I just signed up for nanowrimo. It starts tomorrow. I have no idea why I've done this, except that it is fall, and this is just what I do in the fall. Write 50,000 words of a novel between November 1 and November 30. I'm currently overwhelmed--at work and in life, have 500 travel days planned for November (which is an incredible feat for a month with only 30 days), and at least 3 other "self-improvement projects" in the stalls. Oh, P. What are you doing, dear?
Today is the first day of my "structured free time" time budget. I have already regressed, which is hard to do when you haven't actually progressed yet.
Breakfast? Yes.
Clean? No.
Gym? No.
Lunch is on the schedule for 12. I guess I could catch up then.
I have no idea what I'm writing about. I have a vision of an upscale cul-de-sac of houses cut into peaceful woods and neighbors full of weird stories. But I don't know who the neighbors are or what their stories are. And I have "Tanglewood" because when we lived in North Carolina, I remember a big park and swimming at the Tanglewood pool.
I started nano last year and didn't finish. I'm not sure I ever even made it to 20,000 words. I don't remember what I was writing about, either. what was last year? Did last year happen? Hm. This is going to bug me.
2007 = Apples for Alessandra
2008 = The Chili King
and…
2009 =
Poop.
2009 = Sideways Study of a Brown Bag.
I just had to hunt for it. You know what's crazy? I have absolutely no recollection of writing this! None. I think that's the goofy thing about writing--that it really feels like it comes from somewhere else. Like I get possessed and I just become some kind of lame, weak, typing body bag. Creepy. Writing is creepy. I have no idea why I want to do it at all.
Other things that are creepy: chickens. Last night I put on a chicken suit and went to a halloween party and then to Chrispy's band's halloween gig. By the time I got to the gig, I was really tired, and my guts hurt because I've been eating toxic waste for days. I made it to about midnight, and then was just kind of full of the noise and the peacock pageantry of it all, so I took my leave. Sometimes I feel kind of bad for C, like he got stuck with a crappy spouse. Poor C and his lame chicken suit wife.
It's 11:10. Maybe I can squeeze in a nap before lunch.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
land of time and plenty.
On vacation, I decided that I would be a lot happier if I parceled out my free time with scheduled activities. "I'm sorry, Mother, I cannot come for a visit, as I am to read a book of my choice from 6:00 pm to 7:15 pm and then loll about humming from 7:15-7:30 and then use the toilet before penning deeply philosophical thoughts from 7:38 pm to 9:00 pm bed time."
I decided to call it a time budget.
This time budget is also part of my COFFEE project--a collaborative blog experiment with 9 other women in which we've all chosen projects that scare or challenge us in some way, and we blog about the process of completing that task. That's here. http://coffeeisanacronym.blogspot.com (It's still developing, and we're in the first round of posts, which is a learning process. So please forgive our rough seams.) My project is to sing and play guitar in front of strangers. This requires regular guitar practice to minimize the suckage. Regular guitar practice requires time. … Time budget.
Other things I don't make time for: writing (the real kind), reading (non work related materials), writing letters (that require stamps), playing the piano (no parenthetical notation required), art projects (that require paint or pastels or cutting and pasting), and meditation (so I can stop this anxious breathing thing that has returned. 1000 times a day I am telling myself, "You're fine. You can breathe. Just breathe. Relax. There. Breath. See?" I will need to write this into my time budget. "Drop your shoulders. Breathe.")
I think it's ironic that I made this decision while laying on the beach in Florida. But what I know of myself is that if I have a lot of free time, I will waste a lot of free time. And I also think I know that sometimes to free yourself from something requires a plan, and sometimes plans look like schedules. So if I am going to free myself from shameful stagnancy, I need a plan.
I started the time budget 2 days ago, got overwhelmed, and quit (How to Be a Smashing Success by Patresa Hartman).
Yesterday, I picked it up and got to work. I learned: I can't do everything. I wake up at 4:30 a.m. to go to the gym 4 of 5 work mornings. By the time I get home from work at 5:15, I have about 4 hours to work with. There must be eating and canine carousing and packing gym bags for the next day and husband time and picking up after myself and using the toilet. I end up with about 1.5 hours to write, read, play guitar, meditate, and paint. It's so depressingly confining, and I just can't figure how to make this work. My head feels like it's going to explode.
It's a problem with proportions.
On vacation, I was in a place I loved, doing things that made my soul happy, and I felt so… right, so lined up. I thought of a million ways I could make this life my reality. I could run away to work with sea turtles. I could live like a bum. I could write sonnets for cash. Over dinner, C looked at me and said, "We need to make sure we do this at least once every other year." And it occurred to me how completely absurd that was. For 5 days every 2 years do something you really love? What?!
Likewise, I am looking at my time budget… For 1.5 hours every 24 hours, do something you really love! Huh?!
Obviously, I know the secret is to FIND what you love, MAKE what you love, BRING what you love, to the other 22.5 hours and to the other 725 days. And I'm usually pretty good at doing that. I have a great job that allows a surprising amount of creativity (even if the environment is kind of soul sucking). But when you look at it in really cold terms, we (most of us) are seriously f'd up with how we have constructed our lives. Totally out of proportion and off-balance. No wonder there's so much chronic illness and depression. How could we expect to be healthy?
And furthermore, how do we have time to keep reproducing? Holy cow. I'm looking at my time budget and thinking there is not possibly enough time for babies. I simply cannot have children with this kind of schedule. Who has time for babies?
I decided to call it a time budget.
This time budget is also part of my COFFEE project--a collaborative blog experiment with 9 other women in which we've all chosen projects that scare or challenge us in some way, and we blog about the process of completing that task. That's here. http://coffeeisanacronym.blogspot.com (It's still developing, and we're in the first round of posts, which is a learning process. So please forgive our rough seams.) My project is to sing and play guitar in front of strangers. This requires regular guitar practice to minimize the suckage. Regular guitar practice requires time. … Time budget.
Other things I don't make time for: writing (the real kind), reading (non work related materials), writing letters (that require stamps), playing the piano (no parenthetical notation required), art projects (that require paint or pastels or cutting and pasting), and meditation (so I can stop this anxious breathing thing that has returned. 1000 times a day I am telling myself, "You're fine. You can breathe. Just breathe. Relax. There. Breath. See?" I will need to write this into my time budget. "Drop your shoulders. Breathe.")
I think it's ironic that I made this decision while laying on the beach in Florida. But what I know of myself is that if I have a lot of free time, I will waste a lot of free time. And I also think I know that sometimes to free yourself from something requires a plan, and sometimes plans look like schedules. So if I am going to free myself from shameful stagnancy, I need a plan.
I started the time budget 2 days ago, got overwhelmed, and quit (How to Be a Smashing Success by Patresa Hartman).
Yesterday, I picked it up and got to work. I learned: I can't do everything. I wake up at 4:30 a.m. to go to the gym 4 of 5 work mornings. By the time I get home from work at 5:15, I have about 4 hours to work with. There must be eating and canine carousing and packing gym bags for the next day and husband time and picking up after myself and using the toilet. I end up with about 1.5 hours to write, read, play guitar, meditate, and paint. It's so depressingly confining, and I just can't figure how to make this work. My head feels like it's going to explode.
It's a problem with proportions.
On vacation, I was in a place I loved, doing things that made my soul happy, and I felt so… right, so lined up. I thought of a million ways I could make this life my reality. I could run away to work with sea turtles. I could live like a bum. I could write sonnets for cash. Over dinner, C looked at me and said, "We need to make sure we do this at least once every other year." And it occurred to me how completely absurd that was. For 5 days every 2 years do something you really love? What?!
Likewise, I am looking at my time budget… For 1.5 hours every 24 hours, do something you really love! Huh?!
Obviously, I know the secret is to FIND what you love, MAKE what you love, BRING what you love, to the other 22.5 hours and to the other 725 days. And I'm usually pretty good at doing that. I have a great job that allows a surprising amount of creativity (even if the environment is kind of soul sucking). But when you look at it in really cold terms, we (most of us) are seriously f'd up with how we have constructed our lives. Totally out of proportion and off-balance. No wonder there's so much chronic illness and depression. How could we expect to be healthy?
And furthermore, how do we have time to keep reproducing? Holy cow. I'm looking at my time budget and thinking there is not possibly enough time for babies. I simply cannot have children with this kind of schedule. Who has time for babies?
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
and then life just kind of keeps going...
The funniest thing about the Day After Little P's Big Marathon was that it was very Monday-ish. Sunday was such an amazing, self-defining, liberating, mind-blowing day, and then…
I got up Monday morning, hobbled around a bit, and went to work. A few people knew about the marathon and congratulated me. But then I had two meetings, including a phone conference, wherein I felt stupid. I fixed a mistake I made, making two more mistakes in the process. I fixed those. Apologized. Fielded irritable phone calls and emails (inspired by my mistakes). Felt bloodeebloodeebloo. Took myself to Palmer's Deli for lunch. Got cursed at in the parking lot by a man in an SUV who was trying to back up while I was trying to forward in. And felt generally confused and space cadet-y the rest of the day.
A thousand times I wanted to say, "Hey! But… But… I ran a marathon yesterday! I ran a marathon! Aren't you going to cheer for me and offer me jelly beans? I'm 628! I'm 628! Don't you recognize me?!"
Maybe I should have worn my medal. And my race bib.
But I guess this is the way of things: Life just kind of keeps going. Victory, defeat, grief, elation, whatever… Days open and close at regular 24 hour intervals, and you don't really have a choice but to jump back in the stream and flow again. I actually felt kind of sad yesterday. Maybe that seems ridiculous, but it's true. Yesterday I felt very blue.
Before the marathon, I ran the Dam to Dam 20K at the end of May. I started training for that in March. I've recorded my training schedule in my planner--penciled in the miles, highlighted and checked them off when complete, made notes about how it went. So, since March my weeks are filled with these notes. Then, October 17 it said MARATHON in red pen! After that…. blank.
I was looking forward to training being over, being able to just work out however my body feels like working out. I was looking forward to letting go of the constant preoccupation with what I was eating and drinking, how late I was staying up the night before a run. I was looking forward to picking up with my weight training (I really like muscles. I do.). But now, here I am, and… eh.
March to October is a long time to be so constantly (CONSTANTLY) focused on one task. Now the task is over, and I feel a little lost.
Sunday, after the race, I felt scattered, like I couldn't focus very well on conversations. I felt that way yesterday, too. But I just chalked it up to fatigue. I wonder if it's actually because the task is complete and my brain is trying to retrain itself, find another focal point. Hm. And, I don't mean to be whiney. I'm just examining this strange emotion that I hadn't expected to feel. That's all.
Humans. We are strange machinery. We are.
I got up Monday morning, hobbled around a bit, and went to work. A few people knew about the marathon and congratulated me. But then I had two meetings, including a phone conference, wherein I felt stupid. I fixed a mistake I made, making two more mistakes in the process. I fixed those. Apologized. Fielded irritable phone calls and emails (inspired by my mistakes). Felt bloodeebloodeebloo. Took myself to Palmer's Deli for lunch. Got cursed at in the parking lot by a man in an SUV who was trying to back up while I was trying to forward in. And felt generally confused and space cadet-y the rest of the day.
A thousand times I wanted to say, "Hey! But… But… I ran a marathon yesterday! I ran a marathon! Aren't you going to cheer for me and offer me jelly beans? I'm 628! I'm 628! Don't you recognize me?!"
Maybe I should have worn my medal. And my race bib.
But I guess this is the way of things: Life just kind of keeps going. Victory, defeat, grief, elation, whatever… Days open and close at regular 24 hour intervals, and you don't really have a choice but to jump back in the stream and flow again. I actually felt kind of sad yesterday. Maybe that seems ridiculous, but it's true. Yesterday I felt very blue.
Before the marathon, I ran the Dam to Dam 20K at the end of May. I started training for that in March. I've recorded my training schedule in my planner--penciled in the miles, highlighted and checked them off when complete, made notes about how it went. So, since March my weeks are filled with these notes. Then, October 17 it said MARATHON in red pen! After that…. blank.
I was looking forward to training being over, being able to just work out however my body feels like working out. I was looking forward to letting go of the constant preoccupation with what I was eating and drinking, how late I was staying up the night before a run. I was looking forward to picking up with my weight training (I really like muscles. I do.). But now, here I am, and… eh.
March to October is a long time to be so constantly (CONSTANTLY) focused on one task. Now the task is over, and I feel a little lost.
Sunday, after the race, I felt scattered, like I couldn't focus very well on conversations. I felt that way yesterday, too. But I just chalked it up to fatigue. I wonder if it's actually because the task is complete and my brain is trying to retrain itself, find another focal point. Hm. And, I don't mean to be whiney. I'm just examining this strange emotion that I hadn't expected to feel. That's all.
Humans. We are strange machinery. We are.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Today I ran a marathon.
I am so very tired. And so very humbled. And so very inspired and grateful and overwhelmed (still, even now, many hours later.). My shins are splinting. My left toenail is seriously angry and will secede from the toe union (sandal season is over = blessing). My ankles are swollen (Is this normal?). Both of them. My time did not break any records, but it was faster than I anticipated. I thought I'd come in around 5:30. But instead, I squeaked in under 5. (4:58:23) I felt joyful and positive. I felt strong. Powerful even. (Achey, for sure. My feet were really under duress the last 10 miles.) But, I never hit the wall. I NEVER HIT THE WALL! Amazing. I was really worried about that wall. I walked through most of the water stations, but not all, and those were the only times I walked (which should tell you what a slow runner I am). I am immensely shocked at and proud of this.
But these are just the details. It was such an enormous experience. Overwhelming. Spiritual. Humbling. Inspiring. Everything. I don't know how to sum this up, but I would very much like to.
Today I ran a marathon, a kinda sorta totally foolish endeavor for someone like me--an aging basketball player with a digestive disease who is better built for log-hauling (I am very sturdy for slow, plodding power-hauls. I would work well on a farm. Not quite so sturdy for quick prancing pony parades.).
I am writing this while my husband rubs my legs, so I'll start there--with a man who will rub my legs and stand around waiting to hand me granola bars and take my picture as I jog by. He is phenomenal; I am blessed; and that's super cool. I need to remember this when he puts my favorite coffee mug in the bowl cabinet where I can't find it. (Priorities, P. Priorities!)
My parents are such wonderful people and so very good at being parents. I don't know how else to say that. When I stop and take stock of my life, I feel so overwhelmed and so PROFOUNDLY undeserving in so many ways. How should one person have so much? What do I do to earn this? I have so much paying forward to do. So much. My parents made a sign. They smiled and cheered and high fived and encouraged and "So proud of you'd" and fed. They fed me. They fed me french fries and a chicken parmesan sandwich, which was exactly and precisely what I craved for my belly. I love my parents.
And friends! Oh, my friends! Encouragement from afar, encouragement from the street corner. Amazing. Becky in her cute hat with super-dog, Charlie. Sarah running barefoot in her church clothes to talk and support and keep company! Tim with gummy bears. Katie and Jane (9 months pregnant. Hello!) with a sign and snacks and total awesomeness. I am constantly reminded of my serious gaps in friendship skills. No, really, I mean that. I have very serious and embarrassing gaps. I know this about myself. My friend, Cassie, had a baby 4 months ago, and I still haven't sent her gift (I do not have an explanation for this. I also haven't mailed Julie's, who was born around the same time.), and yet she sends me a gift certificate to a spa. A spa! Again, I feel so tiny. I am a student. I'm so sorry I'm such a slow learner. I am a friendship kindergartner.
Strangers, too. That's overwhelming. Beautiful kind people who have no idea who I am who point and smile and say, "Looking good, 628! Keep it up!" They handed me kleenex (genius!) and water and gatorade and jelly beans. I have never said "Thank you" so much in my entire life. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. A billion times, I must have said it. So many generous people! How could I ever be a pessimist or believe the world is nothing but greed and destruction? It isn't! Oh, it so isn't. Goodness everywhere, if you're willing to fling yourself into it (or plod slowly but certainly through it). The world is so bright and kind and loving today. I want to remember this when I walk through the gloomy stuff.
I want to remember all of this, really. I don't want this to just be that thing I did on October Whenever and thought was cool and then forgot about. I want to apply this. It seems like I'm supposed to. Why else would a person torture herself for months and months only to check it off a list and never revisit?
The finish line was some kind of amazing. I really do not have words for that. None at all. Parents at mile 25. Katie and Jane at 25.4. Chris and my dog, Kaya, at 26. Walls of cheering strangers clanging bells and cheering and clapping. The announcer calling my name. Medal. Pictures. Snacks. Congratulations from people I didn't know. Fatigue and Joy and Pride and Teeny Itty Bitty Cosmic Tininess.
I think the marathon reminded me I am cosmically small but capable of incredible might. I'd say that's worth a toenail.
But these are just the details. It was such an enormous experience. Overwhelming. Spiritual. Humbling. Inspiring. Everything. I don't know how to sum this up, but I would very much like to.
Today I ran a marathon, a kinda sorta totally foolish endeavor for someone like me--an aging basketball player with a digestive disease who is better built for log-hauling (I am very sturdy for slow, plodding power-hauls. I would work well on a farm. Not quite so sturdy for quick prancing pony parades.).
I am writing this while my husband rubs my legs, so I'll start there--with a man who will rub my legs and stand around waiting to hand me granola bars and take my picture as I jog by. He is phenomenal; I am blessed; and that's super cool. I need to remember this when he puts my favorite coffee mug in the bowl cabinet where I can't find it. (Priorities, P. Priorities!)
My parents are such wonderful people and so very good at being parents. I don't know how else to say that. When I stop and take stock of my life, I feel so overwhelmed and so PROFOUNDLY undeserving in so many ways. How should one person have so much? What do I do to earn this? I have so much paying forward to do. So much. My parents made a sign. They smiled and cheered and high fived and encouraged and "So proud of you'd" and fed. They fed me. They fed me french fries and a chicken parmesan sandwich, which was exactly and precisely what I craved for my belly. I love my parents.
And friends! Oh, my friends! Encouragement from afar, encouragement from the street corner. Amazing. Becky in her cute hat with super-dog, Charlie. Sarah running barefoot in her church clothes to talk and support and keep company! Tim with gummy bears. Katie and Jane (9 months pregnant. Hello!) with a sign and snacks and total awesomeness. I am constantly reminded of my serious gaps in friendship skills. No, really, I mean that. I have very serious and embarrassing gaps. I know this about myself. My friend, Cassie, had a baby 4 months ago, and I still haven't sent her gift (I do not have an explanation for this. I also haven't mailed Julie's, who was born around the same time.), and yet she sends me a gift certificate to a spa. A spa! Again, I feel so tiny. I am a student. I'm so sorry I'm such a slow learner. I am a friendship kindergartner.
Strangers, too. That's overwhelming. Beautiful kind people who have no idea who I am who point and smile and say, "Looking good, 628! Keep it up!" They handed me kleenex (genius!) and water and gatorade and jelly beans. I have never said "Thank you" so much in my entire life. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. A billion times, I must have said it. So many generous people! How could I ever be a pessimist or believe the world is nothing but greed and destruction? It isn't! Oh, it so isn't. Goodness everywhere, if you're willing to fling yourself into it (or plod slowly but certainly through it). The world is so bright and kind and loving today. I want to remember this when I walk through the gloomy stuff.
I want to remember all of this, really. I don't want this to just be that thing I did on October Whenever and thought was cool and then forgot about. I want to apply this. It seems like I'm supposed to. Why else would a person torture herself for months and months only to check it off a list and never revisit?
The finish line was some kind of amazing. I really do not have words for that. None at all. Parents at mile 25. Katie and Jane at 25.4. Chris and my dog, Kaya, at 26. Walls of cheering strangers clanging bells and cheering and clapping. The announcer calling my name. Medal. Pictures. Snacks. Congratulations from people I didn't know. Fatigue and Joy and Pride and Teeny Itty Bitty Cosmic Tininess.
I think the marathon reminded me I am cosmically small but capable of incredible might. I'd say that's worth a toenail.
Monday, October 11, 2010
A Dozen Items of Note Regarding the Gym at 5:00 A.M.
If you're looking for deep thoughts today: Keep looking, Sucker. I just want to talk about the gym.
A Dozen Items of Note Regarding the Gym at 5:00 a.m.
1. Sometimes, if I have not slept well, I never actually wake up. No amount of pushing or pulling or jogging or squatting will revive me. I get lost in small places. I stand in front of the free weight rack and can't remember what I was doing. I lay down to crunch abs and count ceiling tiles and calculate area instead. I love to calculate area. It's compulsive.
2. Sometimes, the "functional training" area is full, and I need floor space. I configure myself strangely, using a sliver in the corner and turned the wrong direction. Then, 3 minutes later the area clears, and I am left there in my strange configuration, and I want to shout to the people over there on the ellipticals: "Hey, this made sense about 3 minutes ago!" (That happened this morning.)
3. I don't like hamstring curls. They make the backs of my knees feel weird and snappy.
4. I like it when people put things back where they found them. I like this a lot. I wish it happened consistently. I don't understand why it doesn't. I mean, you're here, and you appear to be here to work, which means you're probably not lazy. If you've just done 3 sets of 12 reps, what's the big hairy deal about extending the effort to put it away? Sheesh.
5. I like that there is no meat market silliness at 5 a.m. It is an entirely different scene at 5 p.m. I do not like that scene. I do not like it at all.
6. I like it when there are lots of treadmills available and new arrivals leave at least 1 empty treadmill between me and them. Sometimes, when there are lot and lots of treadmills available and someone takes the one RIGHT NEXT TO ME, I want to turn and say, "Hey, really? Why?" And I would mean it. I would really and truly want an explanation.
7. I like it when romantically linked men and women work out separately even though they came together. I don't know exactly why it bothers me to see romantically linked men and women trying to be weight bench partners, but it does. I roll my eyes a lot at these people, which isn't very nice, but it's 5 a.m..
8. I dislike the stationary bike. I think I would like it a little better if I could dip the seat back just a bit. I always feel like I'm crotch-sliding down hill.
9. I have declared a locker in the locker room as MINE. It isn't mine. I don't pay money for it. My name isn't on it. But when someone puts their crap in it, I feel genuinely put-out. How dare they? Don't they know who I am? Rookies.
10. I don't like grunting. Some people--and men are the worst--grunt and it sounds orgasmic, and that totally creeps me out. Dude, seriously. Keep it in the bedroom.
11. I check myself out in the mirror. It's hard not to. There are mirrors all over the damn place. Sometimes I see myself and I think, "Huh, I really thought I looked better than this." But the mirrors in the group fitness room--which I commandeer on mornings there are no classes--are extremely flattering.
12. On days when I skip the gym, I have a hard time getting ready for work at home. I forget what to do. I don't know what I've washed and what I've not washed. I can't find things. I am usually late to work.
That is all I have to say today.
A Dozen Items of Note Regarding the Gym at 5:00 a.m.
1. Sometimes, if I have not slept well, I never actually wake up. No amount of pushing or pulling or jogging or squatting will revive me. I get lost in small places. I stand in front of the free weight rack and can't remember what I was doing. I lay down to crunch abs and count ceiling tiles and calculate area instead. I love to calculate area. It's compulsive.
2. Sometimes, the "functional training" area is full, and I need floor space. I configure myself strangely, using a sliver in the corner and turned the wrong direction. Then, 3 minutes later the area clears, and I am left there in my strange configuration, and I want to shout to the people over there on the ellipticals: "Hey, this made sense about 3 minutes ago!" (That happened this morning.)
3. I don't like hamstring curls. They make the backs of my knees feel weird and snappy.
4. I like it when people put things back where they found them. I like this a lot. I wish it happened consistently. I don't understand why it doesn't. I mean, you're here, and you appear to be here to work, which means you're probably not lazy. If you've just done 3 sets of 12 reps, what's the big hairy deal about extending the effort to put it away? Sheesh.
5. I like that there is no meat market silliness at 5 a.m. It is an entirely different scene at 5 p.m. I do not like that scene. I do not like it at all.
6. I like it when there are lots of treadmills available and new arrivals leave at least 1 empty treadmill between me and them. Sometimes, when there are lot and lots of treadmills available and someone takes the one RIGHT NEXT TO ME, I want to turn and say, "Hey, really? Why?" And I would mean it. I would really and truly want an explanation.
7. I like it when romantically linked men and women work out separately even though they came together. I don't know exactly why it bothers me to see romantically linked men and women trying to be weight bench partners, but it does. I roll my eyes a lot at these people, which isn't very nice, but it's 5 a.m..
8. I dislike the stationary bike. I think I would like it a little better if I could dip the seat back just a bit. I always feel like I'm crotch-sliding down hill.
9. I have declared a locker in the locker room as MINE. It isn't mine. I don't pay money for it. My name isn't on it. But when someone puts their crap in it, I feel genuinely put-out. How dare they? Don't they know who I am? Rookies.
10. I don't like grunting. Some people--and men are the worst--grunt and it sounds orgasmic, and that totally creeps me out. Dude, seriously. Keep it in the bedroom.
11. I check myself out in the mirror. It's hard not to. There are mirrors all over the damn place. Sometimes I see myself and I think, "Huh, I really thought I looked better than this." But the mirrors in the group fitness room--which I commandeer on mornings there are no classes--are extremely flattering.
12. On days when I skip the gym, I have a hard time getting ready for work at home. I forget what to do. I don't know what I've washed and what I've not washed. I can't find things. I am usually late to work.
That is all I have to say today.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
don't call me.
I did not have a rough week, but I did have an "oh, I don't care for items 1, 2, and 3" week. That's fine. You can't care for everything. If you cared for everything, you'd explode with care, which is messy.
I don't care for things that make me feel dumb. Do you?
Sometimes I have to do things that remind me of the limits of my intelligence and the weird ways I identify. Sometimes I have to go to meetings about things like government distribution policies. Sometimes I have to sit in on webinars about federal standards of measurement. Sometimes I get invited to these things as an "expert," and then I show up in my pink checkered apron skirt and plaid shoes with my mountain hair and everyone else is in brown pants and leather loafers with combed hair, and they think I've arrived by mistake, and then I say "No" and show them my invite, and so they ask me expert questions and I have to say, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about," and then it is confirmed that no, really, you are here by mistake. Except the the truth is that, sure I knew what they were talking about, I just didn't understand HOW they were talking about it.
So I wander back to my doodle pad and markers dragging my flowered kite and feeling very stupid and young and very different.
In actuality: I'm not stupid, I'm not as young as a child, and I'm not different. My conceptual tools are just mismatched to the situation sometimes, and I like to paint with all the colors of the wind (just like Vanessa What's Her Face and Pocahontas).
So I take walks, and I wonder if it's just me and my projections and paranoia. Maybe nobody else really gives a crap that I use different lingo and wear pink checkered apron skirts and don't comb my hair. Maybe that's just stuff, and I'm the one with the preoccupation, not them. They're nice, smart, cool people. Why am I itemizing their leather loafers as if somehow that defines them? Why do I assume that leather loafers means someone could not possibly understand the magical complexity of my character? That's so dumb it's painful.
Because if genomes are any indication, people who wear loafers and people who wear plaid shoes, are 99.9% identical. Bankers and Bohemian Baton Twirlers are practically identical twins. So in any case in which we feel unique or different or extraordinary is a total illusion/delusion. We are same same same. But why am I even talking about shoes at all?
Sometimes we misinterpret what we see and accidentally fragment and reduce. That's not very productive, and I think on a larger scale it makes the world weird and dysfunctional, because we never bother to see beyond our own perception (which is never complete). I have this powerful need to be seen and accepted fully, for all parts. (I should do a better job of seeing and accepting others fully, for all parts.) And sometimes I am told that I am flighty and ridiculous. Sometimes I hear others refer to me as liberal, bleeding heart, hippie. And although I have no problem with flight, ridiculousness, liberal thought, bleeding hearts, or hippies, I always feel a little... crooked, as if my entire being has been squeezed into a toothpaste tube, and then I want to stop and explain so that some flimsy and strange version of myself isn't out floating around the universe. For instance:
I am not spontaneous and free-spirited. I am anxious. The unknown makes me nervous. I'm scared of making an imperfect plan. So, when I plan I get nervous and overwhelmed (because it has to be PERFECT!) and then I procrastinate and run out of time and finally am forced to be "spontaneous" (and very very imperfect).
I don't know how to choose a political party. I do know how to choose what makes the most sense to me. I don't understand abortion protests anymore than I understand war protests. I'm not "pro" either, but I do believe in starting where you are, which sometimes happens to be in the middle of very real crises. I think Peace and Life For All are beautiful ideas, but until we fully and universally commit to honoring and loving and granting equal rights to the person next door, Anti-Abortion and Anti-War don't seem like very practical options.
Atheism doesn't make much sense to me. Neither does dogma.
I believe in ghosts and aliens and spirit guides and God and reincarnation and Heavens and Hells and Nirvanas and evil and joy and religion and shamanism and that the earth has a soul, because it all seems logical based on what I know or think I know of energy, electrical currents, neurocircuitry, and human psychology. It's also based on my instinct. I don't think this makes me wishy washy.
I do not, however, believe in unicorns or flying horses or fairies or elves or "magic" in the literal sense.
I think instinct works best when it partners with research and that research works best when it partners with instinct. And I think everything can be proven in one way or another, and it's just what we accept as "proof" that varies.
I think capital punishment is scary and sad and that the margin of error is dangerous. But I cannot think of a better option given our current circumstances. I think we should love and forgive each other the best we can but also recognize that the earth as we know it has limited capacity and our current system requires money and that housing people in prisons (which are full) costs money and that money runs out and that there are a lot a lot a lot of people having babies, so we're not going to run out of people any time soon. And if reincarnation works out okay, maybe both the killer and the killee will get another chance at being cool. I think it makes better sense to work on the context in which crime happens.
I think we should meditate and pray and work hard and be nice and not worry too much about what we call ourselves.
That is to say, I really like it when I can show up to the party as-is, and not worry about whether I'm same or different or accepted or rejected or mislabeled or smart or stupid or belonging or misplaced. I like it when people don't call me flighty or ridiculous and don't assume I'm any more liberal than I am conservative or any more hippie than non-hippie, because it makes me feel really weird about my identity. Sputtery. And I really like it when I have the sense to not do it to others.
[This really long post is brought to you by a week of incredible weather and lunch time walks that make my brain full. Congratulations if you made it through the whole thing.]
I don't care for things that make me feel dumb. Do you?
Sometimes I have to do things that remind me of the limits of my intelligence and the weird ways I identify. Sometimes I have to go to meetings about things like government distribution policies. Sometimes I have to sit in on webinars about federal standards of measurement. Sometimes I get invited to these things as an "expert," and then I show up in my pink checkered apron skirt and plaid shoes with my mountain hair and everyone else is in brown pants and leather loafers with combed hair, and they think I've arrived by mistake, and then I say "No" and show them my invite, and so they ask me expert questions and I have to say, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about," and then it is confirmed that no, really, you are here by mistake. Except the the truth is that, sure I knew what they were talking about, I just didn't understand HOW they were talking about it.
So I wander back to my doodle pad and markers dragging my flowered kite and feeling very stupid and young and very different.
In actuality: I'm not stupid, I'm not as young as a child, and I'm not different. My conceptual tools are just mismatched to the situation sometimes, and I like to paint with all the colors of the wind (just like Vanessa What's Her Face and Pocahontas).
So I take walks, and I wonder if it's just me and my projections and paranoia. Maybe nobody else really gives a crap that I use different lingo and wear pink checkered apron skirts and don't comb my hair. Maybe that's just stuff, and I'm the one with the preoccupation, not them. They're nice, smart, cool people. Why am I itemizing their leather loafers as if somehow that defines them? Why do I assume that leather loafers means someone could not possibly understand the magical complexity of my character? That's so dumb it's painful.
Because if genomes are any indication, people who wear loafers and people who wear plaid shoes, are 99.9% identical. Bankers and Bohemian Baton Twirlers are practically identical twins. So in any case in which we feel unique or different or extraordinary is a total illusion/delusion. We are same same same. But why am I even talking about shoes at all?
Sometimes we misinterpret what we see and accidentally fragment and reduce. That's not very productive, and I think on a larger scale it makes the world weird and dysfunctional, because we never bother to see beyond our own perception (which is never complete). I have this powerful need to be seen and accepted fully, for all parts. (I should do a better job of seeing and accepting others fully, for all parts.) And sometimes I am told that I am flighty and ridiculous. Sometimes I hear others refer to me as liberal, bleeding heart, hippie. And although I have no problem with flight, ridiculousness, liberal thought, bleeding hearts, or hippies, I always feel a little... crooked, as if my entire being has been squeezed into a toothpaste tube, and then I want to stop and explain so that some flimsy and strange version of myself isn't out floating around the universe. For instance:
I am not spontaneous and free-spirited. I am anxious. The unknown makes me nervous. I'm scared of making an imperfect plan. So, when I plan I get nervous and overwhelmed (because it has to be PERFECT!) and then I procrastinate and run out of time and finally am forced to be "spontaneous" (and very very imperfect).
I don't know how to choose a political party. I do know how to choose what makes the most sense to me. I don't understand abortion protests anymore than I understand war protests. I'm not "pro" either, but I do believe in starting where you are, which sometimes happens to be in the middle of very real crises. I think Peace and Life For All are beautiful ideas, but until we fully and universally commit to honoring and loving and granting equal rights to the person next door, Anti-Abortion and Anti-War don't seem like very practical options.
Atheism doesn't make much sense to me. Neither does dogma.
I believe in ghosts and aliens and spirit guides and God and reincarnation and Heavens and Hells and Nirvanas and evil and joy and religion and shamanism and that the earth has a soul, because it all seems logical based on what I know or think I know of energy, electrical currents, neurocircuitry, and human psychology. It's also based on my instinct. I don't think this makes me wishy washy.
I do not, however, believe in unicorns or flying horses or fairies or elves or "magic" in the literal sense.
I think instinct works best when it partners with research and that research works best when it partners with instinct. And I think everything can be proven in one way or another, and it's just what we accept as "proof" that varies.
I think capital punishment is scary and sad and that the margin of error is dangerous. But I cannot think of a better option given our current circumstances. I think we should love and forgive each other the best we can but also recognize that the earth as we know it has limited capacity and our current system requires money and that housing people in prisons (which are full) costs money and that money runs out and that there are a lot a lot a lot of people having babies, so we're not going to run out of people any time soon. And if reincarnation works out okay, maybe both the killer and the killee will get another chance at being cool. I think it makes better sense to work on the context in which crime happens.
I think we should meditate and pray and work hard and be nice and not worry too much about what we call ourselves.
That is to say, I really like it when I can show up to the party as-is, and not worry about whether I'm same or different or accepted or rejected or mislabeled or smart or stupid or belonging or misplaced. I like it when people don't call me flighty or ridiculous and don't assume I'm any more liberal than I am conservative or any more hippie than non-hippie, because it makes me feel really weird about my identity. Sputtery. And I really like it when I have the sense to not do it to others.
[This really long post is brought to you by a week of incredible weather and lunch time walks that make my brain full. Congratulations if you made it through the whole thing.]
Thursday, October 7, 2010
crazy space station satellite
The weather has been awesome. I hope it is still awesome in one week and 3 days while I am running 26.2 miles.
Over lunch today, I walked to the river. I turned off my ipod, took off my shoes, and stared all pensive Victorian heroine like at the water. Then I realized the Des Moines River is really pretty stanky looking. I'm not sure how I would describe the color of this river, but I imagine there are a lot of dirty gym socks at the bottom.
Then I looked at the skyline, and it wasn't really all that attractive. Two cranes by the YMCA, and half of the buildings were capped by crazy space station satellite antennas.
People jogged over the bridge wearing sweat bands.
It seemed kind of bizarre that I found it relaxing and clarifying -- like finding God in a burnt cheese sandwich covered with cat hair. I hope this doesn't make me a pessimist.
Other important notes:
My dog is peeing on things. It's my fault, and I feel horrible. She has allergies. They were bad enough that I let the vet give her prednisone even though I really really really didn't like it. The prednisone has made her incontinent. Is there anything worse? She peed on my chair, on the couch, on the new carpet, in the basement.
The thing about prednisone is you can't just stop taking it. You have to taper, gradually. So once you start... well, tough nuggets. If you stop, it screws up a bunch of other things. Poor Kaya just has to keep peeing on herself until my mistake has flushed itself out.
I think I'm too tired to write any more important notes. The Apprentice is on. I didn't mean to watch it. It makes me nervous. I don't understand money contests, so I hope it's about more than sharp suits and slick hair (but I have my doubts).
Saturday, October 2, 2010
it sounded like this: GYAAHH.
I've been buzzy this week. I think the alleged crack in my foot (formerly believed stress fracture to fibula, but 2nd opinion -- formed by a lot of mashing of thumbs into the side of my foot -- suggested general irritation to cuboid, if you like to keep track of such things), triggered a zippy nerve to my brain. Or maybe it's just the pronounced focus on Body that plants me a little more firmly within it (Did that sentence make sense? I can't tell.). Or maybe it's the 1.5 week break from running and all that stupid stationary biking (I do not like the stationary bike. I do not.). Whatever the cause, I feel like a stricken bell ringing from the inside.
I ran 3 miles around the neighborhood yesterday, ankle wrap, knee wrap, it felt fine, more or less. Caught a couple of minor zingers, depending on how I landed, but as long as I kept my stride short and pace slow (no problem there), fine fine fine all around. It made me happy.
Although, today I was supposed to participate in the NAMI walk. I was feeling selfish and protective of my bones, so I am sitting in my red chair instead. I might actually be able to pull off this marathon business, afterall. It won't be graceful or pretty. It won't be fast or impressive. But it will be complete and hopefully upright. Yes, my only goal, really, at this point, is to finish upright.
While I was doing my modest 3 yesterday, I was having a conversation with myself about why in hell's bells I want to continue doing something that has created such unmistakable physical havoc. My knees are goofed. My ankles are goofed. My feet are goofed. It has to be more than pride. I mean, sure, I'm prideful, but I think, if I may say so, I have a better handle on ego than most (which I may have just disproven by writing that sentence). I think it's a transition thing. My life, as I know it, has been in kind of this monkey morph state. I see the next phase coming and want to make sure I've sent this one out with a gong. I am petrified at thought of looking back on my life and seeing one long blendy, indistinguishable watermark.
But back to the buzzy stricken bell bit -- I feel like when I'm buzzy, I notice more. Things jump out at peculiar angles, and I feel like everything is purposeful. Thursday at lunch, I took the bus downtown to meet C for lunch. Two strapping young White men got on the bus with me. They were dressed nicely -- dress pants and button down shirts with ties. They were wearing name tags, but I didn't pay attention to what they said. They sat at the front of the bus by the front door. I sat at the back, by the back door.
We rode a few blocks, and a young Black woman was taking a long time to board. I realized she was carrying: 1) a baby strapped to her chest, 2) another baby in a car seat, 3) a giant stroller, 4) a large trash bag full of clothes, and 5) a purse. She couldn't get it all. The two young men just sat and watched. They did nothing. I got up, walked to the front of the bus, and carried her stroller and her laundry bag. Then went back to my seat thinking, "Hey, doofuses! Wake up! This is what you do when someone needs help." Then, I decided to give them some credit. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they didn't notice. Maybe they didn't realize what was happening until I had already gotten up to help. Maybe they were feeling bad right now. Maybe I'd shamed them.
But then, a few blocks later, we stopped, and the woman with the babies and the bags got up and started to repeat the process in reverse to exit the bus. And... STILL.. the young, healthy men did NOTHING. They just sat and watched. So again, I got up, walked to the front, carried her car seat and clothes bag down to the sidewalk and then got back on the bus. I looked at the young men more closely this time. Their name tags: "Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints." I think I actually made a noise, and I think it sounded like this: GYAAHH. I wanted to shake them, "Hey! You just missed your mission! I assure you, Jesus would not have just sat and watched someone struggling."
And then I spent the rest of the bus ride debating hypocrisy and irony and youth and dogma and perfection. On one hand, if you're going to wander around spreading the word of Jesus Christ, if you're actually going to wear his name on your chest, you better take that very seriously, roll up your sleeves, and represent. Because when you don't, it makes people like me have a really hard time with affiliation.
On the other hand, I'm as big a hypocrite as they come, and really have no room to judge anybody else, even if they do happen to be wearing the name Jesus Chris on their chests. In fact, we're all hypocrites. It's nearly impossible not to be. Because no matter our affiliations and our espousals, we're still humans, which means we're still fallible. And we have to forgive our imperfections. If we want people to forgive us ours, we have to be willing to forgive them theirs. And crap like that.
And then I thought about how I think some religious communities really do a disservice with the confines they enforce, the Perfect Living they insist is possible and required. And that I think a lot of soul & world damage comes from the act of constantly rubbing our natural grains the wrong way (Which reminds me of training for marathons and fracturing bones through repetitive force.). So when we insist on rigid rules and narrow interpretations of what's "natural" and "right," we do way more damage than good. We actually chip away at our souls. Improve what needs improving; forgive what needs forgiving; find and create love and joy and peace and service as often as you can, that's my motto (which I frequently and inadvertently violate, which takes me back to being a horrible hypocrite. Please forgive me.).
This post is like a long, gravel road, winding through space.
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