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.

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.

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...

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.

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?

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.