for it? I do. I pay for it because the hospital has to cover the costs somehow, and a small portion of that is offloaded onto the patient, a large portion is eaten by the hospital which means they drive up their costs which drives up what they bill the insurance companies, which drives up the premiums that people who actually have health insurance pay.

So, this is my official declaration that I refuse to monitor, care about, know, or try to lower my BMI from this day forward. If I continue to lose weight in my new lifestyle, that’s just grand, but where I end up is where I’ll stay. I hope to god that I never live in an America where everyone weighs the same, looks the same, and thinks the same.

End fat rant.

A Little Reality (and Maybe a Metaphor)

Admittedly, I don’t watch a lot of sports-themed movies. However, I know the cliches – the training montages, the sweat-doused workouts, the fast, heart-pumping music. And ultimately, it comes down to the final challenge. Boxing, for example.

Cinderella Man comes to mind.

Russell Crowe’s character comes back from a dismal career in boxing to face his most brutal opponent yet. The fight starts off well, progresses as one logically would, and then something happens. Good Guy takes a few devastating blows. One right after the other. To the rib. To the head. To the jaw. To the gut. And he’s down.

But wait. . . he’s. . .

He’s getting up! He’s shaking it off! And he lands one good blow! Then another! Now another! And – OH MY GOD, ladies and gentleman, he has WON THE MATCH! History has been made here tonight! He has come back from beyond the odds to win the game once and for all!

And here’s how it really happens to people like you and me:

The fight starts off well, progresses as one logically would, and then something happens. Good Guy takes a few devastating blows. One right after the other. To the rib. To the head. To the jaw. To the gut. And he’s down.

But wait. . . he’s. . .

He’s not getting up. He’s struggling. Gasping for breath. Gushing blood. Disoriented and broken. He seems to have given up as the count continues. But with one final burst of energy he tries to lift his broken, heavy body from the mat. . . and it’s no use. And out of nowhere, his opponent kicks him hard to the ribs, ending him once and for all. And the count is over. He’s finished.

But, just for fun, they keep kicking him. Even after all ability and desire to fight has fallen blood red to the ground, leaving him cold, unfeeling, and wishing he were dead.

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Roller Coaster Day

Joy. Enthusiasm. Optimism. Apathy. Fury. Hurt. Denial. Aggression. Satisfaction. Empathy. Heartache. Desire. Irritation. Frustration. Justification. Annoyance. Pain. Longing. Temptation.

It’s been a long day.

Random Thoughts After My First Day of Graduate School

I’m such a better student now than I was as an undergrad. I looked around during class today and saw people (mostly younger than me), surfing the internet, texting their girlfriends, doodling in their notebooks. Never occurred to me to do any of these. I was a rabid doodler as an undergrad; my class notes were barely decipherable amongst all the doodles. But I didn’t make one doodle today. I can’t conceive of the idea of NOT paying attention, of NOT hanging on every single word the professor is saying. It’s unfathomable to me. I want to hit these people upside the head. But I won’t. I’ll just do everything better than them.

Up until twenty minutes ago, I was the hairiest person I’ve ever met in my life. I came back from the casino (more on that in a moment) and, eager to rid my body of Eau de Cigarette before bedtime, hopped in the shower. Whilst thoroughly washing myself, I noticed something disturbing. (No, really, if you’re weak-stomached, stop here). My armpit hair was so long it was CURLY. I’m talking, think Richard Simmons’ fro. Yeah. I had Buckwheat in a Headlock. You’ve never seen a fat girl dive for a razor so fast in your life. Then I wondered what that implied for the rest of my body. I ran a hand over my legs and actually involuntarily let loose with Lesil’s patented Yeti mating call. It was bad. It was a two-razor event. So, Panda, Jenn – your job for the next two years is to remind me at least once a week to take ten minutes away from schoolwork and do a personal hygiene check.

So, casino. Today after classes let out (9:00 am – 4:30 pm, and we got out half an hour early), all I wanted to do was UN-EFFING-WIND. Having contacted my two trusted hanging-out buddies and finding them otherwise engaged, I decided to strike out on my own. Which means, of course, a trip to the casino. I was so pumped, emotionally, by how great class went, that I decided to actually get dressed up (which means clean blue jeans and nice sweater, earrings, makeup, and heels), and go out. I was amazed. So many guys (ranging in ages from 21-over 60) stopped to talk to me, flirted with me, smiled at me from across the room, opened doors for me, gave me Blackjack tips, etc. The trend continued when I stopped at the grocery for some late-night popcorn and Big Red (the soft drink, not the gum, all you non-Kentuckiana-residers). I felt like a woman for the first time in a very, very long while. I lost $90, but I had so much fun, it was so worth it. The Blackjack table I was at was very spirited, very friendly people, very lively, and we all played together for over two hours before I was out of money and it was time to go.

So now I’m home with my loving, lovely kitten resting peacefully on the table next to me while I type. I’m all clean and hairless, relaxed but energized about the future, and ready to watch the Redbox movie I rented today and just enjoy being young and alive. Life is finally good again.

Year in Review

I’m tired of doing these, so there will be no Year in Review for 2007. Suffice to say, 2007 didn’t suck nearly as badly as 05 or 06. But it still sucked a little.

I have decided upon resolutions for 2008, which I have dubbed “The Year Which I Refuse To Let Suck As Much As 2007,” meaning it can only be great.

Resolutions:

1. Outline and stick to some regime of physical exercise
   • This means, as I have discussed with friends, Jazzercise thrice a week, swimming twice a week, and 45 minutes in the fitness center at work during lunch breaks at least three times a week.
2. Eat better
   • This means tracking Weight Watcher’s Points, no fast food, going out for lunch no more than once a week, and only healthy snacks in front of the television or computer.
3. Manage money better
   • I will operate on a cash-only basis, no debit card or checks except for bills, no superfluous purchases that aren’t in my budget, which will include allocations for entertainment and leisure
4. Obtain 4.0 GPA in all graduate classes
   • Be perfect, don’t fail, and study hard
5. Keep apartment clean
   • Ten minutes tidying up every day when I get home from work, deep clean once per week.
6. Improve quality of my work at Humana
   • As much as it sounds like I have drank the Kool-Aid, I want to focus on my boss’s rubrik for good work: Accurate, Complete, Precise, Appropriate, Insightful. I will triple check everything I do even when it sucks really bad to go through 300 rows of data *again.*
7. Swear off one bad habit in particular which I refuse to allow to extend across a third calendar year.
   • I have already made some progress here, but my resolve has escaped any temptations in the field so far.

Many of these resolutions stem from my growing dissatisfaction with my current lifestyle. I realized today that I spend the majority of my time at home horizontal. I come home and hit the couch and watch old X-Files episodes or movies until time to go to bed. I have gained back all the weight that I lost earlier this year. I eat bad food if I eat at all, which costs too much money and makes me sick. I don’t clean; I literally wait until every dish in the house is dirty before I wash them, I let laundry pile up until I’m out of underwear, and there’s cat hair on everything (which I secretly kind of like). And you know what? It’s getting boring. Nothing ever changes. Even junk food is boring to me these days. I made bell pepper nachos with soy beef crumbles and low fat cheese last night and it was wonderful. The work-home-bed-work-home-bed routine, the bland, empty food, the stumbling over clothes on my way to the restroom in the middle of the night, the digging through the sink to find a spoon, the watching of the same old movies over and over – it’s all getting old. I’m itching for something new and different, and the time is now.

So I’ve made a deal with myself. I will allow myself to continue being this pathetic until school starts. With the start of that new chapter in my life, so will begin a new lifestyle altogether. What I’ve found since I made this deal last week is that I have to force myself to continue doing what I’ve always done as part of me rages for these changes to happen now. But I will continue being a slob until school starts. Because when it’s time to kick this into gear, I want to be so completely fed up and sick and tired of living this way that I hit the ground running and never look back.

And on December 31, 2008, there will be no resolutions in my book about health or weight or food or exercise.

Finally

If I had known how good it would feel to let you go, I would have done it ages ago.

Brain Dump

It occurs to me that I have not made any posts of any substantial value (not that any of them really are to begin with) in a very long while. So I decided to do a brain dump about some things that have been on my mind lately.

<brain dump>

First: If I read, see, or hear one more thing entitled “Oprah Admits Crying Over Abuse in Her South Africa School,” I’m going to vomit. Projectile vomit, with large chunks of half-chewed burrito. So she cried. Big. Fucking. Deal. I cry when I see a Snuggle Bear commercial on television, but I don’t go typing up press releases about it. I’m so glad she can eke out a few tears for South African kids half a world away when there are plenty of poverty-stricken, starving, abused, homeless crack babies here in America. You’re a real frickin’ philanthropist there, O.

Second: I’ve been reading an interesting book, purely for recreational reading, with no relevance at all to my actual, real, personal life, called Having an Affair?: A Handbook for the “Other Woman.” It’s written by a British author whom I swear has got to be the thickest most confused woman on the planet. And she doesn’t even live in America, if that tells you anything. Some things she has really, really right. My main complaint is her incessant insistence as to the reason men cheat on their wives: because the wives don’t work at making their men happy, because wives get fat and stop wearing makeup, and because wives let them get away with it. So basically, wives of the world, your man is required to do nothing to keep you happy for the rest of your life, but you are expected – nay, *required* – to maintain your slender physique, even post-children, smear on the war paint even if you’re staying home watching the kids, and to do whatever it takes, whenever it takes it, to make sure that your man is satisfied sexually, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and physically. Seriously. Read the book. But get it from the library; don’t spend money on it. A man’s happiness is everyone’s responsibility except his own. A woman’s is no one’s responsibility, not even her own. I shall now quote an actual passage from the book: “If you’re reading this and you’re a wife who suspects that her husband may be having an affair, your time would be better spent if you put this book down and started making your husband happy.” *blinkblink* BULLSHIT!

My other complaint about the book is that the author implicates that even with the aforementioned safeguards, that all married men will cheat on their wives. Without exception. Now, part of me actually believes this is probably true, but contrary to that overgeneralization, there *have* been married men I’ve known who absolutely would never cheat on their wives, regardless of circumstance. So why butcher that hope for us women? Seriously, reading this book makes me more and more depressed every time I open it. Hence why it’s taken me three weeks to read three chapters. I wouldn’t call myself a feminist, but holy shit, this woman is the most anti-feminist author I’ve ever read. Anyway. . . enough on that topic. I feel my blood pressure rising with every letter I type.

Next: I have gotten to a point where the very concept of dating turns my stomach. I actually had a date a couple of nights ago. Not a bad guy, in fact I actually like him a little, but the thought of calling, or emailing, or arranging a second date, or getting dressed up, leaving the house to see him again, absolutely repulses me. It’s not him. I just don’t want to be bothered. I simply enjoy my solitude more than I enjoy the company of someone I barely know. And I do not have the stamina for this; I do not want to spend hours upon hours “dating,” getting to know someone, only to find out that, once again, I’m not interested, or he’s not interested, or he’s interested but only if I’ll lose weight, or he’s interested but only in sex, or I’m interested only to find out he has an abnormal fixation with dead things or explosives or he’s interested but wants to take me to a porn theater on our second date or I’m interested but then he sends me text photos of himself naked. You laugh, but every single one of those scenarios has happened to me. In. Real. Life.t

Also: I’m ready to start exercising again. I ditched my diet during my vacation in July and haven’t had any luck starting up again since. Luckily, I’ve only gained three pounds back. I’m eager to start swimming again, but I think Panda and I both are getting bored with it. So I’m hoping this one-mile swim goal will motivate me a little, but I’m also looking for some new stuff to throw into the mix, especially since winter is coming on and wet hair = cold walk to the car after a swim. So, I’m thinking kickboxing looks fun, and also thinking of signing up for Weight Watcher’s meetings. Never been to the meetings before. I always just tracked everything myself. I figure I might meet some new people and it might motivate me.

Speaking loosely of vacation: only two weeks until my Thanksgiving vacation! Woot! I desperately need some time to myself. I intend to spend the entire week (except Turkey Day) in my pajamas, watching old movies and petting my cat. I don’t even intend to shower from Friday, November 16th until Thursday, November 22nd. Try me. I’ll so do it.

Random thought: I wore makeup for the SECOND day in a row today. This has got to be a record. I can’t remember the last time I wore makeup twice straight like that.

I bit a fingernail today for the first time in five weeks. It was the pinkie nail. Now my left pinkie looks so short and stubby.

</brain dump>

My Own Silence

I pass the hours like an inmate, performing the tasks associated with and necessary for survival from one day to the next and staring from where I sit at a world that exists without me, forgotten. I pace in frustration around an invisible perimeter of glass that separates me and those outside. The familiar stagnant air underwhelms the lungs which I have to force to function.

Remember to breathe… inhale… now exhale…

If I must will my lungs to breathe, why then can I not will my heart to cease its unnecessary beating?

…that the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, might descend again?

It’s strange to think that I might never recover, when I have, in fact, done just that so many times before. Yet with each passing year I lose a bit more patience with the routine. Each day a little more sadness is replaced by anger.

All day, I was convinced I was going to die. Everytime I got into my car, I felt with a startling alacrity that it was the last time I would do so, and was not disturbed. Even now, I sit and write with a clear certainty that my hours are near an end, not by my hand but by something unseen. Were I panicking, I would call it a panic attack. As it is, I call it simply wishful thinking.

Today I had a conversation with myself wherein I listed myriad reasons to live, reminders of my own success in achieving my goals, affirmations of righteousness for the path I’m on, and a robust list of people who love me. Why is it so easy to forget? Why, with so much to live for, is it so excruciatingly difficult to draw one more breath? And why haven’t I cried?

In the end, it goes no further than this: today, as in the past, I will prevail, and I will emerge stronger than before. I will find myself, in a year or so, right back here in this strangely welcoming place of muted colors and willful isolation, and I will wonder why. And I’ll walk in the park and watch the leaves fall and write nonsense in my journal. And then, one day, it won’t be nonsense any longer.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.  ~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Living the Dream

The title of this post keeps running through my head. It’s been my standard answer to many a perfunctory “How are you?” over the years, but it seems more true than ever lately.

I got an incredibly unexpected pay increase this morning at work. I haven’t stopped smiling since.

I can’t imagine how my life could be much better. I’m sure it could be, but for now, I have more than anyone could ask for. My health is good and only getting better, I have a good job (even if it’s not what everyone dreams of) making good money, and better money as of 11:00 am this morning. I have my family and my friends. I have an exciting new romance that shows tons of promise and gives me butterflies. Making ends meet, getting by, if not ahead. I have my cat. Life is fantastic.

Of course, that means something has to go wrong soon. I just hope it’s small, like my car breaking down or losing my debit card.

But sitting here, with the windows open taking in some of this wonderful Kentucky pre-autumn air, letting the breeze drift over my skin still damp from an incredible swim, I don’t want to think about that right now. I want to smile, and feel my heart skip a beat every time my phone beeps, and listen to the world outside the window. I want to revel in a perfect ending to a perfect day.