I recently did something I regret.
I have been going to College, and have been working incredibly hard at it. I feel like I am constantly defending (mostly to myself) why I would be attending classes filled with people who are close to half my age.
One such person, I condescendingly call "Skippy" because I don't know his real name, and because he absolutely drives me crazy; Skippy is constantly reminding me of how old I am. He'll reference things and then look at me and say things like, "in your generation..." or "when you were my age..." which adds to my insecurity and diminishes minutes to my mortality clock.
In my English class we are learning how to debate. For the last three weeks, almost exactly, we have been debating the classic debate of which is better, Vampires or Zombies? Seriously, for three mind-numbing, eye-gouging weeks, we have been debating over fictitious entities that frankly, I don't give a damn about.
Skippy brought up the subject, surprise, surprise. And just in case you are wondering, there isn't enough material to cover three weeks worth of V's vs. Z's. I actually considered throwing in a new possibility of a "Zampire" or a "Vombie" you know a hybrid of both. After all, if the Apocalypse were to happen(which is the beginning of these debates)and all that was left were Zombies and Vampires, wouldn't they start biting each other? It pains me deeply that I have actually thought of this.
Anyway, during another debate, pre-Zombie, pre-Vampire (one day earlier to be precise), the class was having a real debate over what a town should do concerning an oil spill on their shores. A) choose a company who has a 70% rate of successful clean up or B) a local company of the town's who claimed a 90% success rate but had no field experience. I couldn't see why the town couldn't use both. My thought was start with the 70% guys, who also had 20 years experience, and let the newbies practice during the other's clean up. Doing the practice in their own backyard would lead to a true success rate, and they could clean up the 30% left over. I don't know if this is uber-reasonable, it simply made the most sense to me.
Immediately the tirades began. Over and over again, I was put down for what I thought was a no-big-deal assessment. The thing about the kids in my English class, is the immaturity. They don't know how to debate. They think in terms of, 'this is what I think so this is the way it is, period'. After an hour of being put down (by this time, I was no longer speaking and was trying to find my happy-place somewhere inside my head) my teacher asked us to start a blog for our next class assignment. A what? The kids didn't know what a blog was. My teacher then asked who of us had a blog. Me and two other people raised our hands.
Skippy looked over at me and said, "Oh, so it's like a stay-at-home mom thing where you just sit around eating bonbons?"
I small, tini-tiny twig, deep inside the recesses of my recesses, snapped.
I spun around and barked, "What the hell are you talking about?!! I want to smack you! I want to smack in the face!"
Every person in the class shifted in their seats a few inches away from me. The room fell dead silent despite every mouth falling open.
Luckily, it was time for class to be over.
I called my husband, angry, spitting the ordeal over the phone.
"Where are you going now?" He asked.
"To See's Candies to buy myself a box of chocolates!" I was dead serious. Bonbons, no. Dark chocolate Truffles, absolutely!
He talked me down from that ledge and we met for lunch, instead.
Later that day, I told my kids what I had done and asked them what I should do in the future instead of threatening physical violence.
My seven-year old said I should "ask my teacher to move my desk away from that boy."
My always reading, very intellectual eleven-year old told me to, "take a deep breath, but be sure they don't see you because that will make you vulnerable."
It's awesome to see how your kids think you should act. And, realize the way I acted was really the most immature way possible. I guess I could have said, "Well my dad could beat up your dad", which would have been equivalent.
I still see good 'old Skip, although he doesn't look me in the eye. I admit I like that kind of power. I do regret I didn't handle it better but am relieved that I know my kids would have.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Tisk, Tisk, Task-Master
I am a list-making-mult-tasker-aholic. I do a load of laundry while mopping the kitchen floor. I dictate to my kids in the midst of mulling over what to concoct for dinner. I pluck up discarded toys left on the floor that block my path as I am hustling from one side of my house to the other.
I never realized that I hurried until my eleven year old asked me why I always acted like I was running in a race.
I blame my mother for this. My mother had eight kids. Eight! Imagine getting eight children to clean up after themselves. However, my mom was brilliant.
"Let's see how fast you can pick up your clothes!" She'd exclaim.
The race was on to see who could finish the dishes or make their bed and who would be, by form and functionality and spry, The Winner!
Unfortunately, I never kicked this habit, and so my adult life is full of homemaking triathlons and grocery store sprints. What's wrong with this scenario?
Last weekend I was armed with a non-ending cranial log when my husband had a revolutionary idea. Let's go swimming. Have I mentioned I am terrified of drowning? But off we went, just the four of us.
After a lucrative stretch of time reading my book, I had the sensation of being a lobster boiling beneath a bubbling pot's lid. While carefully entering the oblong shaped pool the excitement of my family was lost on me. I was too engrossed observing where the lifeguards were located. My daughter swam to me and wrapped her entire wet and wiggling body around mine (so much for not wanting to get my hair wet) and informed me there was a bomb in the pool.
"What?" I wrinkled my nose.
"Listen." She grabbed both sides of my face and tipped one side of my head into the water. I heard it, a tick-tick-ticking sound. What is that? Is it someone's digital watch? Abruptly it stopped.
I hesitantly submerged the back of my head including my ears for a better listen. For two full seconds I gazed up at an agoraphobic blue sky, mirroring the pool. I noted a smattering of white clouds as the wind dragged them across the cosmos. As a paradox, my daughter intertwined her fingers around my big toe and began dragging me in circles. I was a cloud, too.
The pool spoke to me in whispers of what sounded like a million granules of sand pouring through a funnel. The cleverness of the water revealed another life of muffled squeals and echoed an explosion of someone cannon-balling; I think it was my son.
All at once again I heard a tick-tick-ticking noise.
From across the pool something caught my eye. A red ball was flung through the air. As it spun around, I noticed a gleaming digital clock face, just as it disappeared into the water.
The Bomb!
Determined, I scanned the approximate area. There bobbed three boys descending in height and age with sprouts of blond hair.
"On your mark, get set...Go!" commanded by the oldest looking boy. The other two boys dove beneath the shallows. After a few moments, one boy appeared, spewing liquid from his nose and mouth, "I found it! I found it!" he clutched the red bulbous prize to his stomach.
One would think I would have been relieved the ticking time bomb wasn't real. But instead, a thick coating of guilt drenched me to my bones.
When did list making and list conquering become more important to me than family? How ofter have I scowled at my kids for interrupting my mental schedule to show me a picture they drew?
As my brood and I gathered up our towels and flip-flops, a song blared from the radio, "Don't worry, be happy".
"Now that's something I am going to work on" I sighed...
Maybe I'll put it on my list.
I never realized that I hurried until my eleven year old asked me why I always acted like I was running in a race.
I blame my mother for this. My mother had eight kids. Eight! Imagine getting eight children to clean up after themselves. However, my mom was brilliant.
"Let's see how fast you can pick up your clothes!" She'd exclaim.
The race was on to see who could finish the dishes or make their bed and who would be, by form and functionality and spry, The Winner!
Unfortunately, I never kicked this habit, and so my adult life is full of homemaking triathlons and grocery store sprints. What's wrong with this scenario?
Last weekend I was armed with a non-ending cranial log when my husband had a revolutionary idea. Let's go swimming. Have I mentioned I am terrified of drowning? But off we went, just the four of us.
After a lucrative stretch of time reading my book, I had the sensation of being a lobster boiling beneath a bubbling pot's lid. While carefully entering the oblong shaped pool the excitement of my family was lost on me. I was too engrossed observing where the lifeguards were located. My daughter swam to me and wrapped her entire wet and wiggling body around mine (so much for not wanting to get my hair wet) and informed me there was a bomb in the pool.
"What?" I wrinkled my nose.
"Listen." She grabbed both sides of my face and tipped one side of my head into the water. I heard it, a tick-tick-ticking sound. What is that? Is it someone's digital watch? Abruptly it stopped.
I hesitantly submerged the back of my head including my ears for a better listen. For two full seconds I gazed up at an agoraphobic blue sky, mirroring the pool. I noted a smattering of white clouds as the wind dragged them across the cosmos. As a paradox, my daughter intertwined her fingers around my big toe and began dragging me in circles. I was a cloud, too.
The pool spoke to me in whispers of what sounded like a million granules of sand pouring through a funnel. The cleverness of the water revealed another life of muffled squeals and echoed an explosion of someone cannon-balling; I think it was my son.
All at once again I heard a tick-tick-ticking noise.
From across the pool something caught my eye. A red ball was flung through the air. As it spun around, I noticed a gleaming digital clock face, just as it disappeared into the water.
The Bomb!
Determined, I scanned the approximate area. There bobbed three boys descending in height and age with sprouts of blond hair.
"On your mark, get set...Go!" commanded by the oldest looking boy. The other two boys dove beneath the shallows. After a few moments, one boy appeared, spewing liquid from his nose and mouth, "I found it! I found it!" he clutched the red bulbous prize to his stomach.
One would think I would have been relieved the ticking time bomb wasn't real. But instead, a thick coating of guilt drenched me to my bones.
When did list making and list conquering become more important to me than family? How ofter have I scowled at my kids for interrupting my mental schedule to show me a picture they drew?
As my brood and I gathered up our towels and flip-flops, a song blared from the radio, "Don't worry, be happy".
"Now that's something I am going to work on" I sighed...
Maybe I'll put it on my list.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Not Goodbye, Adieu
I have never broken up with anyone before.
I married at age 19, to the first person I had ever kissed. Luckily for me, we still, after almost 15 years, like each other and more importantly still like kissing each other.
I dated guys before, but without an official break up. I usually phased them out, or they started phasing me out. This is how, we usually stopped dating.
This is the same with females in my life. We usually stopped calling each other or stopped hanging out and the plans to get together soon, halted completely.
Recently though, my best friend for the last couple of years, and I mutually broke up.
Our relationship had changed. I don't think it was intentional, I think it just happened. It happened at about the same time, with each of us spreading out in different directions. The strong pull we once had, was no longer there.
She e-mailed me and brought it up first.
I read what she had to say, and she was right. We were no longer "us", the "us" we used to be.
Our relationship began with one of us saving the other through means of being a "sounding board" for the other. This bonded us.
As the years went by, the obstacles were different. I didn't need to ask her for her opinion and she didn't need to ask me to figure out her puzzle either. And suddenly, very suddenly we no longer had things to talk about.
Thus the break up.
As I said before I have never broken up with someone before. I never had the courage to say, it's time, it's over.
Although there was never a sexual-anything with her, I still feel a deep sadness.
It was time. We both agreed it was the right thing to do. Moving on was the only thing to do.
But I still feel like a sliver of my heart was taken out. And that piece feels awfully hollow now without her.
I have this image or maybe a hope that we will be the kind of friends that enter and exit each other's life over and over again.
Maybe years from now we'll bump into each other and the conversation will be and as if the years hadn't passed us by, but rather had been put on "pause".
Perhaps this will happen, maybe it won't.
At any rate, I wish her luck. I wish her the best, and I wish her Adieu.
I married at age 19, to the first person I had ever kissed. Luckily for me, we still, after almost 15 years, like each other and more importantly still like kissing each other.
I dated guys before, but without an official break up. I usually phased them out, or they started phasing me out. This is how, we usually stopped dating.
This is the same with females in my life. We usually stopped calling each other or stopped hanging out and the plans to get together soon, halted completely.
Recently though, my best friend for the last couple of years, and I mutually broke up.
Our relationship had changed. I don't think it was intentional, I think it just happened. It happened at about the same time, with each of us spreading out in different directions. The strong pull we once had, was no longer there.
She e-mailed me and brought it up first.
I read what she had to say, and she was right. We were no longer "us", the "us" we used to be.
Our relationship began with one of us saving the other through means of being a "sounding board" for the other. This bonded us.
As the years went by, the obstacles were different. I didn't need to ask her for her opinion and she didn't need to ask me to figure out her puzzle either. And suddenly, very suddenly we no longer had things to talk about.
Thus the break up.
As I said before I have never broken up with someone before. I never had the courage to say, it's time, it's over.
Although there was never a sexual-anything with her, I still feel a deep sadness.
It was time. We both agreed it was the right thing to do. Moving on was the only thing to do.
But I still feel like a sliver of my heart was taken out. And that piece feels awfully hollow now without her.
I have this image or maybe a hope that we will be the kind of friends that enter and exit each other's life over and over again.
Maybe years from now we'll bump into each other and the conversation will be and as if the years hadn't passed us by, but rather had been put on "pause".
Perhaps this will happen, maybe it won't.
At any rate, I wish her luck. I wish her the best, and I wish her Adieu.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The Gandhi Complexion
Sometimes I want to just be in a bad mood. For no other reason than to be in a really rotten mood. This bugs and offends my husband a lot.
You see I am married to Gandhi, reincarnated as a 6 foot 3 inch Anglo Saxon. He doesn't understand why I get angry and why I can't just spin my upset into something positive. I respond with, "Because I can't" which isn't ever understood by him.
Thus, the Gandhi complex and thus why I can only pity Gandhi's wife.
I have this image I've concocted of Gandhi's wife (yes, he was married and had a bunch of kids, but of course, most people don't realize this).
I imagine Gandhi's wife, alone (Gandhi is missing dinner again), trying to convince her children to eat their vegetables.
"But I don't like Brussels sprouts!" One son is complaining.
"Oh, you'd better eat your Brussels sprouts, young man!" the tired and often lonely mother counters.
"But why? Dad doesn't have to eat his Brussels sprouts!"
"Are you trying to save your country? Are you? Well, as soon as you are saving your country like your father, then you don't have to eat your Brussels sprouts!"
*
I have told my husband my theory of his reincarnation. He asked me what he could do to change this (which is so...Gandhi-like in itself). I looked at him. And then I shouted, "Jeez! Would you just go eat a muffin Gandhi?"
To his infinite credit, he has tried (except he recently gave up sugar, so he'll have to figure out something else to eat instead...)
And so I am left to figure out how to get myself to eat Brussels sprouts and how I can spin it into being Hostess Ding Dongs.
You see I am married to Gandhi, reincarnated as a 6 foot 3 inch Anglo Saxon. He doesn't understand why I get angry and why I can't just spin my upset into something positive. I respond with, "Because I can't" which isn't ever understood by him.
Thus, the Gandhi complex and thus why I can only pity Gandhi's wife.
I have this image I've concocted of Gandhi's wife (yes, he was married and had a bunch of kids, but of course, most people don't realize this).
I imagine Gandhi's wife, alone (Gandhi is missing dinner again), trying to convince her children to eat their vegetables.
"But I don't like Brussels sprouts!" One son is complaining.
"Oh, you'd better eat your Brussels sprouts, young man!" the tired and often lonely mother counters.
"But why? Dad doesn't have to eat his Brussels sprouts!"
"Are you trying to save your country? Are you? Well, as soon as you are saving your country like your father, then you don't have to eat your Brussels sprouts!"
*
I have told my husband my theory of his reincarnation. He asked me what he could do to change this (which is so...Gandhi-like in itself). I looked at him. And then I shouted, "Jeez! Would you just go eat a muffin Gandhi?"
To his infinite credit, he has tried (except he recently gave up sugar, so he'll have to figure out something else to eat instead...)
And so I am left to figure out how to get myself to eat Brussels sprouts and how I can spin it into being Hostess Ding Dongs.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Shoppin' Trip
Have you ever had one of those days? You know the one.
Well, I’m at the end of one of those days.
As I drudged back to Smith’s Market Place for the second time today, and the fifth time in two days, I started reviewing how many times I go back to the store in one day.
At least an average of two. Two times a day, six days a week.
And it’s not for groceries, or rather major groceries, it’s for simple things, one or two items I forgot, when I went major grocery shopping a few days before.
Or it’s for the three items I need to complete a recipe I want to try out.
And it gets more and more expensive each time I go on one of these “quick trips”.
The real problem is I live 1.7 miles away from the grocery store.
I can’t help but wonder if I lived further away, would I drive there so much?
Yes, I probably still would.
So tonight I found myself wanting to try out a frosting recipe.
Of course, I can’t make a regular frosting. I can’t even buy a less expensive ready-made frosting. I have to try a recipe I saw on The Food Network. And of course, I don’t have the ingredients on hand to do this.
I jump in my car, for my quick, secondary, jaunt and hurry into the store.
I always hurry into the store, as if I am competing in a grocery-store Triathlon.
I have my strategy already planned by the time I park my car.
My goal is usually to the tune of, “In and out in ten minutes”.
I don’t know why I do any of this.
I usually get the extra small shopping cart, thinking this will save me money, but never pick up just the basket because I always over fill those and it hurts hanging off my arm.
I dodge other “Triathletes” bobbing and weaving in and out of aisles, hurdling over and under people in my way of the Gelatin.
When I have gathered all my necessities, I sprint to the check-out and then decide it would be much faster to go through the self-check-out line. I am a pro-self-check-out-er.
After a day of feeling under appreciated and over worked, I have to begrudgingly explain I love going through the self-check out and not because it’s faster. The sad truth is that I secretly get a rush when I pull out my “Fresh Values” card and scan it.
I smile, every time, at the computerized voice, “Welcome Valued customer”.
A Valued Customer! Me! I know, I know pathetic.
But alas I never savor the moment, I am in a hurry.
I pick up my bag, (which incidentally this little trip cost me, $18, FOR FROSTING FIXINGS) and dash outside to my car that has a strategically placed scratch going from the driver’s side door to the back passenger door roughly the height of a grocery cart handle, and it is the second one I have gotten within two days.
One might wonder why I would do this, day after day, a couple times a day, and six days a week. I can’t answer that.
I can however answer why it was worth it this trip and it is because I am making brownies with chocolate frosting and anything that is chocolate and smothered in more chocolate is worth all other aggravations, that is if the frosting recipe actually works out.
Well, I’m at the end of one of those days.
As I drudged back to Smith’s Market Place for the second time today, and the fifth time in two days, I started reviewing how many times I go back to the store in one day.
At least an average of two. Two times a day, six days a week.
And it’s not for groceries, or rather major groceries, it’s for simple things, one or two items I forgot, when I went major grocery shopping a few days before.
Or it’s for the three items I need to complete a recipe I want to try out.
And it gets more and more expensive each time I go on one of these “quick trips”.
The real problem is I live 1.7 miles away from the grocery store.
I can’t help but wonder if I lived further away, would I drive there so much?
Yes, I probably still would.
So tonight I found myself wanting to try out a frosting recipe.
Of course, I can’t make a regular frosting. I can’t even buy a less expensive ready-made frosting. I have to try a recipe I saw on The Food Network. And of course, I don’t have the ingredients on hand to do this.
I jump in my car, for my quick, secondary, jaunt and hurry into the store.
I always hurry into the store, as if I am competing in a grocery-store Triathlon.
I have my strategy already planned by the time I park my car.
My goal is usually to the tune of, “In and out in ten minutes”.
I don’t know why I do any of this.
I usually get the extra small shopping cart, thinking this will save me money, but never pick up just the basket because I always over fill those and it hurts hanging off my arm.
I dodge other “Triathletes” bobbing and weaving in and out of aisles, hurdling over and under people in my way of the Gelatin.
When I have gathered all my necessities, I sprint to the check-out and then decide it would be much faster to go through the self-check-out line. I am a pro-self-check-out-er.
After a day of feeling under appreciated and over worked, I have to begrudgingly explain I love going through the self-check out and not because it’s faster. The sad truth is that I secretly get a rush when I pull out my “Fresh Values” card and scan it.
I smile, every time, at the computerized voice, “Welcome Valued customer”.
A Valued Customer! Me! I know, I know pathetic.
But alas I never savor the moment, I am in a hurry.
I pick up my bag, (which incidentally this little trip cost me, $18, FOR FROSTING FIXINGS) and dash outside to my car that has a strategically placed scratch going from the driver’s side door to the back passenger door roughly the height of a grocery cart handle, and it is the second one I have gotten within two days.
One might wonder why I would do this, day after day, a couple times a day, and six days a week. I can’t answer that.
I can however answer why it was worth it this trip and it is because I am making brownies with chocolate frosting and anything that is chocolate and smothered in more chocolate is worth all other aggravations, that is if the frosting recipe actually works out.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sick of Summer Vacationing
I have had a wonderful summer. I admit it.
My family and I have been going and traveling since April. I should feel grateful. Instead I feel like I want to take a break from Summer Vacation.
I don't want to go anywhere or visit anyone.
It's not that I hate people.In fact the opposite is true. I love my family, immediate and extended. I love my friends, too. It isn't that I haven't thoroughly enjoyed the places we have vacationed to either.
It comes down to, when is enough, enough?
I'm tired. I want to be at home.
I want to watch my kids run through the sprinklers in the back yard and then go to lunch in my own kitchen.
I miss having a mundane schedule.I crave not having to account to anyone but ourselves.
I heard the most outlandish idea, instead of a "Vacation", to save money you have a "Stay-cation". I can only imagine all the work that would go into trying to make a memorable event out of every day life, and I bet it would cost you double.
I don't begrudge going on a good ol' fashioned holiday, I'm just tired and want to stay home for a while.
My family and I have been going and traveling since April. I should feel grateful. Instead I feel like I want to take a break from Summer Vacation.
I don't want to go anywhere or visit anyone.
It's not that I hate people.In fact the opposite is true. I love my family, immediate and extended. I love my friends, too. It isn't that I haven't thoroughly enjoyed the places we have vacationed to either.
It comes down to, when is enough, enough?
I'm tired. I want to be at home.
I want to watch my kids run through the sprinklers in the back yard and then go to lunch in my own kitchen.
I miss having a mundane schedule.I crave not having to account to anyone but ourselves.
I heard the most outlandish idea, instead of a "Vacation", to save money you have a "Stay-cation". I can only imagine all the work that would go into trying to make a memorable event out of every day life, and I bet it would cost you double.
I don't begrudge going on a good ol' fashioned holiday, I'm just tired and want to stay home for a while.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tanning Bed Blues or Articifially Sun-Kissed
I have a confession to make. I go tanning, in tanning beds and outside next to swimming pools. I know it is not fashionable and percievably scary, but I need the vitamin D. I don't do it daily. I don't do it weekly, but if I feel blue, I go tanning.
One night my hubby and I took a trip to the tanning salon. It had been a week two of heavy rain, and I just don't do well in rainy weather. I opted to go 13 minutes and was told to go to bed number 15.
I did. I stripped down to nothing in less than 3 minutes (the allotted time until the bed turns on) put on the "sun goggles", laid on the freezing plastic bed and waited. I also put my phone next to the pillow, just in case my kids called and placed my Mp3 ear buds in. Knowing that any minute, the bed would turn on.
Nothing happened.
I waited, shivering, a little longer.
Nothing.
I got up and went to the button on the wall and pressed the "begin" button.
Still nothing happened.
I was stark naked and wasn't sure how to proceed. Do I quickly get dressed and go to the front desk? Or, the salon was small, maybe I could just call out...
I called out, "Hello?"
No answer.
I called out louder, "Hello? Front Desk?"
The girl at the front desk answered, "What?"
"Um, the bed's not working in number 15."
"Yes it is. I see it's running." Was her reply.
Suddenly a thought followed by dread crept in me. What if I was in the wrong room?
I quickly got dressed and looked up at the posted room number.
13.
I ran into the next bed, the correct number 15 and giggled.
The girl from the front desk noticed my dash into the next bed and after she rolled her eyes and asked if I had been naked in the bed, told me she would re-set the time.
Again I stripped down, to nothing.
Then, I noticed I accidentally kept the "sun goggles" from the last bed.
I panicked.
Do I get dressed again and run next door to put them back? Do I keep them and take them back after my 13 minutes?
Truthfully I wasn't feeling like myself. I was humiliated.
Anytime I am naked, I feel uneasy.
Every time I go tanning, I have to take deep gulping breaths and tell myself, "It's OK. I'm OK."
But then to realize I disrobed in the wrong room and actually called out, calling attention to my stupidity, and nakedness, I wasn't thinking correctly.
So, I chucked the "sun goggles" as hard as I could, with a grunt, up over the partition wall, aiming for the vicinity of bed number 13.
I heard a loud high frequency "smack" as the goggles hit into the neighboring bed.
I held my breath.
Maybe the front desk girl didn't hear it.
Maybe the front desk girl wouldn't know it was me.
After realizing the allotted 3 minutes had ticked by, I jumped into my blazing sun bed and did everything I could to relax.
I told myself, "I don't ever have to go back into room 13, I replaced the goggles, kind-of...hopefully. It's alright".
I turned on my Mp3 and did my normal, sing-along, and back-dance as I waited for the 13 minutes to be up.
During the course of my third lip-sync I realized something else, "Where's my phone?"
I had left my phone, in bed 13, next to the head pillow, probably close to a pair of recently air-born protective eye wear.
Crap!
The last 6 minutes dragged on.
I kept watching the minutes, "Come on! Come on!"
What if my kids had tried calling?
What if someone else was occupying the bed now?
As soon as the vitamin D filled lights dimmed, I jumped out of the bed.
I threw on my clothes, minus my bra, which I shoved in my pants' pocket (keep in mind, I need to wear a bra, always, other wise I become quite Tribal).
I ran into the other room, relieved that no one else was in there.
I grabbed my phone, still exactly wear I had left it and did a quick scan to see wear the goggles had landed.
No such luck on the goggles. I never found them.
When I finally emerged, my husband was waiting. I was giggling nervously.
As we past the front desk, there was now two girls manning it. They looked at me and rolled there eyes.
This particular tanning session wasn't as relaxing as usual. Maybe I should have stayed at home and watched the rain.
One night my hubby and I took a trip to the tanning salon. It had been a week two of heavy rain, and I just don't do well in rainy weather. I opted to go 13 minutes and was told to go to bed number 15.
I did. I stripped down to nothing in less than 3 minutes (the allotted time until the bed turns on) put on the "sun goggles", laid on the freezing plastic bed and waited. I also put my phone next to the pillow, just in case my kids called and placed my Mp3 ear buds in. Knowing that any minute, the bed would turn on.
Nothing happened.
I waited, shivering, a little longer.
Nothing.
I got up and went to the button on the wall and pressed the "begin" button.
Still nothing happened.
I was stark naked and wasn't sure how to proceed. Do I quickly get dressed and go to the front desk? Or, the salon was small, maybe I could just call out...
I called out, "Hello?"
No answer.
I called out louder, "Hello? Front Desk?"
The girl at the front desk answered, "What?"
"Um, the bed's not working in number 15."
"Yes it is. I see it's running." Was her reply.
Suddenly a thought followed by dread crept in me. What if I was in the wrong room?
I quickly got dressed and looked up at the posted room number.
13.
I ran into the next bed, the correct number 15 and giggled.
The girl from the front desk noticed my dash into the next bed and after she rolled her eyes and asked if I had been naked in the bed, told me she would re-set the time.
Again I stripped down, to nothing.
Then, I noticed I accidentally kept the "sun goggles" from the last bed.
I panicked.
Do I get dressed again and run next door to put them back? Do I keep them and take them back after my 13 minutes?
Truthfully I wasn't feeling like myself. I was humiliated.
Anytime I am naked, I feel uneasy.
Every time I go tanning, I have to take deep gulping breaths and tell myself, "It's OK. I'm OK."
But then to realize I disrobed in the wrong room and actually called out, calling attention to my stupidity, and nakedness, I wasn't thinking correctly.
So, I chucked the "sun goggles" as hard as I could, with a grunt, up over the partition wall, aiming for the vicinity of bed number 13.
I heard a loud high frequency "smack" as the goggles hit into the neighboring bed.
I held my breath.
Maybe the front desk girl didn't hear it.
Maybe the front desk girl wouldn't know it was me.
After realizing the allotted 3 minutes had ticked by, I jumped into my blazing sun bed and did everything I could to relax.
I told myself, "I don't ever have to go back into room 13, I replaced the goggles, kind-of...hopefully. It's alright".
I turned on my Mp3 and did my normal, sing-along, and back-dance as I waited for the 13 minutes to be up.
During the course of my third lip-sync I realized something else, "Where's my phone?"
I had left my phone, in bed 13, next to the head pillow, probably close to a pair of recently air-born protective eye wear.
Crap!
The last 6 minutes dragged on.
I kept watching the minutes, "Come on! Come on!"
What if my kids had tried calling?
What if someone else was occupying the bed now?
As soon as the vitamin D filled lights dimmed, I jumped out of the bed.
I threw on my clothes, minus my bra, which I shoved in my pants' pocket (keep in mind, I need to wear a bra, always, other wise I become quite Tribal).
I ran into the other room, relieved that no one else was in there.
I grabbed my phone, still exactly wear I had left it and did a quick scan to see wear the goggles had landed.
No such luck on the goggles. I never found them.
When I finally emerged, my husband was waiting. I was giggling nervously.
As we past the front desk, there was now two girls manning it. They looked at me and rolled there eyes.
This particular tanning session wasn't as relaxing as usual. Maybe I should have stayed at home and watched the rain.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Hero Status
Recently I heard a rumor that a childhood friend of mine had Breast Cancer. It was very dis concerning. So I contacted this person via facebook, asked to be her friend and she, the very next day accepted me as one. Also dis concerning. When I was in 10Th grade I had a falling out with a group of girls, the one with Breast Cancer happens to be one of them. When I asked to be a facebook pal of hers, I was expecting to be refused. I actually steeled myself for the rejection. However, with her "extended hand" per say I felt a wave of relief. Does she forgive me for my behavior in High School? Should I forgive her?
In what I was hoping to be a grand gesture, I wanted to let her know that I was thinking about her and worried about her. I wanted to give her hope and know I was pulling for her and wanted her to kick Cancer.
So I wrote on her facebook wall something to the effect of "when someone has a hurdle like this one, they automatically achieve HERO status"... then I wanted to end it with something inspiring. I wanted to say, "good luck, you are a hero. You can do it! You are a conqueror!" I posted it on her wall. About three minutes later my husband came home. I asked him to read what I had posted. I was nervous because I hadn't talked to her in over 16 years. I didn't want to offend her in anyway. I wanted to be a vessel of hope to her.
My husband read the short comment. Then he reread it slower.
"I thought she has Breast Cancer?" He turned and looked at me.
"She does." I answered.
"Huh. So she has a drug problem, too?" He asked.
"No." I went to the computer screen.
I had written the stuff about getting through hurdles in life and then I ended it wanting it to state, "Good luck Conquering HERO-INE" (as in you are a conquering female hero). How it read however was, "Good luck conquering heroine" (as in you are addicted to drugs. Very bad drugs, and good luck in rehab).
It had only been three minutes since I posted this message. I was able to quickly edit it to, "good luck conquering hero" and then I re posted it.
I just hope no one read her wall within that three minutes!
It made me think. I wonder how often I hear things wrong, see things wrong and accept things in a different way than what was intended.
I hope my friend can conqueror Breast Cancer.
I also hope I didn't out her as a druggie!
In what I was hoping to be a grand gesture, I wanted to let her know that I was thinking about her and worried about her. I wanted to give her hope and know I was pulling for her and wanted her to kick Cancer.
So I wrote on her facebook wall something to the effect of "when someone has a hurdle like this one, they automatically achieve HERO status"... then I wanted to end it with something inspiring. I wanted to say, "good luck, you are a hero. You can do it! You are a conqueror!" I posted it on her wall. About three minutes later my husband came home. I asked him to read what I had posted. I was nervous because I hadn't talked to her in over 16 years. I didn't want to offend her in anyway. I wanted to be a vessel of hope to her.
My husband read the short comment. Then he reread it slower.
"I thought she has Breast Cancer?" He turned and looked at me.
"She does." I answered.
"Huh. So she has a drug problem, too?" He asked.
"No." I went to the computer screen.
I had written the stuff about getting through hurdles in life and then I ended it wanting it to state, "Good luck Conquering HERO-INE" (as in you are a conquering female hero). How it read however was, "Good luck conquering heroine" (as in you are addicted to drugs. Very bad drugs, and good luck in rehab).
It had only been three minutes since I posted this message. I was able to quickly edit it to, "good luck conquering hero" and then I re posted it.
I just hope no one read her wall within that three minutes!
It made me think. I wonder how often I hear things wrong, see things wrong and accept things in a different way than what was intended.
I hope my friend can conqueror Breast Cancer.
I also hope I didn't out her as a druggie!
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Memory Foam
I was recently reading an article about muscles and the body. It was actually focused around a timeline of Brittany Spears' abdominal. Through out a one year period, Brittany's stomach went from teeny-tiny, to a gut and then cut, once more. In the article a known personal trainer explained that all muscles were actually equivalent to that of "memory Foam". Once you have toned your muscles a certain way, you can actually let them go and then get them back to firm in a relatively short amount of time, thus "memory foam"and thus, Brittany's Abs.
Crap! I thought, what if you never had Brittany's stomach, ever? What if you at one time or another , resembled another famous entertainer, like say, Sham mu? Does this mean, in a relatively short amount of time, I will "memory foam" myself back to the profile highly regarded by Sea World?
Does "memory foam" for me, mean the opposite?
So what about my long time effort of getting "desserts" low-fat, and sugar-free? What about the fact I haven't had Salad Dressing in 7 years? Does the "memory foam" theory mean that after digesting one normal (and probably better tasting) brownie, my stomach will balloon out, I will grow "cankels" and my butt will be once again four-dimensional?
Dang it!
Crap! I thought, what if you never had Brittany's stomach, ever? What if you at one time or another , resembled another famous entertainer, like say, Sham mu? Does this mean, in a relatively short amount of time, I will "memory foam" myself back to the profile highly regarded by Sea World?
Does "memory foam" for me, mean the opposite?
So what about my long time effort of getting "desserts" low-fat, and sugar-free? What about the fact I haven't had Salad Dressing in 7 years? Does the "memory foam" theory mean that after digesting one normal (and probably better tasting) brownie, my stomach will balloon out, I will grow "cankels" and my butt will be once again four-dimensional?
Dang it!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Jumping off a Cliff
Yesterday I went to my Doctor with my same old issues I haven't been able to shake. I haven't felt well, I haven't been sleeping at night. I diet all of the time and have increased my exercises but haven't lost a pound. A new issue has arisen, I've been having trouble with memory loss. I told myself it was cancer. It's not that I hope to have cancer, not at all. I have this tendency to assume the worse, that way when I find out what the issue really is, I have already dealt with the emotions of the worse case scenario. In a weird way, handling situations this way has given me hope.
After a really long office visit (2 and a half hours), I was told I needed to go on Antidepressants.
Antidepressants?!!!
I felt as though I was asked to leap off a cliff, willingly.
I had the sensation I was blind folded, had my hands tied behind my back and was asked to jump. I know what I am jumping into. I have seen over that edge before. I know what is beyond it. I have jumped into that abyss and almost didn't survived.
Two seconds before, I asked my husband who went with me, what if I was told I needed pills?
He, in his normal soothing way, responded, "We'll tell them no. Absolutely not."
I felt reassured.
The two Doctors (one was a resident) came back in the room and explained that I had the signs of Depression.
How could this be? I have been battling Depression for almost my entire life. Two and a half years ago, I rid myself of all the Antidepressants I had been taking for 10 years.
I replaced the pills with regular exercise. I began reading self-help books about Positive self-talk and having a good attitude. I started doing things that scared me, things out of my comfort zone, to make me feel like I was living. I'm talking about, going back to school, and competing in a Triathlon. These types of things, in the name of self discovery.
So here I was in the Doctor's office, having a panic attack over the idea of once again needing to take pills.
I was devastated. I was even wishing for cancer!
My husband looked at me and then back at the two nervous looking Doctors, "OK, we'll give them a try."
Why would he do this to me? Doesn't he remember how I was on pills? I was a zombie, a non-person. I didn't do anything, I simply existed.
The three of them decided to just give me a prescription, in which I could fill it when ever I decided I wanted to. Wanted to?
To tell the truth, I am terrified. It's not the fear of the unknown, it's the fear of the known. After crying all day yesterday,last night I decided to jump.
I realized that for about a year I have been working so hard, only to find I am spinning my wheels. My little tricks to perk myself up have stopped working. I have been feeling despair and anger and that the world is Too big.
I had to jump.
I am constantly talking about taking control of my life. I am constantly working on fixing myself. Maybe instead of thinking I was asked to jump off a cliff, perhaps I've already slipped off the cliff and have been holding on to the deteriorating ground, and haven't noticed there's a net below me waiting to catch me. If I would just let go.
I took my first pill last night. I also forgave my husband for his "betrayal" and am trying to forgive myself for my depression.
I don't know if this will work. I do hope it will.
It's a lot of work jumping off a cliff. I hope I am doing the right thing, and at least have on a parachute.
After a really long office visit (2 and a half hours), I was told I needed to go on Antidepressants.
Antidepressants?!!!
I felt as though I was asked to leap off a cliff, willingly.
I had the sensation I was blind folded, had my hands tied behind my back and was asked to jump. I know what I am jumping into. I have seen over that edge before. I know what is beyond it. I have jumped into that abyss and almost didn't survived.
Two seconds before, I asked my husband who went with me, what if I was told I needed pills?
He, in his normal soothing way, responded, "We'll tell them no. Absolutely not."
I felt reassured.
The two Doctors (one was a resident) came back in the room and explained that I had the signs of Depression.
How could this be? I have been battling Depression for almost my entire life. Two and a half years ago, I rid myself of all the Antidepressants I had been taking for 10 years.
I replaced the pills with regular exercise. I began reading self-help books about Positive self-talk and having a good attitude. I started doing things that scared me, things out of my comfort zone, to make me feel like I was living. I'm talking about, going back to school, and competing in a Triathlon. These types of things, in the name of self discovery.
So here I was in the Doctor's office, having a panic attack over the idea of once again needing to take pills.
I was devastated. I was even wishing for cancer!
My husband looked at me and then back at the two nervous looking Doctors, "OK, we'll give them a try."
Why would he do this to me? Doesn't he remember how I was on pills? I was a zombie, a non-person. I didn't do anything, I simply existed.
The three of them decided to just give me a prescription, in which I could fill it when ever I decided I wanted to. Wanted to?
To tell the truth, I am terrified. It's not the fear of the unknown, it's the fear of the known. After crying all day yesterday,last night I decided to jump.
I realized that for about a year I have been working so hard, only to find I am spinning my wheels. My little tricks to perk myself up have stopped working. I have been feeling despair and anger and that the world is Too big.
I had to jump.
I am constantly talking about taking control of my life. I am constantly working on fixing myself. Maybe instead of thinking I was asked to jump off a cliff, perhaps I've already slipped off the cliff and have been holding on to the deteriorating ground, and haven't noticed there's a net below me waiting to catch me. If I would just let go.
I took my first pill last night. I also forgave my husband for his "betrayal" and am trying to forgive myself for my depression.
I don't know if this will work. I do hope it will.
It's a lot of work jumping off a cliff. I hope I am doing the right thing, and at least have on a parachute.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Mak'economy
I have a gripe with how this bad economy is seeping into my makeup products. I keep spending more money for the stuff I've been using for years and getting less than half of the actual product.
I think people assume I wouldn't notice that my facial cream is only overly-whipped up to the lid and not actually filled to the lid. I am tired of having to buy more and more mascara because mine lasts for two weeks, when before I had it for months. What's up with that? Mean while I am spending 10, 20, 30 and even 40 dollars for half the amount.
I have also noticed foundations now come in new frosted bottles. This is so I can't actually tell how much I am getting.
I understand we are in a recession. I know prices are higher because of it. I also know I don't wear an inch of mascara, foundation and facial cream on my face everyday, ever!
I am tired of having to purchase more and more shampoo and conditioner because those run out every two weeks too. I know I haven't grown more hair. In fact, I keep loosing hair, which is evident by the strands left laying around my bathtub, toilet, shower, vanity and in my hair brush.
I just wish the economy would either stop sticking it's nose in my concealer, or would step up and add more of it in my frosted bottle of makeup.
I think people assume I wouldn't notice that my facial cream is only overly-whipped up to the lid and not actually filled to the lid. I am tired of having to buy more and more mascara because mine lasts for two weeks, when before I had it for months. What's up with that? Mean while I am spending 10, 20, 30 and even 40 dollars for half the amount.
I have also noticed foundations now come in new frosted bottles. This is so I can't actually tell how much I am getting.
I understand we are in a recession. I know prices are higher because of it. I also know I don't wear an inch of mascara, foundation and facial cream on my face everyday, ever!
I am tired of having to purchase more and more shampoo and conditioner because those run out every two weeks too. I know I haven't grown more hair. In fact, I keep loosing hair, which is evident by the strands left laying around my bathtub, toilet, shower, vanity and in my hair brush.
I just wish the economy would either stop sticking it's nose in my concealer, or would step up and add more of it in my frosted bottle of makeup.
The Day Trippers
Today I volunteered to help with my seven year old's Field Trip. I haven't been on a Field Trip in roughly twenty years. I had to bring a sack lunch, I smashed into a seat with two other children, one being my son and we were off. The school bus was exactly the way I remembered a school bus being, from the tattered and torn seats, to the rubber floor, to even the smell. Do all school buses smell the same?
We were scheduled for two locations. The first being a visit to The Hale Center Theater in West Valley. Each volunteer parent had approximately 8 children under our watch. Although they were sweet, my group happened to be the most wild. I took this as punishment for not volunteering more in the classroom.
After constantly calling for my group to settle down, to stop running, to keep their hands to themselves, I finally resorted to bribery. I told them that if they were on their best behavior I would bring them some gum. It worked for 2.3 seconds (I have decided to buy them gum anyway).
The woman giving the tour, spoke about how you use your body and your voice as an instrument to show the audience different characters.
She demonstrated by acting like a wicked witch, which the children realized instantly.
The second character was harder for the children. She spoke in a British accent and pretended to be prim and proper. She talked about how her crown kept slipping and how "Tea and Crumpets would be served in 5 minutes on the lawn". She then asked for the kids to raise their hands to guess who she was.
One of the boys in my group raised and waved his hand. The tour guide/actress of course pick him, "What do you think I am?" She asked Thomas. Thomas answered, "I don't know an idiot?"
The first grade teacher stifled a gasp and covered her head in her lap. I was trying to stifle a laugh. Who was this first grader?
Later we went to a Water Conservation Plant. Again the group had to sit through another lecture. The kids were restless, in fact, I was getting restless too.
After the speech about plants we ate our lunches and were handed a clipboard with a list of plants and flowers we were suppose to "find". What fun. I guess in theory this was fun.
We found probably two plants. My group spent our time finding each other because there was always someone who had escaped.
Once back on the bus I asked out loud if this was the part where the adults were given Xanax?
A little while later, still on the bus, and still smashed in a seat with two other kids (by this time, my son wanted nothing to do with me and was sitting with his friends one row behind me), an alarm went off on the bus.
I was looking around trying to figure out what, when and who was setting it off.
The bus driver looked in his enormous rear-view mirror and pointed at me.
"Me?" I asked. He shook his head "Yes".
I was on a fold up seat that lead to the emergency exit door. I was sitting too close to it and I had inadvertently set off the bells and whistles.
I apologized and announced, "there is only so much I can suck in!"
The bus driver smiled but told me as I was leaving he liked having adults sitting in that seat so he wouldn't have to worry about the alarm going off.
I think I proved that theory wrong.
I believe the Field Trip was an over-all nightmare.
If the children were older, maybe that would have worked better.
If we were taken to a park and let loose, maybe that would have worked better, too.
By the end, I was ready for a nap and possibly a Xanax or two.
We were scheduled for two locations. The first being a visit to The Hale Center Theater in West Valley. Each volunteer parent had approximately 8 children under our watch. Although they were sweet, my group happened to be the most wild. I took this as punishment for not volunteering more in the classroom.
After constantly calling for my group to settle down, to stop running, to keep their hands to themselves, I finally resorted to bribery. I told them that if they were on their best behavior I would bring them some gum. It worked for 2.3 seconds (I have decided to buy them gum anyway).
The woman giving the tour, spoke about how you use your body and your voice as an instrument to show the audience different characters.
She demonstrated by acting like a wicked witch, which the children realized instantly.
The second character was harder for the children. She spoke in a British accent and pretended to be prim and proper. She talked about how her crown kept slipping and how "Tea and Crumpets would be served in 5 minutes on the lawn". She then asked for the kids to raise their hands to guess who she was.
One of the boys in my group raised and waved his hand. The tour guide/actress of course pick him, "What do you think I am?" She asked Thomas. Thomas answered, "I don't know an idiot?"
The first grade teacher stifled a gasp and covered her head in her lap. I was trying to stifle a laugh. Who was this first grader?
Later we went to a Water Conservation Plant. Again the group had to sit through another lecture. The kids were restless, in fact, I was getting restless too.
After the speech about plants we ate our lunches and were handed a clipboard with a list of plants and flowers we were suppose to "find". What fun. I guess in theory this was fun.
We found probably two plants. My group spent our time finding each other because there was always someone who had escaped.
Once back on the bus I asked out loud if this was the part where the adults were given Xanax?
A little while later, still on the bus, and still smashed in a seat with two other kids (by this time, my son wanted nothing to do with me and was sitting with his friends one row behind me), an alarm went off on the bus.
I was looking around trying to figure out what, when and who was setting it off.
The bus driver looked in his enormous rear-view mirror and pointed at me.
"Me?" I asked. He shook his head "Yes".
I was on a fold up seat that lead to the emergency exit door. I was sitting too close to it and I had inadvertently set off the bells and whistles.
I apologized and announced, "there is only so much I can suck in!"
The bus driver smiled but told me as I was leaving he liked having adults sitting in that seat so he wouldn't have to worry about the alarm going off.
I think I proved that theory wrong.
I believe the Field Trip was an over-all nightmare.
If the children were older, maybe that would have worked better.
If we were taken to a park and let loose, maybe that would have worked better, too.
By the end, I was ready for a nap and possibly a Xanax or two.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Road Warrior
Last week I completed a Triathlon. From start to finish, I did it!
It was such an invigorating experience and yet I find myself down playing every part. I had technical difficulties with my bike and as a result it took me twice as long to complete that part of the race. I took so long in fact, one police man who was at a post left, but slammed on his breaks and reversed when he noticed me slowly climbing up the last hill. I wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't shouted out his window, "Whoa! I'm sorry I thought the race was over! I'm glad I noticed you!"
I am still surprised how immediately I crumbled. "What a looser I am!" I thought. "What do I think I am doing? I don't belong here!" I continued berating myself for the rest of the bike part of the competition. It got worse from there.
As I was rounding the last of the bike trek, I saw my husband finishing the final part of the run. I was so proud of him. I was so excited about how he was doing and then I lost it. I became a jealous sore loser.
"I should just give up! I am so embarrassed with my performance! I should just stop and save face..."
As soon as I realized I was about to give up, another thought occurred to me. What would I tell my friends if they gave up because of how they felt they looked?
I would think they were crazy! I would tell them to focus on the big picture, they were here trying something very difficult, and new and they were almost finished. I would have reminded them that they had already finished the swimming part and now the biking part and all that was left was the running. I would tell them that they knew how to run. They could run and they could do it well.
As I was soothing my invisible friends, I changed my counselling from third person to first person. I can run. I can run and run fast. I don't want to be dead last in this part of the race!
I hung up my bike and continued on.
I waved at my kids and husband who were now watching and waiting for my on my last leg of the race. I was going to finish.
I ran/walked up the first hill.
I was still trying to gain back myself confidence. I passed a woman walking, too. I asked if she was alright, she told me she had finished the earlier, more advanced race that morning and thought it would be fun to walk this race.
This batted at myself esteem more. I felt like the woman had insulted me, seeing this race as less than, and I was walking it.
Emotionally I stumbled, fighting with myself to stay focused.
My music wasn't inspiring, my shirt I was wearing was too hot. I didn't like how my shorts kept riding up, and on and on.
Up a head I noticed another woman walking. There were people heading back to the finish line, but still there was one other woman walking the same direction. I decided to jog up to her.
When I caught up to her, she was out of breath and sweating profusely. I asked her if she was doing this race.
She gulped and said, "Yes, but my doctor told me to walk this part. So I am. I am going to finish this race!"
She was the most inspiring woman there. She was over weight, she was over heated and she was going to finish the race.
Her energy leaped into me and I was finally back in the game. I began running.
I ran to the half way mark where I drank some water and Gatorade, quickly.
I turned around and noticed in the distance someone else walking heading toward the finish line.
My goal changed into a bite sized task. I would run to that woman.
I threw off my shirt (my sports bra I swam in earlier would keep me cool), I turned up my MP3 and I ran.
As I got closer to the woman in the distance, I ran faster. And the faster I ran, the more I gave myself positive feed back.
Soon I was right behind the woman, but she started running too.
This time I wasn't discouraged, I was on fire. I wasn't going to be dead last in the running part, I was going to show myself I could, and was competing in a Triathlon!
The last leg of the run was down hill, quite steep, too. I could hear people cheering me on, I joined in! I could do it! I was doing it!
I ran faster than I have ever run as an adult before.
And then it was done. I had completed what I had come to do.
Later, the stats where posted. I realized something very valuable. If I wouldn't have stunted myself by pouting, I would have finished in a much faster time. I realized it wasn't the technical difficulties that kept me from competing, it was me, wasting time on why I should give up.
I don't want to be that negative person again. In fact, I am tired of being complacent and negative all together. I want to compete, I want to fight for myself. I want to fight to have a life! And I am going to, starting now.
It was such an invigorating experience and yet I find myself down playing every part. I had technical difficulties with my bike and as a result it took me twice as long to complete that part of the race. I took so long in fact, one police man who was at a post left, but slammed on his breaks and reversed when he noticed me slowly climbing up the last hill. I wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't shouted out his window, "Whoa! I'm sorry I thought the race was over! I'm glad I noticed you!"
I am still surprised how immediately I crumbled. "What a looser I am!" I thought. "What do I think I am doing? I don't belong here!" I continued berating myself for the rest of the bike part of the competition. It got worse from there.
As I was rounding the last of the bike trek, I saw my husband finishing the final part of the run. I was so proud of him. I was so excited about how he was doing and then I lost it. I became a jealous sore loser.
"I should just give up! I am so embarrassed with my performance! I should just stop and save face..."
As soon as I realized I was about to give up, another thought occurred to me. What would I tell my friends if they gave up because of how they felt they looked?
I would think they were crazy! I would tell them to focus on the big picture, they were here trying something very difficult, and new and they were almost finished. I would have reminded them that they had already finished the swimming part and now the biking part and all that was left was the running. I would tell them that they knew how to run. They could run and they could do it well.
As I was soothing my invisible friends, I changed my counselling from third person to first person. I can run. I can run and run fast. I don't want to be dead last in this part of the race!
I hung up my bike and continued on.
I waved at my kids and husband who were now watching and waiting for my on my last leg of the race. I was going to finish.
I ran/walked up the first hill.
I was still trying to gain back myself confidence. I passed a woman walking, too. I asked if she was alright, she told me she had finished the earlier, more advanced race that morning and thought it would be fun to walk this race.
This batted at myself esteem more. I felt like the woman had insulted me, seeing this race as less than, and I was walking it.
Emotionally I stumbled, fighting with myself to stay focused.
My music wasn't inspiring, my shirt I was wearing was too hot. I didn't like how my shorts kept riding up, and on and on.
Up a head I noticed another woman walking. There were people heading back to the finish line, but still there was one other woman walking the same direction. I decided to jog up to her.
When I caught up to her, she was out of breath and sweating profusely. I asked her if she was doing this race.
She gulped and said, "Yes, but my doctor told me to walk this part. So I am. I am going to finish this race!"
She was the most inspiring woman there. She was over weight, she was over heated and she was going to finish the race.
Her energy leaped into me and I was finally back in the game. I began running.
I ran to the half way mark where I drank some water and Gatorade, quickly.
I turned around and noticed in the distance someone else walking heading toward the finish line.
My goal changed into a bite sized task. I would run to that woman.
I threw off my shirt (my sports bra I swam in earlier would keep me cool), I turned up my MP3 and I ran.
As I got closer to the woman in the distance, I ran faster. And the faster I ran, the more I gave myself positive feed back.
Soon I was right behind the woman, but she started running too.
This time I wasn't discouraged, I was on fire. I wasn't going to be dead last in the running part, I was going to show myself I could, and was competing in a Triathlon!
The last leg of the run was down hill, quite steep, too. I could hear people cheering me on, I joined in! I could do it! I was doing it!
I ran faster than I have ever run as an adult before.
And then it was done. I had completed what I had come to do.
Later, the stats where posted. I realized something very valuable. If I wouldn't have stunted myself by pouting, I would have finished in a much faster time. I realized it wasn't the technical difficulties that kept me from competing, it was me, wasting time on why I should give up.
I don't want to be that negative person again. In fact, I am tired of being complacent and negative all together. I want to compete, I want to fight for myself. I want to fight to have a life! And I am going to, starting now.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Self Discovery By Accident
This morning I had a startling discovery. I found an old notebook, an ordinary spiral notebook. I have seen it several times in my desk drawer where we keep our scrap paper, and our computer paper. I knew it was there, I didn't ever have a reason to look at it, or through it for that matter.
This morning, my son, who is learning how to read, brought it to me. He read to me a passage that shocked me. It was from me during a period of time I was being treated for sever depression. Luckily, because I write partially in cursive and part print, my seven year old couldn't quite figure out what I had said. In investigating I realized it was a journal I started in 2006.
I noticed I wrote only about once a month and the theme was constant. Who am I? What do I want? I need to loose weight. What am I trying to do with my life? If I could just loose ten more pounds, then I would be happy...
I am shocked because here it is three years later, give or take, and I am still trying to discover what will make me happy. I am still trying to loose ten pounds, I am still trying to venture out to see what I can accomplish and I am still incredibly frustrated.
It would seem I haven't moved forward at all. It is as if I wasted three years of my life. But this conclusion is false.
So here is my true conclusion, I will never be happy or satisfied if I can't realize what it is I have accomplished and have figured out.
No I don't have a career, yet. But I have figured out, conclusively what it is I don't want to have a career in.
I haven't lost ten pounds, but, I have learned how to compete in a mini-triathlon.I couldn't have done that three years ago.
I have figured out what I am passionate about and what I am Luke-warm with.
And if I really think about it (which is something I don't like to do and something I dislike to admit even more) I genuinely like large amounts about myself. This is a new discovery.
I like that I am not satisfied with the same old same old. I like that I have a need to research and discover things, anything, everything.
It isn't that I am in the same place I was three years ago, which is what I originally thought. I am in a totally different place, a good place and a place where I am free to discover.
This in itself is terrifying, worrisome, at times loathsome, but also exhilarating, and exciting.
It's OK that I don't know where I am, who I am, or what I want to be. The point in life is to figure it out if it takes three years or thirty three years!
I'm up for it!
This morning, my son, who is learning how to read, brought it to me. He read to me a passage that shocked me. It was from me during a period of time I was being treated for sever depression. Luckily, because I write partially in cursive and part print, my seven year old couldn't quite figure out what I had said. In investigating I realized it was a journal I started in 2006.
I noticed I wrote only about once a month and the theme was constant. Who am I? What do I want? I need to loose weight. What am I trying to do with my life? If I could just loose ten more pounds, then I would be happy...
I am shocked because here it is three years later, give or take, and I am still trying to discover what will make me happy. I am still trying to loose ten pounds, I am still trying to venture out to see what I can accomplish and I am still incredibly frustrated.
It would seem I haven't moved forward at all. It is as if I wasted three years of my life. But this conclusion is false.
So here is my true conclusion, I will never be happy or satisfied if I can't realize what it is I have accomplished and have figured out.
No I don't have a career, yet. But I have figured out, conclusively what it is I don't want to have a career in.
I haven't lost ten pounds, but, I have learned how to compete in a mini-triathlon.I couldn't have done that three years ago.
I have figured out what I am passionate about and what I am Luke-warm with.
And if I really think about it (which is something I don't like to do and something I dislike to admit even more) I genuinely like large amounts about myself. This is a new discovery.
I like that I am not satisfied with the same old same old. I like that I have a need to research and discover things, anything, everything.
It isn't that I am in the same place I was three years ago, which is what I originally thought. I am in a totally different place, a good place and a place where I am free to discover.
This in itself is terrifying, worrisome, at times loathsome, but also exhilarating, and exciting.
It's OK that I don't know where I am, who I am, or what I want to be. The point in life is to figure it out if it takes three years or thirty three years!
I'm up for it!
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Woman Vs. Woman
what is it about women? I recently went to a dinner party where I was called a liar. The circumstances were ridiculous. I under estimated a detail of an event I was explaining and the woman I was talking to was fixated on that particular detail. Before I could counter re-act the detail, I was outed as a liar in front of the whole dinner party. From my perspective, I truly didn't mean to lie. I calculated wrong, that is all. The detail was minor to the context of the rest of the event. But this woman, whom I have known for years is uber competive and wanted to prove me wrong. In the name of trying to save face, I didn't take back the detail and admit I was wrong. It was so stupid. I felt really embarrassed and what started out as an accident, played into her verbal assault and I became a liar. I hate that. I hate that, once again I was broad sided and I did nothing to strengthen myself. The wonderful thing about women is our ability to love, unconditionally, uncontrollably and give ourselves to what we love. I wish we could do this to each other more often.
Why couldn't I say, "You are right. It couldn't be what I said. Sorry about that" ?
Why did the woman have to be so worried about tearing down my statement and there fore tearing me down?
Why is it that females sometimes replace compassion with competition? What is the true focus here?
So because I write a blog to help me figure life out, I also write to help me figure myself out. This is what I learned from this dinner party: I can make a mistake, take back the mistake and still save face. The point isn't who the woman says I am, the point is who I am trying to become.
Why couldn't I say, "You are right. It couldn't be what I said. Sorry about that" ?
Why did the woman have to be so worried about tearing down my statement and there fore tearing me down?
Why is it that females sometimes replace compassion with competition? What is the true focus here?
So because I write a blog to help me figure life out, I also write to help me figure myself out. This is what I learned from this dinner party: I can make a mistake, take back the mistake and still save face. The point isn't who the woman says I am, the point is who I am trying to become.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Looking The Part
My husband and I have signed up to compete in a miniature triathlon. I am proud to say we are actually following through and doing it. To solidify our devotion we have been training for it and because it is being held in St. George, we have already booked a room. That clinches it, we have spent the fee to enter the race and we have booked a hotel room, we are going.
To tell you the truth, I have a love/hate desire to do this. Or perhaps it is a fear/control thing I have with it. This miniature race consists of running 1.5 miles. I can do that. Biking 5 miles. I can do that. And swimming 8 laps in a pool. Yikes. I don't know how to swim. I hate water on my face and I really, really hate wearing swim suits, in public or out of the public. I basically see swim suits as a mid-evil torture device.
Every year I take a pilgrimage to the Department stores in the Mall in search for that perfect swimming suit. You know the one; it miraculously changes your body image, physically and emotionally at an accelerated rate and the longer you wear it the skinnier you become. I don't know what's so hard about finding a suit like that. It has got to be out there...somewhere.
Last year I decided to buy one, via Internet through the Victoria Secret Web site.
It was great, well on line, it was great. I got to choose the color I wanted. I was able to mix and match different tops with different bottoms. I could decide which bottom style would work best on my body type and the best part was I didn't have to try to visualize it. Every time I tweaked something a picture of it was then transposed on a Victoria Secret Model. I loved it.
It was reasonably priced, too. So after about a week, I received a small package by UPS. It had arrived, my perfect suit!
I tore open the packaging and marveled at my brand new Lycra persona. I am going to look HOT this summer!
A few minutes into putting the suit on, reality hit me. It didn't matter how I posed in it, I did not look like the perfect specimen I saw on line. I have figured out what Victoria Secrets big secret is, AIR BRUSHING!
Another swim suit to put in my swim suit drawer of same.
Which brings me back to my little triathlon. I have a new suit. I actually tried it on at the store. Yes it was horrifying and yes I went immediately after and got a Blizzard from Dairy Queen.
It's an OK suit. It's used specifically for racing. It's a one-piece black Speedo brand with white racing stripes. Don't you love the psychology behind the racing stripes?
I also purchased a swimming cap, because I just had highlights and low lights put in my hair and I don't want them ruined by chlorine. Add to this my swim goggles and I definitely look the part, an Iron man triathlete.
Looking the part is quite different than acting the part ,however.
Every time I get into the lap pool (I don't dive in. I slowly lower myself in. Carefully submerging myself inch by inch, until it's colder having more than half of my body in and part of it out) and whimper and whine that the water is too cold.
I have gotten looks, quizzical, eye-rolling looks from people who actually like to swim and know how to swim. I think it is because I look like a professional but then I can only doggy paddle. I concede that the gurgling, panting and hyperventilating doesn't help to make me seem like an athlete either.
I have been asked, why on earth would I sign up for a miniature triathlon? I have to say, it's purely for bragging rights. When was the last time you did something really challenging for you and you did it? I can't remember the last time I accomplished something like this.
I am so excited to go for this. I am so excited to get out of my comfort zone and try something truly terrifying. Even if I drown doing it.
I don't expect to win. Actually, I have a suspicion I will be the woman that a search party will be looking for 7 hours after the race is over. They will be in their golf carts and waving flash lights into the brush off the side of the road. And where will I be?
Still screaming and panting that the lap pool is too cold. But at least I'll look like an Olympian swimmer, even if I don't have the decorum down.
To tell you the truth, I have a love/hate desire to do this. Or perhaps it is a fear/control thing I have with it. This miniature race consists of running 1.5 miles. I can do that. Biking 5 miles. I can do that. And swimming 8 laps in a pool. Yikes. I don't know how to swim. I hate water on my face and I really, really hate wearing swim suits, in public or out of the public. I basically see swim suits as a mid-evil torture device.
Every year I take a pilgrimage to the Department stores in the Mall in search for that perfect swimming suit. You know the one; it miraculously changes your body image, physically and emotionally at an accelerated rate and the longer you wear it the skinnier you become. I don't know what's so hard about finding a suit like that. It has got to be out there...somewhere.
Last year I decided to buy one, via Internet through the Victoria Secret Web site.
It was great, well on line, it was great. I got to choose the color I wanted. I was able to mix and match different tops with different bottoms. I could decide which bottom style would work best on my body type and the best part was I didn't have to try to visualize it. Every time I tweaked something a picture of it was then transposed on a Victoria Secret Model. I loved it.
It was reasonably priced, too. So after about a week, I received a small package by UPS. It had arrived, my perfect suit!
I tore open the packaging and marveled at my brand new Lycra persona. I am going to look HOT this summer!
A few minutes into putting the suit on, reality hit me. It didn't matter how I posed in it, I did not look like the perfect specimen I saw on line. I have figured out what Victoria Secrets big secret is, AIR BRUSHING!
Another swim suit to put in my swim suit drawer of same.
Which brings me back to my little triathlon. I have a new suit. I actually tried it on at the store. Yes it was horrifying and yes I went immediately after and got a Blizzard from Dairy Queen.
It's an OK suit. It's used specifically for racing. It's a one-piece black Speedo brand with white racing stripes. Don't you love the psychology behind the racing stripes?
I also purchased a swimming cap, because I just had highlights and low lights put in my hair and I don't want them ruined by chlorine. Add to this my swim goggles and I definitely look the part, an Iron man triathlete.
Looking the part is quite different than acting the part ,however.
Every time I get into the lap pool (I don't dive in. I slowly lower myself in. Carefully submerging myself inch by inch, until it's colder having more than half of my body in and part of it out) and whimper and whine that the water is too cold.
I have gotten looks, quizzical, eye-rolling looks from people who actually like to swim and know how to swim. I think it is because I look like a professional but then I can only doggy paddle. I concede that the gurgling, panting and hyperventilating doesn't help to make me seem like an athlete either.
I have been asked, why on earth would I sign up for a miniature triathlon? I have to say, it's purely for bragging rights. When was the last time you did something really challenging for you and you did it? I can't remember the last time I accomplished something like this.
I am so excited to go for this. I am so excited to get out of my comfort zone and try something truly terrifying. Even if I drown doing it.
I don't expect to win. Actually, I have a suspicion I will be the woman that a search party will be looking for 7 hours after the race is over. They will be in their golf carts and waving flash lights into the brush off the side of the road. And where will I be?
Still screaming and panting that the lap pool is too cold. But at least I'll look like an Olympian swimmer, even if I don't have the decorum down.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
The Big Rub
Last Thursday, as I was killing time between picking up my new eyeglasses and meeting some friends for lunch, I found myself seduced into listening to a sales pitch from very short man at a mall kiosk. After rebuffing my half-hearted attempts to leave, I was placed on a wooden bar stool and intensely examined. He was selling facial creams and possibly saving me from a life of a dry and wrinkled face.
He spoke in a thick accent, I wasn't sure where from, but he had such authority in his delivery I began believing everything he said.
He proceeded to dab my unsightly under-eye circles with a top secret magic formula. This cream was also able to lift the sags and smooth the lines around my eyes. But, he would only do one eye so I could visibly see the amazing transformation.
I have to admit, I could visibly see the difference between eye A and unforgiving eye B.
Then the man continued vocally picking apart my flaws, telling me how much older and unattractive I was having these three obviously deformities (the under eye circles, the laugh lines and now slight acne scars). I was shocked. Here I was thinking I was looking pretty good that day. I had spent an hour donning makeup and hair in anticipation of a girl's luncheon, when in his reality I really should have been wearing a bag, and probably a two-ply, brown paper bag over my head.
Along with tearing my self esteem apart, the creepy little man kept rubbing against me with his even tinier "manhood".
At first I thought it was an accident. I was sitting high on a chair, my legs were crossed and he was leaning in to dab eye cream on me. It was a plausible mistake.
The second time, after I had readjusted feeling embarrassed by the accidental contact, the man lingered on me. It must have been an accident, right? Wasn't it an accident?
After sitting and listening to my many, many faults and on the verge of wanting to hide in my house for the remainder of my life if only to spare the world of my ugliness, the stout little man, rubbed against me for the third time (he was no longer applying facial cream to my face, it was a mask on my forearm). I couldn't believe it. I really couldn't fathom this kind of behavior, to me, a grown woman in my thirties, in broad day light and in a very public place.
I stood up, thanked the man for his time and then limped away to the Express store to cry among the sales rack in the back.
I was humiliated. What had I done to deserve this? What could I have done to provoke this kind of behavior? And how had I become so ugly in a few short hours?
In telling my friends of what had conspired, I was still visibly shaken, one friend even had tears in her eyes, wanted to know why. My other friend explained it to me perfectly; it was because simply, I was unprepared.
If I had had my guard up, the creep probably wouldn't have succeeded in getting away with so much. I blame my environment. In a culture of perpetual "turn the other cheek" I have found myself cheek less and down right spineless.
What time period am I living in? A truly great time it is. I am living in a time where a woman could run for President of the United States and another woman could run for Vice President. I am witnessing events that will forever be known in history as the "firsts" and here I am crying in the back of an Express Store.
I decided to take action and stand up for myself and for my two friends and also for my younger, less-wise self. I called the Mall Management Offices to complain, and waited for a returned phone call. Nothing. They still haven't called, even after two messages.
The next day, still feeling the sting to my self-esteem and wounded from not taking more action, I decided to go back to the Mall.
This time I was prepared. I spent over an hour getting ready. My hair was perfect. My makeup was sublime, my outfit, smart and slightly sexy, and my shoes, six inches (I wanted to tower over the man).
I went to Dillards and purchased many facial products for my skin. Guess what? The sweet woman behind the counter kept disputing all the products I was told I needed the day before for my badly pocked and ugly skin. She couldn't see my acne scars. She even compared me to Anne Hathaway. I like Anne Hathaway, I think she's pretty.
Taking my time and my purchases, and I must mention I had a prepared speech; I trekked back to the now hated man at his Kiosk.
He wasn't there. He wasn't working that day.
No matter. I was there to gain my self respect. I told the two women now working the Kiosk about what transpired. Including the crazy rubbing the creep did.
The women didn't believe me. In fact, one hugged me, the other tried to sell me some product for half price! I showed them my bag of facial treatments and told them, thank you for the hug, but I am not now nor ever going to buy anything from them.
It didn't matter that the women didn't believe me. I don't care that they didn't see it as a big deal. I am delighted that I stood up for myself and for my friends and for anyone else who has been broad sided and left in ruins. I did it for my sex and I did it for me. I can go back to the Mall or any place else with my head held high. Next time though, I'll have my guard up.
He spoke in a thick accent, I wasn't sure where from, but he had such authority in his delivery I began believing everything he said.
He proceeded to dab my unsightly under-eye circles with a top secret magic formula. This cream was also able to lift the sags and smooth the lines around my eyes. But, he would only do one eye so I could visibly see the amazing transformation.
I have to admit, I could visibly see the difference between eye A and unforgiving eye B.
Then the man continued vocally picking apart my flaws, telling me how much older and unattractive I was having these three obviously deformities (the under eye circles, the laugh lines and now slight acne scars). I was shocked. Here I was thinking I was looking pretty good that day. I had spent an hour donning makeup and hair in anticipation of a girl's luncheon, when in his reality I really should have been wearing a bag, and probably a two-ply, brown paper bag over my head.
Along with tearing my self esteem apart, the creepy little man kept rubbing against me with his even tinier "manhood".
At first I thought it was an accident. I was sitting high on a chair, my legs were crossed and he was leaning in to dab eye cream on me. It was a plausible mistake.
The second time, after I had readjusted feeling embarrassed by the accidental contact, the man lingered on me. It must have been an accident, right? Wasn't it an accident?
After sitting and listening to my many, many faults and on the verge of wanting to hide in my house for the remainder of my life if only to spare the world of my ugliness, the stout little man, rubbed against me for the third time (he was no longer applying facial cream to my face, it was a mask on my forearm). I couldn't believe it. I really couldn't fathom this kind of behavior, to me, a grown woman in my thirties, in broad day light and in a very public place.
I stood up, thanked the man for his time and then limped away to the Express store to cry among the sales rack in the back.
I was humiliated. What had I done to deserve this? What could I have done to provoke this kind of behavior? And how had I become so ugly in a few short hours?
In telling my friends of what had conspired, I was still visibly shaken, one friend even had tears in her eyes, wanted to know why. My other friend explained it to me perfectly; it was because simply, I was unprepared.
If I had had my guard up, the creep probably wouldn't have succeeded in getting away with so much. I blame my environment. In a culture of perpetual "turn the other cheek" I have found myself cheek less and down right spineless.
What time period am I living in? A truly great time it is. I am living in a time where a woman could run for President of the United States and another woman could run for Vice President. I am witnessing events that will forever be known in history as the "firsts" and here I am crying in the back of an Express Store.
I decided to take action and stand up for myself and for my two friends and also for my younger, less-wise self. I called the Mall Management Offices to complain, and waited for a returned phone call. Nothing. They still haven't called, even after two messages.
The next day, still feeling the sting to my self-esteem and wounded from not taking more action, I decided to go back to the Mall.
This time I was prepared. I spent over an hour getting ready. My hair was perfect. My makeup was sublime, my outfit, smart and slightly sexy, and my shoes, six inches (I wanted to tower over the man).
I went to Dillards and purchased many facial products for my skin. Guess what? The sweet woman behind the counter kept disputing all the products I was told I needed the day before for my badly pocked and ugly skin. She couldn't see my acne scars. She even compared me to Anne Hathaway. I like Anne Hathaway, I think she's pretty.
Taking my time and my purchases, and I must mention I had a prepared speech; I trekked back to the now hated man at his Kiosk.
He wasn't there. He wasn't working that day.
No matter. I was there to gain my self respect. I told the two women now working the Kiosk about what transpired. Including the crazy rubbing the creep did.
The women didn't believe me. In fact, one hugged me, the other tried to sell me some product for half price! I showed them my bag of facial treatments and told them, thank you for the hug, but I am not now nor ever going to buy anything from them.
It didn't matter that the women didn't believe me. I don't care that they didn't see it as a big deal. I am delighted that I stood up for myself and for my friends and for anyone else who has been broad sided and left in ruins. I did it for my sex and I did it for me. I can go back to the Mall or any place else with my head held high. Next time though, I'll have my guard up.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Assassination of Self
She sits inside my skin, a giant within my 5'4" frame
She sits, crouching in wait.
She isn't comfortable, always complaining.
I believe she is protecting me.
I believe she is genuine in trying to help.
So I listen to her whispers.
I nod in agreement when she shouts.
She is always with me
She is always awake, making me partially asleep.
I have appointed her my Master,
I, merely the apprentice.
One day, or perhaps many days, over thirty years or so, I wake up.
She is happiest crammed inside me.
She claims I need her,
In truth, she's the one in need.
Without me, without dwelling beneath my skin, and whispering self-doubt
She would die.
She feeds on me.
That's how she has gotten so big.
That's how she's gotten so self important.
And now she's threatened.
Threatened that I am wise to her.
Threatened that I have awakened.
She won't leave on her own.
I've tried to out grow her.
She's not going to leave,
Not without death.
It is up to me.
I am going to be her assassin. But how? I've never killed
Anybody before?
I could pull the trigger, twice.
Once by way of kind words,
The second by believing those words.
She knows what I'm planning.
She tries to sabotage my schemes.
She screams and trembles.
She debates and claims I'll fail without her.
She apologizes and promises silence.
She won't be so critical.
She won't expose all the issues I have.
She'll keep my secrets
She'll try to ignore how terrible I truly am.
After all She's only trying to help.
She's only trying to HELP!
Her pleading has worked in the past.
She did keep her promises, for a little while, at least.
But then She grew.
She got bigger and stronger, than before.
And I had failed again, at something else.
And She snickered
And She delighted
And pointed out her "told me so's".
But not this time.
This time I have a fool-proof plan.
Practice.
Kindness.
I will use a knife and spoon.
I will cut her out.
With Practice, I will scoop her out
And all of her roots, with her.
I will Practice with Kindness
And I will not let my guard down.
She'll plot to come back.
She'll search for small cracks.
She'll send out shoots and try to plant them
When another tries to put me down.
I won't listen.
I won't hear.
I will block her and knock her down.
I will kill her.
And then I will be free.
And maybe one day, I'll visit her grave site.
And marvel at my accomplishment.
I'll read on her tombstone;
Here She Lies,
Here She Dies,
My Old Self
My Poor Bad Self-Esteem.
She sits, crouching in wait.
She isn't comfortable, always complaining.
I believe she is protecting me.
I believe she is genuine in trying to help.
So I listen to her whispers.
I nod in agreement when she shouts.
She is always with me
She is always awake, making me partially asleep.
I have appointed her my Master,
I, merely the apprentice.
One day, or perhaps many days, over thirty years or so, I wake up.
She is happiest crammed inside me.
She claims I need her,
In truth, she's the one in need.
Without me, without dwelling beneath my skin, and whispering self-doubt
She would die.
She feeds on me.
That's how she has gotten so big.
That's how she's gotten so self important.
And now she's threatened.
Threatened that I am wise to her.
Threatened that I have awakened.
She won't leave on her own.
I've tried to out grow her.
She's not going to leave,
Not without death.
It is up to me.
I am going to be her assassin. But how? I've never killed
Anybody before?
I could pull the trigger, twice.
Once by way of kind words,
The second by believing those words.
She knows what I'm planning.
She tries to sabotage my schemes.
She screams and trembles.
She debates and claims I'll fail without her.
She apologizes and promises silence.
She won't be so critical.
She won't expose all the issues I have.
She'll keep my secrets
She'll try to ignore how terrible I truly am.
After all She's only trying to help.
She's only trying to HELP!
Her pleading has worked in the past.
She did keep her promises, for a little while, at least.
But then She grew.
She got bigger and stronger, than before.
And I had failed again, at something else.
And She snickered
And She delighted
And pointed out her "told me so's".
But not this time.
This time I have a fool-proof plan.
Practice.
Kindness.
I will use a knife and spoon.
I will cut her out.
With Practice, I will scoop her out
And all of her roots, with her.
I will Practice with Kindness
And I will not let my guard down.
She'll plot to come back.
She'll search for small cracks.
She'll send out shoots and try to plant them
When another tries to put me down.
I won't listen.
I won't hear.
I will block her and knock her down.
I will kill her.
And then I will be free.
And maybe one day, I'll visit her grave site.
And marvel at my accomplishment.
I'll read on her tombstone;
Here She Lies,
Here She Dies,
My Old Self
My Poor Bad Self-Esteem.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Inside The Looking Glass
Today I went to the Ophthalmologist for my yearly check up.
It seems my eyes, like everything else in accordance to age, are getting worse.
This bugs me, immensely.
I think it has to do with my ability to remember the thoughts and feelings I had when I was seventeen.
Don't get me wrong, for me, High School was not my "glory day". I hated High School. I loathed almost everything about it and am puzzled whenever people want to reunite with High School buddies and reminisce about "the good 'ol days".
The good 'ol days? Why would I want to remember my self-loathing, deeply-depressed, sarcastic and man-hating, not to mention an awkwardly hopeless-romantic, not-sure-what-to-do-with-myself, side? Yuck! And more importantly, I don't want anyone else to remember me this way either.
I work really hard to shape myself into the adult I want to be and practically pretend that my old self doesn't exist. To sum up, I had a lot to be angry about, I have a lot less to be angry about now.
So I am at the Ophthalmologist when I am presented with, "you have Giant Papillary Conjunctivitis and you need to wear eye glasses more and alternate with contacts occasionally".
What?
The Ophthalmologist repeated it to me.
No comprende..?
Basically I have cooties on my eye lids and it is effecting my eyes. I have to use special medication via eye drops and can't wear contacts for at least one month. And then he'll see.
What about surgery? Wait, I can't afford Lasik, yet.
So what's the big deal?
I hate glasses. I own a pair. One pair, that are out of style and that are no longer the right prescription, which I can't see (no pun intended) is a big deal because I only wear them when there aren't people around.
I take out my contacts, right before bed, and put on glasses after my face-washing ritual is complete. Then I squint during the news and then go to sleep.
I get up the next morning, slip the ugly things back on, and commence with the squinting while I get my kids ready for school. After my morning shower and more face-washing rituals, I put my contacts in.
My little secret identity; no one sees them, no one sees me in those hideous glasses.
It's not as if I hate glasses. I love sunglasses and on others, I think glasses are quite cute, sexy even, but not on me. Every time I put a pair of regular eye wear across the bridge of my nose, I am magically and painfully transformed back to my adolescence. Looking through my own looking glass, I am once again an unattractive, nerdy teenager, which is one of the reasons I was so angry back then. So why would I want that kind of self esteem?
Back at the Ophthalmologist, I tried on pair after pair of eye glasses. These ones make me look too old. Those are too square. I don't like the size of these ones. I don't know why I look so weird with these on...they look cuter on the model...(I know most things do).
Then it occurred to me, it's not them, it's me. It wouldn't matter if I found the most perfect pair of eyeglasses, contoured and made exactly for my face. A pair that transformed me into a Giorgio Armani model.
It wouldn't matter. The real issue is my "inside me".
I still have not out grown the angst ridden teenager who was so afraid of the world.
What is up with that?
I keep thinking I have changed. I am different and I am unstoppable. I'm a grown up for crying out loud!
So after an hour and a half I left without a pair of glasses. I am going back with my husband and kids for their opinion. Maybe having their support might transform me back into the woman I've been working on. And maybe I can challenge that teenager stuck under my skin to a duel and show her, through a new pair of eyes, my true self.
It seems my eyes, like everything else in accordance to age, are getting worse.
This bugs me, immensely.
I think it has to do with my ability to remember the thoughts and feelings I had when I was seventeen.
Don't get me wrong, for me, High School was not my "glory day". I hated High School. I loathed almost everything about it and am puzzled whenever people want to reunite with High School buddies and reminisce about "the good 'ol days".
The good 'ol days? Why would I want to remember my self-loathing, deeply-depressed, sarcastic and man-hating, not to mention an awkwardly hopeless-romantic, not-sure-what-to-do-with-myself, side? Yuck! And more importantly, I don't want anyone else to remember me this way either.
I work really hard to shape myself into the adult I want to be and practically pretend that my old self doesn't exist. To sum up, I had a lot to be angry about, I have a lot less to be angry about now.
So I am at the Ophthalmologist when I am presented with, "you have Giant Papillary Conjunctivitis and you need to wear eye glasses more and alternate with contacts occasionally".
What?
The Ophthalmologist repeated it to me.
No comprende..?
Basically I have cooties on my eye lids and it is effecting my eyes. I have to use special medication via eye drops and can't wear contacts for at least one month. And then he'll see.
What about surgery? Wait, I can't afford Lasik, yet.
So what's the big deal?
I hate glasses. I own a pair. One pair, that are out of style and that are no longer the right prescription, which I can't see (no pun intended) is a big deal because I only wear them when there aren't people around.
I take out my contacts, right before bed, and put on glasses after my face-washing ritual is complete. Then I squint during the news and then go to sleep.
I get up the next morning, slip the ugly things back on, and commence with the squinting while I get my kids ready for school. After my morning shower and more face-washing rituals, I put my contacts in.
My little secret identity; no one sees them, no one sees me in those hideous glasses.
It's not as if I hate glasses. I love sunglasses and on others, I think glasses are quite cute, sexy even, but not on me. Every time I put a pair of regular eye wear across the bridge of my nose, I am magically and painfully transformed back to my adolescence. Looking through my own looking glass, I am once again an unattractive, nerdy teenager, which is one of the reasons I was so angry back then. So why would I want that kind of self esteem?
Back at the Ophthalmologist, I tried on pair after pair of eye glasses. These ones make me look too old. Those are too square. I don't like the size of these ones. I don't know why I look so weird with these on...they look cuter on the model...(I know most things do).
Then it occurred to me, it's not them, it's me. It wouldn't matter if I found the most perfect pair of eyeglasses, contoured and made exactly for my face. A pair that transformed me into a Giorgio Armani model.
It wouldn't matter. The real issue is my "inside me".
I still have not out grown the angst ridden teenager who was so afraid of the world.
What is up with that?
I keep thinking I have changed. I am different and I am unstoppable. I'm a grown up for crying out loud!
So after an hour and a half I left without a pair of glasses. I am going back with my husband and kids for their opinion. Maybe having their support might transform me back into the woman I've been working on. And maybe I can challenge that teenager stuck under my skin to a duel and show her, through a new pair of eyes, my true self.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Cirque De Sol Klutz
Last Friday my husband and I went on a very Metropolitan-style date. We went to a couple's Yoga class and then to a Sushi Restaurant with another very "Metro" type couple.
Couple's Yoga was one of the only times we have ever tried Yoga. It is not as though we don't exercise, we are very physically active. We run; we love the speed and competition of out- running each other, although my husband always out-runs me, he is almost a full foot taller than me, which means his legs are at least two feet longer than any part of my body. We lift-weights; we like to boast to each other about how many reps or how much weight we added to that particular workout, my husband also out-lifts me. But we don't do Yoga or any other shape-shifting exercise. Up until a couple of years ago, if I heard the phrase"Downward-facing dog" or "Sun Pose", I would have looked around for an actual dog staring down at something and then perhaps looked out a window to see if the sun was doing something unusual.
To us, Yoga and Pilate's were in the same grouping as Vegetarian and Vegan or any other concept, we thought needed subtitles of explanation.
We have since been enlightened.
Which brings us to my first couple's Yoga date night.
The room we were to exercise in was warm and inviting. In fact, several times I leaned over to my other half and whispered, "How much do you think it will cost to turn our bedroom into a Yoga room?"
He replied, "Too much."
The instructor was a small woman who could bend herself in half. Repeatedly, usually after I asked for a guesstimate of how much my husband really thought the bedroom makeover would cost, and which child we could sell to cover expenses, I would whisper, " I wish I could bend in half" and Brian would respond sheepishly, "I wish you could, too."
By the way, I feel like I should explain that I would never actually sell either one of my children. I am always, always kidding, unless I have had a stressful week and the children have systematically frayed, squashed and pulled apart my every last nerve, in which a relaxing, Yoga room makeover could relieve this stress...but back to the date.
Yoga was being taught by Gumby and she had a Gumby partner. The pair were exactly alike, the same flexibility, the same height, the same hair color, the same body type and were the same gender. Women.
The two were masters of Shape-shifting. With any pose, they were able to replicate it. I was awed and inspired.
But no matter how beautiful the exercised looked done by the Gumbies, mine and my husband's translation was terrible.
The class was instructed to stand back to back and lace fingers together with their mate and do a certain stretch resembling the beginning of a cart wheel. Legs spread out, arms extended full to the sides, fingers entwined.
Brian's arms were thrown out to his sides. As were mine.
Our backs were lined up the best we could manage, never cheek-to-cheek, more like cheek-to-mid-back.
I couldn't reach his fingers, so I grabbed his forearms. As we stretched to one side, Brian yelped. I had unwittingly scalped his arms while intensely trying to force my body into position. I adjusted and grasped his elbows instead. It was a lot less painful for him, but unfortunately a lot less beautiful and stream lined.
Pose after pose, we stumbled over each other. He would yelp, I would yelp.
There was a pose where each of us outstretched our hands in front, facing each other. We were instructed to hold hands and bend deep, to use the pull of each other's weight to equalize our balance and rest merely inches from the floor mat.
Did I mention Brian out weighs me by almost 60 lbs?
Brian was in a compromising position, trying to use my weight to balance himself out, holding my hands, when he fell backwards, I, of course fell forwards. Thank goodness we were using the ultra thin Yoga mats, and I have a slight over-bite! We can't afford a Rhinoplasty...
We tried and we tried. Pose after pose.
After a while, we began giggling, at first out of embarrassment of our inability, and then because Gumby and Gumby continued demonstrating gravity defying acts and expected us to follow suite.
Towards the end of the hour and a half session the two instructors showed the class of far better Yoga-istas (I know this isn't a word, I don't know what else to call professional Yoga attendees) performed the most amazing act.
The assistant G (assistant Gumby) leaned over and did the "down-ward facing dog" pose, which is essentially placing your hands out on the mat, slightly wider than the width of your hips, and then having your legs mirror it behind you. I can almost do this without bending my knees, which is the goal, by the way.
Then the Head G, did a type of a hand stand and landed her legs on top of the back of her partner.
I was stunned.
Brian was frightened.
The class began trying it. Many of them succeeded, seamlessly.
How hard could it be?
Brian did the "down-ward dog" first.
Luckily for me, he can't straighten his knees, so when I did my clumsy hand stand, I didn't have as far to fall back.
Brian grunted as my legs went flying back and struck him in the kidneys, I was proud we kind-of resembled what the instructors and the rest of the class were doing.
Next it was my turn to "down-ward dog".
To tell the truth, I was afraid.
Brian is stronger than me, so he could probably hold a hand stand longer then I can. I was concern with which the velocity and impact of his fall would make on my back.
I was right. It hurt like Hell.
My sweet husband is perfect in almost every way. Emotionally, and Physically.
But he has one flaw. His toes are like long spindly fingers and when his toenails aren't clipped, they become talons.
Picture the impact of free-falling claws weighing 180+ lbs puncturing your back as you are suspended above a thin blue mat, outstretched on all fours with no way of protecting yourself.
Ouch!
Like I said. It hurt like Hell!
The next trapeze act involved doing a hand stand over your partner's hunched back, landing on their back, your legs on either side of their head and then pulling yourself to a sitting position still on your partner,s back and then landing standing up in front of your partner.
You have read correctly. It was how I described.
Brian was game.
My body shivered with fear.
We tried it, me half-heartily. I was still wounded from the old-toenail-puncture-to-my-back pose. I could more then imagine holding Brian up on my back while his legs are giving me a half-nelson.
We gave it a try, grunting and falling and whining and falling.
We didn't ever succeed in this pose. And I have to say, I am fine with that.
Astonishing, Sushi wasn't the new thing we tried that night. The exercise was.
Over all, I enjoyed trying something new. And we will try another Yoga class in the near future, but perhaps, not a couple's one.
For now, I like the non-contact sport of running and weights.
Couple's Yoga was one of the only times we have ever tried Yoga. It is not as though we don't exercise, we are very physically active. We run; we love the speed and competition of out- running each other, although my husband always out-runs me, he is almost a full foot taller than me, which means his legs are at least two feet longer than any part of my body. We lift-weights; we like to boast to each other about how many reps or how much weight we added to that particular workout, my husband also out-lifts me. But we don't do Yoga or any other shape-shifting exercise. Up until a couple of years ago, if I heard the phrase"Downward-facing dog" or "Sun Pose", I would have looked around for an actual dog staring down at something and then perhaps looked out a window to see if the sun was doing something unusual.
To us, Yoga and Pilate's were in the same grouping as Vegetarian and Vegan or any other concept, we thought needed subtitles of explanation.
We have since been enlightened.
Which brings us to my first couple's Yoga date night.
The room we were to exercise in was warm and inviting. In fact, several times I leaned over to my other half and whispered, "How much do you think it will cost to turn our bedroom into a Yoga room?"
He replied, "Too much."
The instructor was a small woman who could bend herself in half. Repeatedly, usually after I asked for a guesstimate of how much my husband really thought the bedroom makeover would cost, and which child we could sell to cover expenses, I would whisper, " I wish I could bend in half" and Brian would respond sheepishly, "I wish you could, too."
By the way, I feel like I should explain that I would never actually sell either one of my children. I am always, always kidding, unless I have had a stressful week and the children have systematically frayed, squashed and pulled apart my every last nerve, in which a relaxing, Yoga room makeover could relieve this stress...but back to the date.
Yoga was being taught by Gumby and she had a Gumby partner. The pair were exactly alike, the same flexibility, the same height, the same hair color, the same body type and were the same gender. Women.
The two were masters of Shape-shifting. With any pose, they were able to replicate it. I was awed and inspired.
But no matter how beautiful the exercised looked done by the Gumbies, mine and my husband's translation was terrible.
The class was instructed to stand back to back and lace fingers together with their mate and do a certain stretch resembling the beginning of a cart wheel. Legs spread out, arms extended full to the sides, fingers entwined.
Brian's arms were thrown out to his sides. As were mine.
Our backs were lined up the best we could manage, never cheek-to-cheek, more like cheek-to-mid-back.
I couldn't reach his fingers, so I grabbed his forearms. As we stretched to one side, Brian yelped. I had unwittingly scalped his arms while intensely trying to force my body into position. I adjusted and grasped his elbows instead. It was a lot less painful for him, but unfortunately a lot less beautiful and stream lined.
Pose after pose, we stumbled over each other. He would yelp, I would yelp.
There was a pose where each of us outstretched our hands in front, facing each other. We were instructed to hold hands and bend deep, to use the pull of each other's weight to equalize our balance and rest merely inches from the floor mat.
Did I mention Brian out weighs me by almost 60 lbs?
Brian was in a compromising position, trying to use my weight to balance himself out, holding my hands, when he fell backwards, I, of course fell forwards. Thank goodness we were using the ultra thin Yoga mats, and I have a slight over-bite! We can't afford a Rhinoplasty...
We tried and we tried. Pose after pose.
After a while, we began giggling, at first out of embarrassment of our inability, and then because Gumby and Gumby continued demonstrating gravity defying acts and expected us to follow suite.
Towards the end of the hour and a half session the two instructors showed the class of far better Yoga-istas (I know this isn't a word, I don't know what else to call professional Yoga attendees) performed the most amazing act.
The assistant G (assistant Gumby) leaned over and did the "down-ward facing dog" pose, which is essentially placing your hands out on the mat, slightly wider than the width of your hips, and then having your legs mirror it behind you. I can almost do this without bending my knees, which is the goal, by the way.
Then the Head G, did a type of a hand stand and landed her legs on top of the back of her partner.
I was stunned.
Brian was frightened.
The class began trying it. Many of them succeeded, seamlessly.
How hard could it be?
Brian did the "down-ward dog" first.
Luckily for me, he can't straighten his knees, so when I did my clumsy hand stand, I didn't have as far to fall back.
Brian grunted as my legs went flying back and struck him in the kidneys, I was proud we kind-of resembled what the instructors and the rest of the class were doing.
Next it was my turn to "down-ward dog".
To tell the truth, I was afraid.
Brian is stronger than me, so he could probably hold a hand stand longer then I can. I was concern with which the velocity and impact of his fall would make on my back.
I was right. It hurt like Hell.
My sweet husband is perfect in almost every way. Emotionally, and Physically.
But he has one flaw. His toes are like long spindly fingers and when his toenails aren't clipped, they become talons.
Picture the impact of free-falling claws weighing 180+ lbs puncturing your back as you are suspended above a thin blue mat, outstretched on all fours with no way of protecting yourself.
Ouch!
Like I said. It hurt like Hell!
The next trapeze act involved doing a hand stand over your partner's hunched back, landing on their back, your legs on either side of their head and then pulling yourself to a sitting position still on your partner,s back and then landing standing up in front of your partner.
You have read correctly. It was how I described.
Brian was game.
My body shivered with fear.
We tried it, me half-heartily. I was still wounded from the old-toenail-puncture-to-my-back pose. I could more then imagine holding Brian up on my back while his legs are giving me a half-nelson.
We gave it a try, grunting and falling and whining and falling.
We didn't ever succeed in this pose. And I have to say, I am fine with that.
Astonishing, Sushi wasn't the new thing we tried that night. The exercise was.
Over all, I enjoyed trying something new. And we will try another Yoga class in the near future, but perhaps, not a couple's one.
For now, I like the non-contact sport of running and weights.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Embarrassing Moment # 5,000,000 and counting
I can't believe I can still have embarrassing moments. I tell you, I have experienced every excruciating moment in all happenstance. I thought, for one very naive second, how many more could I possibly have? You name the moment; I have experienced it, and probably did it naked with astonished witnesses. I wish I could have these experiences by myself. I wish I had the luxury of taking a deep breath and whispering, "Whew, at least no one saw me..." This never happens. There is always, always, always an audience. It's a wonder I go out in public anymore.
What I have found is that if I tell the moment to people who weren't there, I can tell my side. Show how I am the victim put my spin on it. And the truth is, this particular experience isn't as bad as the one I alluded to above about the nakedness and the astonished on-lookers. I just feel incredibly stupid.
So that is why I have my ranting blog. So I can express myself and then hopefully move on-with my luck, into something a lot more devastating.
With this big build up I will disclose and move on...hopefully, very hopefully.
For the last several weeks, I haven't felt well. I can't pin point the reason exactly, although I really believe a Hawaiian Vacation during a Utah winter could do wonders.
Last week I went to a new M.D. She asked me a bunch of questions and then the next day I had to go back and get many vials of blood drawn. I hate Doctors. I hate having my blood drawn.
The day after the great siphoning my Doc called me and said, "I don't know what's wrong but, you are extremely anemic and I want to know if you are hemorrhaging during your periods."
This is a puzzle considering I had a full hysterectomy about 11 years ago. Can your female plumbing grow back?
I responded with, "No. I had a hysterectomy, they can't grow back can they?" thinking I was being funny. The Doctor didn't think I was at all funny, "No they don't grow back."
She then asked me to come in and pick up a "Stool-Sample-Card to check for bleeding."
My first knee-jerk reaction was, "Gross!"
My second reaction was, “its cancer, I know it."
The third reaction was "I'm OK, I don't need a Stool-Sample-Card, I'll just walk it off."
After almost a week, my husband convinced me to go in and pick up the card.
I walked into the waiting room where a bunch, I mean a bunch of people were waiting.
Every waiting room chair was filled with a waiting person and it was dead silent.
I waited too, behind a woman who had an appointment.
I finally stepped up in line and told the receptionist, wearing scrubs so I wasn't sure who she was really. A receptionist wearing scrubs, a nurse manning the receptionist desk, perhaps a Doctor? I wasn't sure.
I told her what I wanted, except I couldn't remember what it was called and asked for the piece of paper I was suppose to poop in.
She wrinkled her forehead and asked me, "What?"
I leaned in, “I need that thing to test my poop for blood. That paper thingy..."
She figured out what I needed, so did, unfortunately, the silent waiting room. I wish I had remembered the simple three word explanation of "Stool-Sample-Card". Why didn't I remember that? How hard is it to remember that? I chalk it up to stage fright.
The receptionist/nurse/maybe a Doctor, lead me to a small room in the back.
She took out an envelope and showed me the sample card. She showed me the instructions on the back. She told me, that all though the card states that it could be mailed, the Doctors would really much rather I bring it in.
I understood the request. Who wants a Bio hazard flying through the mail?
The woman then began pulling out surgical gloves, four actually "Here, you'll need these, and here's a hat..."
I looked at the "hat" she pulled down from one of the shelves. It was plastic, too.
"Why do I need to wear a hat?" I asked.
She looked at me weird, and turned it brim-side up, "It's not really a hat. You put it between the toilet seat lids to catch the sample in it."
Groan! Double Groan!
I am such a moron!
I know this woman laughed at me all day. I know she told people about the freak-show who came in and asked for a paper to poop in and then asked why they needed to wear a hat while taking a dump!
I feel so stupid. Look at me! Look at my beautiful dinner gloves and hat! Won't I be the envy of all in the bathroom stall?
Groan...
What I have found is that if I tell the moment to people who weren't there, I can tell my side. Show how I am the victim put my spin on it. And the truth is, this particular experience isn't as bad as the one I alluded to above about the nakedness and the astonished on-lookers. I just feel incredibly stupid.
So that is why I have my ranting blog. So I can express myself and then hopefully move on-with my luck, into something a lot more devastating.
With this big build up I will disclose and move on...hopefully, very hopefully.
For the last several weeks, I haven't felt well. I can't pin point the reason exactly, although I really believe a Hawaiian Vacation during a Utah winter could do wonders.
Last week I went to a new M.D. She asked me a bunch of questions and then the next day I had to go back and get many vials of blood drawn. I hate Doctors. I hate having my blood drawn.
The day after the great siphoning my Doc called me and said, "I don't know what's wrong but, you are extremely anemic and I want to know if you are hemorrhaging during your periods."
This is a puzzle considering I had a full hysterectomy about 11 years ago. Can your female plumbing grow back?
I responded with, "No. I had a hysterectomy, they can't grow back can they?" thinking I was being funny. The Doctor didn't think I was at all funny, "No they don't grow back."
She then asked me to come in and pick up a "Stool-Sample-Card to check for bleeding."
My first knee-jerk reaction was, "Gross!"
My second reaction was, “its cancer, I know it."
The third reaction was "I'm OK, I don't need a Stool-Sample-Card, I'll just walk it off."
After almost a week, my husband convinced me to go in and pick up the card.
I walked into the waiting room where a bunch, I mean a bunch of people were waiting.
Every waiting room chair was filled with a waiting person and it was dead silent.
I waited too, behind a woman who had an appointment.
I finally stepped up in line and told the receptionist, wearing scrubs so I wasn't sure who she was really. A receptionist wearing scrubs, a nurse manning the receptionist desk, perhaps a Doctor? I wasn't sure.
I told her what I wanted, except I couldn't remember what it was called and asked for the piece of paper I was suppose to poop in.
She wrinkled her forehead and asked me, "What?"
I leaned in, “I need that thing to test my poop for blood. That paper thingy..."
She figured out what I needed, so did, unfortunately, the silent waiting room. I wish I had remembered the simple three word explanation of "Stool-Sample-Card". Why didn't I remember that? How hard is it to remember that? I chalk it up to stage fright.
The receptionist/nurse/maybe a Doctor, lead me to a small room in the back.
She took out an envelope and showed me the sample card. She showed me the instructions on the back. She told me, that all though the card states that it could be mailed, the Doctors would really much rather I bring it in.
I understood the request. Who wants a Bio hazard flying through the mail?
The woman then began pulling out surgical gloves, four actually "Here, you'll need these, and here's a hat..."
I looked at the "hat" she pulled down from one of the shelves. It was plastic, too.
"Why do I need to wear a hat?" I asked.
She looked at me weird, and turned it brim-side up, "It's not really a hat. You put it between the toilet seat lids to catch the sample in it."
Groan! Double Groan!
I am such a moron!
I know this woman laughed at me all day. I know she told people about the freak-show who came in and asked for a paper to poop in and then asked why they needed to wear a hat while taking a dump!
I feel so stupid. Look at me! Look at my beautiful dinner gloves and hat! Won't I be the envy of all in the bathroom stall?
Groan...
Friday, February 13, 2009
Facebook Angst
Being newly inducted to the web-stream lifestyle, I recently signed up for facebook. My friend has been detailing me to the delights of the Facebook phenomena. So with the help of my personal computer aid, aka my husband, I was set up with an account.
It was breath taking, to say the very least. First I had to find a picture. To my chagrin, I hate all of my pictures, that is why I always take the pictures and am rarely in the picture. I read some where that to get the perfect smile, and facial expression every time, one should say the word, "sex" instead of "cheese". When you say the word "sex", endorphins are said to release instantaneously and you will have the perfect picture every time. I admit I have tried it. I have noticed a difference in the resulted photo, but, when I am getting my picture taken, I am usually not alone. For the most part I have my 11 year old daughter or my 7 year old son either sitting on my lap or within ear shot. So me whispering, "sex" within ear shot of my kids seems very unsavory and down right creepy, especially when my 11 year old knows what sex is. My face in the photo may turn out fine but the horrified look across my daughter's face, kind of ruins the family photo anyway.
My husband and I settled on a picture. We had to crop it. He wasn't willing to photo shop me about 10 pounds leaner, but it was an acceptable picture. Unfortunately, we couldn't crop out my son entirely, so you see this little part of his eye leaning on my shoulder. I felt like a butcher, cropping out my son, leaving only a little bit of his bright brown eye.
Next in my induction to the computer age, I had to search for people. Who else is on facebook?
We came up with several names, and I was elated. I had a surge of utopia with the possibilities of who I could find. I felt very much like a detective, a snoop, maybe a bit of a reporter. I loved it.
As fast as the elation was upon me, I was informed that I could find as many people as I would like, but the people I find have to agree to be my "friend". I couldn't just find them, I had to ask permission to be their "friend".
Horrified I began to ask. Person after person.
I began having flash backs to elementary school, passing notes, pleading with kids to check a box, "am I your friend or not? Check yes or check no".
What if I was denied? What if on Facebook, the ultimate lined-paper note, I was denied?
I remember lining up during P.E. in Junior High School and waiting to be picked for teams. It usually pertained to Dodge ball (a truly barbaric, ritualistic hunting game) in which at the beginning, no one worried. It wasn't until the number of people chosen out numbered the people waiting to be chosen that the pit of my stomach began heaving. Sweat began beading and the chaos of the situation seemed like a distant echo, compared to the pounding of my heartbeat. I would be chosen, but only out of default.
Sitting at my computer last night, I sat and waited. Will I be chosen? Can I be able to with stand the public humiliation of being denied someones "friend".
I didn't sleep last night. Visions of being picked last, or not picked at all loomed through my dreams.
This morning, after I got my kids off to school, I immediately logged on to my facebook page, finding no results, yet.
I hate the neediness I have developed waiting. I hate that it suddenly means so much to be accepted, still, and I am a married woman of two, in my thirties.
So this is my angst. To be wanted enough for someone to check the "yes" box.
Maybe in my forties, I will have out grown it.
It was breath taking, to say the very least. First I had to find a picture. To my chagrin, I hate all of my pictures, that is why I always take the pictures and am rarely in the picture. I read some where that to get the perfect smile, and facial expression every time, one should say the word, "sex" instead of "cheese". When you say the word "sex", endorphins are said to release instantaneously and you will have the perfect picture every time. I admit I have tried it. I have noticed a difference in the resulted photo, but, when I am getting my picture taken, I am usually not alone. For the most part I have my 11 year old daughter or my 7 year old son either sitting on my lap or within ear shot. So me whispering, "sex" within ear shot of my kids seems very unsavory and down right creepy, especially when my 11 year old knows what sex is. My face in the photo may turn out fine but the horrified look across my daughter's face, kind of ruins the family photo anyway.
My husband and I settled on a picture. We had to crop it. He wasn't willing to photo shop me about 10 pounds leaner, but it was an acceptable picture. Unfortunately, we couldn't crop out my son entirely, so you see this little part of his eye leaning on my shoulder. I felt like a butcher, cropping out my son, leaving only a little bit of his bright brown eye.
Next in my induction to the computer age, I had to search for people. Who else is on facebook?
We came up with several names, and I was elated. I had a surge of utopia with the possibilities of who I could find. I felt very much like a detective, a snoop, maybe a bit of a reporter. I loved it.
As fast as the elation was upon me, I was informed that I could find as many people as I would like, but the people I find have to agree to be my "friend". I couldn't just find them, I had to ask permission to be their "friend".
Horrified I began to ask. Person after person.
I began having flash backs to elementary school, passing notes, pleading with kids to check a box, "am I your friend or not? Check yes or check no".
What if I was denied? What if on Facebook, the ultimate lined-paper note, I was denied?
I remember lining up during P.E. in Junior High School and waiting to be picked for teams. It usually pertained to Dodge ball (a truly barbaric, ritualistic hunting game) in which at the beginning, no one worried. It wasn't until the number of people chosen out numbered the people waiting to be chosen that the pit of my stomach began heaving. Sweat began beading and the chaos of the situation seemed like a distant echo, compared to the pounding of my heartbeat. I would be chosen, but only out of default.
Sitting at my computer last night, I sat and waited. Will I be chosen? Can I be able to with stand the public humiliation of being denied someones "friend".
I didn't sleep last night. Visions of being picked last, or not picked at all loomed through my dreams.
This morning, after I got my kids off to school, I immediately logged on to my facebook page, finding no results, yet.
I hate the neediness I have developed waiting. I hate that it suddenly means so much to be accepted, still, and I am a married woman of two, in my thirties.
So this is my angst. To be wanted enough for someone to check the "yes" box.
Maybe in my forties, I will have out grown it.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
My Who, What, How and Huh List
In the spirit of self discovery, I have come up with a huge list of questions I want to figure out about myself. I am more than sure this list will change, frequently. I hope some day that I'll be able to satisfactorily answer them and replace them with new questions.
Who am I?
What do I do?
What do I want?
What am I?
Who do I want to be?
How can I be it?
Which direction do I go?
Why is this important?
Who cares?
What kind of life do I want?
Who inspires me?
What inspires me?
What do I like to do?
What do I want to try?
Are there signs I'm not seeing?
Are there signs I'm ignoring?
Do I believe in signs?
What do I know?
What do I want to know?
What is true about me?
What is true to me?
What is false about me?
What is false to me?
What happens if I change?
What happens if I don't change?
What really makes me smile?
What takes my breath away?
What makes me really sad?
When do I feel helpless?
What makes me hopeless?
What makes me strong?
Who makes me stronger?
What is fun?
What is boring to me?
What frustrates me?
How do I really relax?
Where do I see myself in 5 years?
Where do I see myself in 1 month?
What's positive about me?
What do I really like about me?
What do I find remarkable about myself?
Is there anything remarkable about myself?
What is funny about me?
What is scary about me?
Why should I like myself?
Why should I love myself?
What's smart about me?
What's silly about me?
Why do I get angry?
What's my favorite food?
What's my least favorite food?
What's a nightmare to me?
What do I dream about?
What do I run from?
What do I run to?
What bugs me?
What do I wish would happen?
What makes me want to dance?
When did I stop singing in the shower?
Why am I always in a rush?
What's my favorite swear word?
What do I trust about myself?
Why is this the first list I've ever thoroughly written?
Who am I?
What do I do?
What do I want?
What am I?
Who do I want to be?
How can I be it?
Which direction do I go?
Why is this important?
Who cares?
What kind of life do I want?
Who inspires me?
What inspires me?
What do I like to do?
What do I want to try?
Are there signs I'm not seeing?
Are there signs I'm ignoring?
Do I believe in signs?
What do I know?
What do I want to know?
What is true about me?
What is true to me?
What is false about me?
What is false to me?
What happens if I change?
What happens if I don't change?
What really makes me smile?
What takes my breath away?
What makes me really sad?
When do I feel helpless?
What makes me hopeless?
What makes me strong?
Who makes me stronger?
What is fun?
What is boring to me?
What frustrates me?
How do I really relax?
Where do I see myself in 5 years?
Where do I see myself in 1 month?
What's positive about me?
What do I really like about me?
What do I find remarkable about myself?
Is there anything remarkable about myself?
What is funny about me?
What is scary about me?
Why should I like myself?
Why should I love myself?
What's smart about me?
What's silly about me?
Why do I get angry?
What's my favorite food?
What's my least favorite food?
What's a nightmare to me?
What do I dream about?
What do I run from?
What do I run to?
What bugs me?
What do I wish would happen?
What makes me want to dance?
When did I stop singing in the shower?
Why am I always in a rush?
What's my favorite swear word?
What do I trust about myself?
Why is this the first list I've ever thoroughly written?
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Itsy Bitsy Spider
I am a bathtub junkie. I take at least one bath a day, usually at night when the kids are winding down and my husband is putting them to bed. That's when I hear the Siren's song of the hot, steaming whispers from my faux-marble garden tub.
I love the echo of free falling water gushing out of the faucet and bouncing off the bottom. It excites me to hear the metallic clank of the plug disrupting the escape of water from diving into the pipes.
I prefer my water temperature to be extremely hot. I've learned to relax in brief discomfort as to ensure total seclusion. My husband won't join me if the water's too hot. And it's not that I am avoiding him particularly, it’s the call of partial submersion and alone time that lures me there.
Today my relaxation started quite a bit earlier than usual. After a week of psyching myself up, I decided to apply for a job at one of my favorite Department stores. Because my youngest began going to the First grade, I have felt an all encompassing urge to have a career. Since September I've aced a College Course in Fashion and also began an Internship at a Fashion House. Even as I write this, I think, what am I whining about? These are great accomplishments. On paper I have a very exciting life, so why would I want to change it and apply for retail? Many of my friends and family members have also wondered this. I have ping-pong my thoughts and emotions grappling with this, too. What is the purpose of my life? Where do I find it? Why can't I find satisfaction? And finally the number one question, what do I want? Some may wonder what the big deal is and question why this is my number one question to myself. The conundrum is, I'm a diseased people-pleaser. So in asking, “What do I want" completely changes who I'm answering to. The operative word here is "I". The rest of the question is confusing to me. I don't know.
I have a husband well into his career, and is stable. Which is a huge problem for me because I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do? I keep thinking, if we were financially strapped, it would be easier to find what I wanted to do. I would need to find financial stability, some way, anyway. But I don't. It should sound great, even at this time; I have guilt for knowing this.
It comes down to this. Now that my youngest is in school full time, I just don't know where I fit in. What's next? Oh sure, I have the kids, my husband, the house, the constant task of check book up-keep and attention to paying bills. I schedule all extra curricular activities and I really don't mind doing this, but at the end of the day I feel lost. I feel like I'm on auto pilot and don't know who I am, really. I'm use to titles. I love my title of "Mother". I love my title of "Wife". What I have a problem with is that these titles are only a part of who I am and what I do.
I clean the house but I don't want to been known as only "the Maid". I tend to my kids, making sure they are clean and presentable in all capacity before they go to school or anywhere else, but I don't want the title of "Booger-Police" to be who I am or how I see myself.
I was not hired at the Department store, which surprised me. I realized that I needed it, much more than it needed me. And after going birthday shopping for my soon-to-be-seven-year-old, the bath began calling me.
I never second guess the porcelain-pull. When it is time to bathe, it is time to bathe.
Thirty seconds in the tub, I could feel the tension leaving my lower back.
Forty seconds in, my shoulders relaxed and for the first time today, I had a neck.
As I reclined in my safe-haven, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye,
a little tiny spider.
I have never had a fear of spiders; I've had rather a fascination of the entire species, although, that doesn't mean I wanted to take a bath with one.
Not wanting to hop out into the cold to flush it down the toilet, I sat up and watched the eight-legged creature.
I had seen this one before, but I can't remember the circumstance.
It was beige and had exactly three legs along either side of its body. At the front of it, nearly next to its eyes were two disproportionately long legs. The legs could bend in a tri-fold and flitted about searching its surroundings.
I watched it thoughtfully, suddenly engaged in some unexpected distraction.
I saw the two extended legs scouring the faux-marble base.
Every time the legs touched a droplet of water, the spider pushed away from it, and coiled itself into a ball. Within seconds the feelers flew out again, and the spider popped out of its ball.
After witnessing this reaction I wanted to test my theory.
I carefully plunged my fingers into the hot water and purposely dropped droplets around the spider.
The spider didn't seem to notice what I'd done and seemed shocked every time a feeler touched water.
Soon my intentions changed from curiosity to malice. I began physically painting the spider into a corner with water droplets.
I couldn't conceive what the little creature would do with seemingly no way out.
It took merely seconds until it did something completely natural to it, surprising me.
The feelers once again floated out around its body, left, then right, then right and again left.
Then the spider started climbing up the side of the wall. No water droplets.
This small act of instinct resonated in me.
If there's an obstacle, find a way out. I realized, it doesn't have to be something grand, or exciting or even new, it can be the same motion as before, and it just has to be constant.
Then I realized something unimaginable, I don't have the answer. Not yet. I'm still learning what does and does not work for me.
Maybe it’s OK that I don't get paid during my Internship, maybe its fine I will never get paid.
Perhaps money isn't the only valuable mark of success, at least I have my "feelers" extended out as far as they go and I'm searching.
If one direction isn't working, I can always change course, but not too prematurely, patience is my next obstacle to learn.
Unlike the ending for my eight-legged inspiration, it's unlikely I will end up in a swirling-whirling watery grave (sorry, I could only observe you for so long, little guy),I wonder what's really stopping me from whole-hearted experiencing life, besides me?
What's that saying again?
Life is what you make it? I guess I'll start making one, today.
I love the echo of free falling water gushing out of the faucet and bouncing off the bottom. It excites me to hear the metallic clank of the plug disrupting the escape of water from diving into the pipes.
I prefer my water temperature to be extremely hot. I've learned to relax in brief discomfort as to ensure total seclusion. My husband won't join me if the water's too hot. And it's not that I am avoiding him particularly, it’s the call of partial submersion and alone time that lures me there.
Today my relaxation started quite a bit earlier than usual. After a week of psyching myself up, I decided to apply for a job at one of my favorite Department stores. Because my youngest began going to the First grade, I have felt an all encompassing urge to have a career. Since September I've aced a College Course in Fashion and also began an Internship at a Fashion House. Even as I write this, I think, what am I whining about? These are great accomplishments. On paper I have a very exciting life, so why would I want to change it and apply for retail? Many of my friends and family members have also wondered this. I have ping-pong my thoughts and emotions grappling with this, too. What is the purpose of my life? Where do I find it? Why can't I find satisfaction? And finally the number one question, what do I want? Some may wonder what the big deal is and question why this is my number one question to myself. The conundrum is, I'm a diseased people-pleaser. So in asking, “What do I want" completely changes who I'm answering to. The operative word here is "I". The rest of the question is confusing to me. I don't know.
I have a husband well into his career, and is stable. Which is a huge problem for me because I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do? I keep thinking, if we were financially strapped, it would be easier to find what I wanted to do. I would need to find financial stability, some way, anyway. But I don't. It should sound great, even at this time; I have guilt for knowing this.
It comes down to this. Now that my youngest is in school full time, I just don't know where I fit in. What's next? Oh sure, I have the kids, my husband, the house, the constant task of check book up-keep and attention to paying bills. I schedule all extra curricular activities and I really don't mind doing this, but at the end of the day I feel lost. I feel like I'm on auto pilot and don't know who I am, really. I'm use to titles. I love my title of "Mother". I love my title of "Wife". What I have a problem with is that these titles are only a part of who I am and what I do.
I clean the house but I don't want to been known as only "the Maid". I tend to my kids, making sure they are clean and presentable in all capacity before they go to school or anywhere else, but I don't want the title of "Booger-Police" to be who I am or how I see myself.
I was not hired at the Department store, which surprised me. I realized that I needed it, much more than it needed me. And after going birthday shopping for my soon-to-be-seven-year-old, the bath began calling me.
I never second guess the porcelain-pull. When it is time to bathe, it is time to bathe.
Thirty seconds in the tub, I could feel the tension leaving my lower back.
Forty seconds in, my shoulders relaxed and for the first time today, I had a neck.
As I reclined in my safe-haven, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye,
a little tiny spider.
I have never had a fear of spiders; I've had rather a fascination of the entire species, although, that doesn't mean I wanted to take a bath with one.
Not wanting to hop out into the cold to flush it down the toilet, I sat up and watched the eight-legged creature.
I had seen this one before, but I can't remember the circumstance.
It was beige and had exactly three legs along either side of its body. At the front of it, nearly next to its eyes were two disproportionately long legs. The legs could bend in a tri-fold and flitted about searching its surroundings.
I watched it thoughtfully, suddenly engaged in some unexpected distraction.
I saw the two extended legs scouring the faux-marble base.
Every time the legs touched a droplet of water, the spider pushed away from it, and coiled itself into a ball. Within seconds the feelers flew out again, and the spider popped out of its ball.
After witnessing this reaction I wanted to test my theory.
I carefully plunged my fingers into the hot water and purposely dropped droplets around the spider.
The spider didn't seem to notice what I'd done and seemed shocked every time a feeler touched water.
Soon my intentions changed from curiosity to malice. I began physically painting the spider into a corner with water droplets.
I couldn't conceive what the little creature would do with seemingly no way out.
It took merely seconds until it did something completely natural to it, surprising me.
The feelers once again floated out around its body, left, then right, then right and again left.
Then the spider started climbing up the side of the wall. No water droplets.
This small act of instinct resonated in me.
If there's an obstacle, find a way out. I realized, it doesn't have to be something grand, or exciting or even new, it can be the same motion as before, and it just has to be constant.
Then I realized something unimaginable, I don't have the answer. Not yet. I'm still learning what does and does not work for me.
Maybe it’s OK that I don't get paid during my Internship, maybe its fine I will never get paid.
Perhaps money isn't the only valuable mark of success, at least I have my "feelers" extended out as far as they go and I'm searching.
If one direction isn't working, I can always change course, but not too prematurely, patience is my next obstacle to learn.
Unlike the ending for my eight-legged inspiration, it's unlikely I will end up in a swirling-whirling watery grave (sorry, I could only observe you for so long, little guy),I wonder what's really stopping me from whole-hearted experiencing life, besides me?
What's that saying again?
Life is what you make it? I guess I'll start making one, today.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
