Do you ever have the feeling that there just aren’t enough hours in the day?
That no matter how much you cross off your list of things to do, it never seems to actually make a dent?
And night after night you find yourself up far later than originally planned, just trying to keep ahead of the things that absolutely must be taken care of?
I’ve always been a multi tasker. A girl who was at her best when juggling a list of priorities a mile long. I have always succeeded by keeping my plate full.
Need an example? I took 66 units my last year of college (between summer, fall, and spring semester) while also working 20+ hours a week at the bar. I lived on the beach, dated a handful of less than noteworthy guys, and most definitely still had a life. The grades I pulled those semesters were stellar.
I’ve always been that girl. The one running in 18 different directions, but somehow still crossing all the finish lines before everyone else.
But lately, I feel more drained than ever before. And even worse, I feel like I’m falling behind. Like none of the pots I have my hands in are getting the attention they deserve, because I’m just stretched too thin.
For the first time in my entire life, I feel stretched too thin.
And I’m not entirely sure what it’s going to take to rectify that. To get my energy back and be the girl who can throw herself into a million different things at once again.
I just know… I’m drained.
I expressed this sentiment to Dr. Headshrink this week. She asked me to describe a typical day for her, so I did. My alarm goes off at 5:30 in the morning. Most days I try to have myself actually pulled out of bed by 6:30. 8-5 I work. 5:30, I get home. From there, I write a post for here, answer e-mails, respond to comments, read other blogs, and check in on the community - all of this taking place throughout the evening in between whatever else I have going on. On boot camp nights now, I make a PB&J and eat it on the way to class at 7, not getting home until about 9:30. Most other nights I either have plans with friends, or I’m on the phone with someone catching up for at least an hour. By the time everything is said and done, I’m lucky if I get into bed and turn out the lights by midnight.
This has been my schedule for what seems like forever. I’ve always been a night owl, and have never gotten a ton of sleep. It’s always worked out fine for me. But now… It’s not really working. I’m tired. Tired to the point that when my phone rings, I contemplate not answering it for fear that the extended conversations that will inevitably follow will put me in bed even later than I otherwise would have been.
Something has clearly got to give.
Dr. Headshrink pointed this out to me, but I argued. There is nothing that can give. I have to work for my financial stability. I have to blog for my sanity. I have to get back into an exercise routine for my health. And I have keep up with my friendships because... Well, because I am insanely lucky to have the friendships I have and they will always be a priority. Period. End of discussion.
There is nothing that can go. Nothing that can give.
Today though, I laid on the table letting Teeny poke me with needles and fighting off the sleep that wants to overtake me anytime I’m horizontal lately. She began asking me the same questions. Questions about what I’m doing and how much sleep I’m getting.
The thing I tried to explain to her is – I’m not getting any less sleep than I was a year ago. I’m no more busy or social than I’ve ever been before. But… I’m drained. Completely and totally drained.
As I was getting dressed after our session, Teeny said to me “I want you to take a break from blogging for a few days. Focus on getting 8 hours of sleep a night. Decompress. Allow your body to reset.”
And I scoffed. Scoffed, and argued. “I can’t do that!” I proclaimed.
To which Teeny replied “Why?”
I had no response. Nothing beyond “But, but, but…” Finally, I conceded. But in the back of my head I was thinking that next week I would just tell her it hadn’t been possible. I would lie and say I'd tried, but that I'd simply needed to return to my blog. To my writing. To my relationships here.
Teeny isn’t in charge of me after all.
On the drive home though, I really started to think about it. Why is it so hard for me to let this go for just a few days? Why is it so hard for me to walk away from something and decompress so that I can come back to it refreshed?
Something has to give, and right now – stepping away from the internet for a few days makes a whole lot more sense than stepping away from my job, or my friends, or my only recently renewed ability to get my sweat on.
I realized I’ve been looking at this space as an obligation. Which is never how it was supposed to be. Never what I intended it to become. And as much as I love what has been built here, it’s also incredibly time consuming.
And time is just something I don’t seem to have as much of lately.
I’m tired. And my ability to cope with pretty much everything is hindered because I’m so tired.
So… I’m taking a break. Something I haven’t done once since starting this blog.
I’m giving myself an internet vacation.
Just for a week. 7 Days. Enough time to get myself on a better schedule. One where my head hits the pillow before midnight.
Enough time to re-evaluate my priorities and figure out how to give my all to everything again, instead of just dipping my fingers into all the pots.
I’m not going to check my e-mail. Or keep up on other blogs. I’m not going to tweet, or stay on top of the community. Instead, I’m going to work. And sleep. And eat. And workout. And spend some face time with the people I love.
I might even try to read some of the new books I've had piling up for the last few months.
I need a breather though. And so, I’m going to take it.
Hopefully you’ll all still be here when I get back.
ADSPACE
March 24, 2011
March 23, 2011
FAILING
Ever since Charlie Sheen lost his mind, I’ve found myself proclaiming “WINNING” to just about everything.
Some old man patted my butt and told me to “be good!” I should have been skeeved out, but instead I thought “Hey – at least I’ve still got it!”
WINNING
My change oil light lit up on my car just as I was driving past a 10 minute oil change place (and I actually had the time to go in.)
WINNING
And after months and months of trying to find new bedding (and buying and returning everything I thought I would like), today I finally brought something home that I actually love.
WINNING
Of course, not every situation in life is a winning situation. After all, we can’t always be winners at everything.
And what is the opposite of winning my friends?
That’s right.
FAILING
Guess what? I'm failing at Pilates.
On the first night of boot camp the instructors took everyone's measurements. They claimed that the average boot camper loses at least 4 ½ inches in the two week class. They said that the only time someone doesn’t lose is when there is some kind of underlying medical issue.
Right then and there I should have known, but… I was still hoping. Thinking that if I pushed myself hard enough, I could still make a dent.
Well... Monday night the measuring tape came out again to track progress, and I was the only person in the entire class who didn't lose a single inch.
Not even a fraction of an inch.
FAILING
I honestly didn’t expect much. Yes, I’ve been working my butt off, but… I knew that I was having a really hard time engaging those pelvic muscles. And besides, it’s not like I started this for weight lost (or inch loss for that matter). I just wanted something to kick my butt back in gear. Something that would be low impact, while still allowing me to feel like my muscles were working.
But I have to tell you – hearing I was the only one who didn’t lose anything seriously bummed me out.
In fact, I'm pretty sure my lip started quivering and my eyes started welling up. Somehow I managed to hold it together though.
The instructor is just about the sweetest thing ever, and she pulled me aside privately to tell me. She recommended I see a pelvic floor specialist (which obviously, I’m already doing), and told me that if at the end of this week I wanted a full refund, they would be happy to give it to me.
I actually felt a little bad. She has been so sweet and trying so hard – it’s not her fault that my muscles just aren’t quite there yet!
I refused a refund, and told her that I would be talking to my PT, but that I was actually thinking of signing up for a full membership.
The thing is, I’m really enjoying Pilates. And if everyone else is showing those inches lost, I want in on that action! Plus, just seeing how sincere she was about the whole thing, I knew that this was a place I wanted to be working out. That they would probably take extra time with me from here on out knowing how hard I’m trying and what I'm up against to make the same strides as everyone else.
Besides, I would feel guilty taking a refund when I know for a fact that my not getting it has absolutely nothing to do with their instruction.
Yesterday I shot off an e-mail to a co-worker. Nothing major, just poking fun at myself (FAILING was definitely a term that was in use), and complaining about my non-cooperative body.
He responded with all kinds of thoughtfulness about the trauma my body has been through and the fact that it is likely in protection mode right now. Blah blah blah… all sorts of good stuff.
And then, at the very end (for good measure), he added “Plus, you’re totally getting old.”
Bastard.
I spoke to Dr. PT about the whole thing this afternoon, and she had me show her some of the exercises we’ve been doing in Pilate’s. Then she got down and dirty, and placed her hands in some awkward positions as she asked me to do a kegel.
Turns out – I am incapable of doing Kegel’s. Which is kind of the number one thing they have you do in Pilates. Over and over and over again.
I thought I was doing them, I swear. I couldn’t hold them, but I at least thought I was doing them. Not so much the case though. In fact, I’m not doing much of anything. Dr. PT actually said that she doesn’t think I have any control of those muscles down there at all right now.
Which I guess is kind of why I’m there in the first place.
Although, it is completely beyond me how I managed to convince myself that I actually was engaging them, when I absolutely am not.
She said I could keep up with Pilates (in her words “you aren’t going to hurt yourself”), but that I need to recognize that I’m not going to be an expert at anything so core based anytime soon.
FAILING
The problem is, I’m really liking Pilates. I feel like it’s getting me moving, and like I really appreciate the basic theories behind it. I would love to work towards better posture and overall leaner muscles. I would love to have a stronger core.
But…. I would also love to be doing something I stand a chance of being good at right now.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do at this point. The boot camp goes until Friday, so I’m going to complete the course and then think long and hard about a membership. Summertime is coming, and so maybe I just need to work on getting my butt outside doing some cardio while the sun is shining and the snow is melting. Perhaps Pilates is something to revisit next fall after I’ve had a few months of work with Dr. PT.
Then again, I never was good at being told I couldn’t do something. And there is this part of me that is now even more determined to succeed at Pilates. This perfectionist side that simply cannot handle being told that I can’t.
I want to be winning.
Because failing just does not suit me at all.
Some old man patted my butt and told me to “be good!” I should have been skeeved out, but instead I thought “Hey – at least I’ve still got it!”
WINNING
My change oil light lit up on my car just as I was driving past a 10 minute oil change place (and I actually had the time to go in.)
WINNING
And after months and months of trying to find new bedding (and buying and returning everything I thought I would like), today I finally brought something home that I actually love.
WINNING
Of course, not every situation in life is a winning situation. After all, we can’t always be winners at everything.
And what is the opposite of winning my friends?
That’s right.
FAILING
Guess what? I'm failing at Pilates.
On the first night of boot camp the instructors took everyone's measurements. They claimed that the average boot camper loses at least 4 ½ inches in the two week class. They said that the only time someone doesn’t lose is when there is some kind of underlying medical issue.
Right then and there I should have known, but… I was still hoping. Thinking that if I pushed myself hard enough, I could still make a dent.
Well... Monday night the measuring tape came out again to track progress, and I was the only person in the entire class who didn't lose a single inch.
Not even a fraction of an inch.
FAILING
I honestly didn’t expect much. Yes, I’ve been working my butt off, but… I knew that I was having a really hard time engaging those pelvic muscles. And besides, it’s not like I started this for weight lost (or inch loss for that matter). I just wanted something to kick my butt back in gear. Something that would be low impact, while still allowing me to feel like my muscles were working.
But I have to tell you – hearing I was the only one who didn’t lose anything seriously bummed me out.
In fact, I'm pretty sure my lip started quivering and my eyes started welling up. Somehow I managed to hold it together though.
The instructor is just about the sweetest thing ever, and she pulled me aside privately to tell me. She recommended I see a pelvic floor specialist (which obviously, I’m already doing), and told me that if at the end of this week I wanted a full refund, they would be happy to give it to me.
I actually felt a little bad. She has been so sweet and trying so hard – it’s not her fault that my muscles just aren’t quite there yet!
I refused a refund, and told her that I would be talking to my PT, but that I was actually thinking of signing up for a full membership.
The thing is, I’m really enjoying Pilates. And if everyone else is showing those inches lost, I want in on that action! Plus, just seeing how sincere she was about the whole thing, I knew that this was a place I wanted to be working out. That they would probably take extra time with me from here on out knowing how hard I’m trying and what I'm up against to make the same strides as everyone else.
Besides, I would feel guilty taking a refund when I know for a fact that my not getting it has absolutely nothing to do with their instruction.
Yesterday I shot off an e-mail to a co-worker. Nothing major, just poking fun at myself (FAILING was definitely a term that was in use), and complaining about my non-cooperative body.
He responded with all kinds of thoughtfulness about the trauma my body has been through and the fact that it is likely in protection mode right now. Blah blah blah… all sorts of good stuff.
And then, at the very end (for good measure), he added “Plus, you’re totally getting old.”
Bastard.
I spoke to Dr. PT about the whole thing this afternoon, and she had me show her some of the exercises we’ve been doing in Pilate’s. Then she got down and dirty, and placed her hands in some awkward positions as she asked me to do a kegel.
Turns out – I am incapable of doing Kegel’s. Which is kind of the number one thing they have you do in Pilates. Over and over and over again.
I thought I was doing them, I swear. I couldn’t hold them, but I at least thought I was doing them. Not so much the case though. In fact, I’m not doing much of anything. Dr. PT actually said that she doesn’t think I have any control of those muscles down there at all right now.
Which I guess is kind of why I’m there in the first place.
Although, it is completely beyond me how I managed to convince myself that I actually was engaging them, when I absolutely am not.
She said I could keep up with Pilates (in her words “you aren’t going to hurt yourself”), but that I need to recognize that I’m not going to be an expert at anything so core based anytime soon.
FAILING
The problem is, I’m really liking Pilates. I feel like it’s getting me moving, and like I really appreciate the basic theories behind it. I would love to work towards better posture and overall leaner muscles. I would love to have a stronger core.
But…. I would also love to be doing something I stand a chance of being good at right now.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do at this point. The boot camp goes until Friday, so I’m going to complete the course and then think long and hard about a membership. Summertime is coming, and so maybe I just need to work on getting my butt outside doing some cardio while the sun is shining and the snow is melting. Perhaps Pilates is something to revisit next fall after I’ve had a few months of work with Dr. PT.
Then again, I never was good at being told I couldn’t do something. And there is this part of me that is now even more determined to succeed at Pilates. This perfectionist side that simply cannot handle being told that I can’t.
I want to be winning.
Because failing just does not suit me at all.
March 22, 2011
Out Cold
It was this weekend when it dawned on me that my house felt colder than usual.
I took a look at the thermostat and realized the temperature was lower than it should be, so I pushed a few buttons and walked away.
I didn’t think anything more of it; even when I found myself reaching for another blanket. After all, I’m pretty much always cold. It’s not uncommon for me to keep my jacket on throughout the day at work, or for me to need a few extra layers as I try to get cozy at home.
I grew up in Arizona. Then I lived in San Diego. And even though I’ve been in Alaska for 3 years now, I still suffer through being pretty consistently chilled throughout the wintertime.
So it wasn’t until I walked into the house after work last night that I thought to myself “No wonder the roommate is never here! It’s freezing in this house!”
I wandered over to the thermostat and realized the temp was sitting at 58 degrees.
Then (and only then) did it hit me that the heater was broken.
Luckily my condo is situated directly above a heated garage, so the rising temps from there (and the fact that it’s March and the weather outside is hanging out in the 30’s) kept things from getting too unbearable. 58ยบ is cold, but at least it's still livable.
And it kind of had to be, because at that point (as I was changing out of my work clothes and into my workout gear before running out to Pilates) there just wasn’t a ton I was going to be able to do about the situation.
I figured it would hold until the morning. That I would be able to deal with it today one way or another.
But then, I got home from my workout almost 3 hours later.
And the smell of gas was obvious.
I have a small place, so it doesn't take much for a smell like that to inhabit every room. And at that point, I just wasn't sure how serious an issue this was.
I called my dad (because yes, I am a grown adult woman who still calls her daddy whenever she feels at a loss regarding anything) and woke the poor man up. He instructed me to call either the fire department or the gas company.
I took a peak in the mirror. Calling the fire department was tempting. I had just worked out, and was actually looking halfway decent. Being rescued by firemen didn’t sound half bad.
But I just knew that if it was something stupid and not at all dangerous, I would wind up feeling like an idiot for wasting their time.
So I called the gas company instead, and they said they would send someone out “to make sure it was safe” right away.
5 minutes later there was a knock on the door.
Apparently they take gas leaks pretty seriously. Good to know.
The guy had this gas detector thing that reminded me of something you would see on Supernatural or Ghostbusters. Every time it sounded off I found myself not worried about gas, but wary instead of any lurking ghosts.
I swear, sometimes I am astounded by my own maturity level.
He quickly discovered a cracked igniter and explained that the furnace was busted but was still trying to kick on every 15 minutes or so, which was leading to the gas smell.
Nothing dangerous, just stinky.
And cold.
Either way, I actually gave myself a pat on the back for not calling the fire department.
Because that just would have been embarrassing.
The gas guy shut everything down and told me to bundle up for the night and call a mechanic in the morning. He said it would be a quick fix, and I would just need to get through the night.
He told me to pretend I was camping.
Little did he know that my idea of camping involves being tucked away snug as a bug in a nice heated cabin.
By the time I crawled into bed the temperature had dipped below 55. Not unlivable, but… as a girl who is always cold anyway, I was freezing.
I tried to bundle up. Socks. Sweats. A sweater. Extra blankets. I shot the roommate a text letting her know she might want to sleep at her boyfriends (which let’s face it – she was probably going to do anyway) and then I bunkered down.
Only to spend the rest of the night tensed up with teeth chattering.
Yes, I am a drama queen. But it was cold!
I got up this morning and made a run for the bathroom, where I turned the water to as hot as it would go and thawed myself out in the steam.
Then I looked in the mirror and realized that my sleepless night was written all over my face.
I briefly considered calling in, before realizing that would mean hanging out in my freezing house until someone could come fix it.
I wanted no part of that.
So I got dressed and tried (failed) to cover up my exhaustion with a little concealer.
I made some calls right at 8 o’clock, and around lunch I heard back from the mechanic saying he was on his way to my house. I kid you not, the entire thing was fixed and up and running again in under 5 minutes.
He lectured me about my need for a new furnace (even though the furnace itself is functioning just fine) and then handed me a bill for $200.
$200.
For five minutes worth of work.
I have since done some googling and am more than a little convinced that this was something I could have fixed myself.
I’m also fairly sure that my father would have a heart attack if I told him I was attempting to repair my furnace on my own.
But for $200 – it might have been worth it.
Either way, my house is now warm.
Probably warmer than it should be.
Because it’s possible I turned the heat up too high. Simply because I could.
And tonight?
Tonight I am crawling under my covers and passing out nice and early.
I'm going to pretend I'm camping.
You know - the way camping should actually be done.
With plenty of heat and a nice comfy bed.
I took a look at the thermostat and realized the temperature was lower than it should be, so I pushed a few buttons and walked away.
I didn’t think anything more of it; even when I found myself reaching for another blanket. After all, I’m pretty much always cold. It’s not uncommon for me to keep my jacket on throughout the day at work, or for me to need a few extra layers as I try to get cozy at home.
I grew up in Arizona. Then I lived in San Diego. And even though I’ve been in Alaska for 3 years now, I still suffer through being pretty consistently chilled throughout the wintertime.
So it wasn’t until I walked into the house after work last night that I thought to myself “No wonder the roommate is never here! It’s freezing in this house!”
I wandered over to the thermostat and realized the temp was sitting at 58 degrees.
Then (and only then) did it hit me that the heater was broken.
Luckily my condo is situated directly above a heated garage, so the rising temps from there (and the fact that it’s March and the weather outside is hanging out in the 30’s) kept things from getting too unbearable. 58ยบ is cold, but at least it's still livable.
And it kind of had to be, because at that point (as I was changing out of my work clothes and into my workout gear before running out to Pilates) there just wasn’t a ton I was going to be able to do about the situation.
I figured it would hold until the morning. That I would be able to deal with it today one way or another.
But then, I got home from my workout almost 3 hours later.
And the smell of gas was obvious.
I have a small place, so it doesn't take much for a smell like that to inhabit every room. And at that point, I just wasn't sure how serious an issue this was.
I called my dad (because yes, I am a grown adult woman who still calls her daddy whenever she feels at a loss regarding anything) and woke the poor man up. He instructed me to call either the fire department or the gas company.
I took a peak in the mirror. Calling the fire department was tempting. I had just worked out, and was actually looking halfway decent. Being rescued by firemen didn’t sound half bad.
But I just knew that if it was something stupid and not at all dangerous, I would wind up feeling like an idiot for wasting their time.
So I called the gas company instead, and they said they would send someone out “to make sure it was safe” right away.
5 minutes later there was a knock on the door.
Apparently they take gas leaks pretty seriously. Good to know.
The guy had this gas detector thing that reminded me of something you would see on Supernatural or Ghostbusters. Every time it sounded off I found myself not worried about gas, but wary instead of any lurking ghosts.
I swear, sometimes I am astounded by my own maturity level.
He quickly discovered a cracked igniter and explained that the furnace was busted but was still trying to kick on every 15 minutes or so, which was leading to the gas smell.
Nothing dangerous, just stinky.
And cold.
Either way, I actually gave myself a pat on the back for not calling the fire department.
Because that just would have been embarrassing.
The gas guy shut everything down and told me to bundle up for the night and call a mechanic in the morning. He said it would be a quick fix, and I would just need to get through the night.
He told me to pretend I was camping.
Little did he know that my idea of camping involves being tucked away snug as a bug in a nice heated cabin.
By the time I crawled into bed the temperature had dipped below 55. Not unlivable, but… as a girl who is always cold anyway, I was freezing.
I tried to bundle up. Socks. Sweats. A sweater. Extra blankets. I shot the roommate a text letting her know she might want to sleep at her boyfriends (which let’s face it – she was probably going to do anyway) and then I bunkered down.
Only to spend the rest of the night tensed up with teeth chattering.
Yes, I am a drama queen. But it was cold!
I got up this morning and made a run for the bathroom, where I turned the water to as hot as it would go and thawed myself out in the steam.
Then I looked in the mirror and realized that my sleepless night was written all over my face.
I briefly considered calling in, before realizing that would mean hanging out in my freezing house until someone could come fix it.
I wanted no part of that.
So I got dressed and tried (failed) to cover up my exhaustion with a little concealer.
I made some calls right at 8 o’clock, and around lunch I heard back from the mechanic saying he was on his way to my house. I kid you not, the entire thing was fixed and up and running again in under 5 minutes.
He lectured me about my need for a new furnace (even though the furnace itself is functioning just fine) and then handed me a bill for $200.
$200.
For five minutes worth of work.
I have since done some googling and am more than a little convinced that this was something I could have fixed myself.
I’m also fairly sure that my father would have a heart attack if I told him I was attempting to repair my furnace on my own.
But for $200 – it might have been worth it.
Either way, my house is now warm.
Probably warmer than it should be.
Because it’s possible I turned the heat up too high. Simply because I could.
And tonight?
Tonight I am crawling under my covers and passing out nice and early.
I'm going to pretend I'm camping.
You know - the way camping should actually be done.
With plenty of heat and a nice comfy bed.
March 21, 2011
There Is No Good Way To Say This
Not without making myself look like an ass that is.
Not without pissing people off, hurting feelings, ruffling feathers, and causing conflict.
Which in all reality – is the very last thing I want to do.
But I’ve always been honest here. I’ve always put my entire heart on the line. I’ve always opened up regarding the inner workings of my very twisted brain.
And I don’t know how to do anything different now.
The truth is, I wrote this post months ago. Way back when I first promised a post detailing my fears about adoption. But then… I sat on it. Afraid simply of the words themselves. Of exposing myself as whatever these words make me out to be. I put it away and hoped that these fears would dissipate over time. That as the weeks and months passed, the words would no longer be true.
But… they are. They're still true.
So here it is, for all the world to see. My fears, reservations, and concerns. The reasons I now don’t know if I will ever adopt. If it is even still an option for me. Something I'd be willing to take on, even though every part of it scares the hell out of me.
It's been weighing on my mind since the last failed cycle. Eating away at me. Lingering in the background, even as I've left it unspoken.
Until now.
I’m afraid of adoption.
Terrified even.
In fact, I am more frightened of the complexities involved in adoption than I ever was of fertility treatments.
To the extent that I’m not even sure if I could do it.
Ever.
It has always been an option. This thing in the back of my head that I knew I would likely one day do. When I’ve said in the past that adoption was of course an option, I meant it.
With every fiber of my being.
But that was before it was my only option.
Now that it's all that's left, suddenly I’ve been sick to my stomach over it. Completely torn up about the prospect.
There are so many reasons for this fear really. The biggest one being that I truly do not think I could handle going through a failed adoption.
I have seen it happen so many times, both in my real life and in the blogging world. Two loving parents who want nothing more than to adopt finally have their baby in their arms, and then… the birth mother changes her mind.
I’ve seen it happen to some people more than once.
And I honestly do not think I am equipped for that kind of heartbreak.
I think that's the point where I would officially lose it.
And it’s not always a matter of the birth mother changing her mind either. One of my best friends used to work at an adoption agency – that is before her agency went under. To the best of my knowledge they were able to return funds to any awaiting parents in their agency, but that isn’t always the case. And even in that situation – those parents lost whatever place on the waiting list they had previously held. This happens all the time. More than it ever should. Agencies fall through. International laws change. Parents who have been waiting for years are suddenly relegated to waiting even longer.
And that child they have dreamed of never actually finds a way into their arms.
But that’s not my only fear. It’s just the easiest to explain. The fear that still makes me appear somewhat human.
Because I’m fairly certain that my real fear paints me as someone far less than.
I am afraid, because what if I adopted a child, and I didn’t love them.
I didn’t ever grow to love them.
What if I never felt that connection? That bond. That tie.
What if the child that was placed in my arms was one that for whatever reason, I just couldn’t love?
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would love a child that came from my body. I know that with the first positive pee stick, that child would be mine. Mine to love and nurture and protect as fiercely as I’ve ever done anything in my entire life.
But what if that same instinct wasn’t there with an adopted child?
What if I was then the monster who didn’t love her baby?
Now, before you start correcting me and telling me that it would never happen, I have to stop you.
Because it happens.
I truly believe it happens.
And while I always thought I was the kind of person who could love and connect with any child who was ever placed in my care, my experiences with Big Brothers/Big Sisters taught me differently.
Now, to be clear, I deeply cared about Chatty. I really and truly did have nothing but the best of hopes and intentions for that child. But… It was a struggle. Connecting with her was a struggle. Even two years down the line, that bond just wasn’t really there. I cared about her. I wanted the best for her. It made me desperately angry that she was so neglected in her own home. But… That connection wasn’t there.
What if Chatty had been a child I had adopted? A child I thought I wanted with all my heart, until she got there and I just couldn’t connect with her. What if I just couldn’t find a way to forge that parent child bond?
What then?
I would of course still raise that child and do everything I could to provide and care for them within the best of my abilities.
But what if I never really loved them?
What if we had nothing in common? Nothing to share? Nothing to connect us at all?
What if 15 years down the line, when they do something to piss me off (as most 15 year olds will), all I can think is “It’s because they aren’t really mine. My child never would have behaved that way.”
And I know that even thinking that’s a possibility makes me an awful person. In fact, I’m half tempted to turn off the comments on this post solely because I don’t really want to hear about what an awful person I am.
I already feel like complete crap for thinking it.
But I can’t help it. It’s what I’m afraid of. That moment in time when I find myself justifying my lack of love for that child because “they aren’t really mine.”
For all the adoptive mothers (and adoptees) out there – please know that I know how crass and hurtful that statement is, and I am so incredibly sorry. I know that the children you have adopted are very decidedly yours, and that you love them just as fiercely as you would have had you been able to birth them yourselves.
I know that.
I’m just talking about me right now. About the thoughts I’m afraid I would have. The disconnect I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to surpass.
I’m talking about me.
But I’m also talking about that child. That child who would deserve all the love in the world.
What if I couldn’t give it to them? What if in everything bad that child ever did, I saw pieces of their “other” mother?
I am a firm believer in nurture over nature. I’ve said here before that I don’t care at all about genes, and that is 100% the truth. But the thing is – I believe that nurture begins in utero. I truly believe that the actions and behaviors of a mother during pregnancy can have powerful impacts on that growing baby and the personality traits they will exhibit throughout life. I have known friends who were anxious and inflexible during one pregnancy and calm and laid back during another. Guess what? Their children exhibited similar tendencies.
And hasn’t anyone ever thought about the fact that there may be something to birth order traits? After all, a mother is likely more stressed and regimented during her 1st pregnancy than she is during her 5th. Isn’t it possible that the stress hormones she releases during pregnancy could ultimately lead to effects on her unborn children? Couldn’t that explain why first borns tend to be driven and regimented, while last borns tend to be far more laid back and easy going?
Even beyond temperament though, I know how I would treat my body and that growing baby during pregnancy. I know that I wouldn’t drink at all. That I wouldn’t smoke. That I wouldn’t do any drugs. I know how hesitant I would be to take even aspirin. That I would eat a certain way, and go out of my way to provide as healthy a growing environment as possible for that little one to be.
I could never know the same about any potential birth mother though. And the idea of someone else getting to make those decisions (decisions which I do truly believe can have lasting effects on temperament and health) for my child during those formative months makes me want to scream out in frustration.
I understand that this is just the way it is. And that I can’t control every aspect of my children’s lives. But why? Why must I concede where others don’t? Why can’t I have the chance to provide my child with the best I possibly can from the moment they are conceived? Why can’t I love and nurture and protect them to the best of my ability from day one? Why do I have to rely on somebody else to do what I so desperately long to do? Why do I have to hope, and pray, and plead for them to do it “right”, while I stand on the sidelines helpless and unsure of everything?
These are my fears. Or at least, a small peak at what is in actuality a much longer list.
Fears and frustrations that confuse the hell out of me, and leave me wondering what exactly they say about me.
It’s possible that because I’m afraid that I couldn’t love any child, I don’t actually deserve to be a mother at all.
It’s possible that this really does become a case of beggars can’t be choosers, and my selfishness dictates me unworthy.
It’s possible that I will never overcome these fears, and in turn, that I will never be a mother.
I guess at some point I’m just going to have to decide what scares me more.
A life spent child free.
Or one risking what feels like everything on adoption.
Not without pissing people off, hurting feelings, ruffling feathers, and causing conflict.
Which in all reality – is the very last thing I want to do.
But I’ve always been honest here. I’ve always put my entire heart on the line. I’ve always opened up regarding the inner workings of my very twisted brain.
And I don’t know how to do anything different now.
The truth is, I wrote this post months ago. Way back when I first promised a post detailing my fears about adoption. But then… I sat on it. Afraid simply of the words themselves. Of exposing myself as whatever these words make me out to be. I put it away and hoped that these fears would dissipate over time. That as the weeks and months passed, the words would no longer be true.
But… they are. They're still true.
So here it is, for all the world to see. My fears, reservations, and concerns. The reasons I now don’t know if I will ever adopt. If it is even still an option for me. Something I'd be willing to take on, even though every part of it scares the hell out of me.
It's been weighing on my mind since the last failed cycle. Eating away at me. Lingering in the background, even as I've left it unspoken.
Until now.
I’m afraid of adoption.
Terrified even.
In fact, I am more frightened of the complexities involved in adoption than I ever was of fertility treatments.
To the extent that I’m not even sure if I could do it.
Ever.
It has always been an option. This thing in the back of my head that I knew I would likely one day do. When I’ve said in the past that adoption was of course an option, I meant it.
With every fiber of my being.
But that was before it was my only option.
Now that it's all that's left, suddenly I’ve been sick to my stomach over it. Completely torn up about the prospect.
There are so many reasons for this fear really. The biggest one being that I truly do not think I could handle going through a failed adoption.
I have seen it happen so many times, both in my real life and in the blogging world. Two loving parents who want nothing more than to adopt finally have their baby in their arms, and then… the birth mother changes her mind.
I’ve seen it happen to some people more than once.
And I honestly do not think I am equipped for that kind of heartbreak.
I think that's the point where I would officially lose it.
And it’s not always a matter of the birth mother changing her mind either. One of my best friends used to work at an adoption agency – that is before her agency went under. To the best of my knowledge they were able to return funds to any awaiting parents in their agency, but that isn’t always the case. And even in that situation – those parents lost whatever place on the waiting list they had previously held. This happens all the time. More than it ever should. Agencies fall through. International laws change. Parents who have been waiting for years are suddenly relegated to waiting even longer.
And that child they have dreamed of never actually finds a way into their arms.
But that’s not my only fear. It’s just the easiest to explain. The fear that still makes me appear somewhat human.
Because I’m fairly certain that my real fear paints me as someone far less than.
I am afraid, because what if I adopted a child, and I didn’t love them.
I didn’t ever grow to love them.
What if I never felt that connection? That bond. That tie.
What if the child that was placed in my arms was one that for whatever reason, I just couldn’t love?
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would love a child that came from my body. I know that with the first positive pee stick, that child would be mine. Mine to love and nurture and protect as fiercely as I’ve ever done anything in my entire life.
But what if that same instinct wasn’t there with an adopted child?
What if I was then the monster who didn’t love her baby?
Now, before you start correcting me and telling me that it would never happen, I have to stop you.
Because it happens.
I truly believe it happens.
And while I always thought I was the kind of person who could love and connect with any child who was ever placed in my care, my experiences with Big Brothers/Big Sisters taught me differently.
Now, to be clear, I deeply cared about Chatty. I really and truly did have nothing but the best of hopes and intentions for that child. But… It was a struggle. Connecting with her was a struggle. Even two years down the line, that bond just wasn’t really there. I cared about her. I wanted the best for her. It made me desperately angry that she was so neglected in her own home. But… That connection wasn’t there.
What if Chatty had been a child I had adopted? A child I thought I wanted with all my heart, until she got there and I just couldn’t connect with her. What if I just couldn’t find a way to forge that parent child bond?
What then?
I would of course still raise that child and do everything I could to provide and care for them within the best of my abilities.
But what if I never really loved them?
What if we had nothing in common? Nothing to share? Nothing to connect us at all?
What if 15 years down the line, when they do something to piss me off (as most 15 year olds will), all I can think is “It’s because they aren’t really mine. My child never would have behaved that way.”
And I know that even thinking that’s a possibility makes me an awful person. In fact, I’m half tempted to turn off the comments on this post solely because I don’t really want to hear about what an awful person I am.
I already feel like complete crap for thinking it.
But I can’t help it. It’s what I’m afraid of. That moment in time when I find myself justifying my lack of love for that child because “they aren’t really mine.”
For all the adoptive mothers (and adoptees) out there – please know that I know how crass and hurtful that statement is, and I am so incredibly sorry. I know that the children you have adopted are very decidedly yours, and that you love them just as fiercely as you would have had you been able to birth them yourselves.
I know that.
I’m just talking about me right now. About the thoughts I’m afraid I would have. The disconnect I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to surpass.
I’m talking about me.
But I’m also talking about that child. That child who would deserve all the love in the world.
What if I couldn’t give it to them? What if in everything bad that child ever did, I saw pieces of their “other” mother?
I am a firm believer in nurture over nature. I’ve said here before that I don’t care at all about genes, and that is 100% the truth. But the thing is – I believe that nurture begins in utero. I truly believe that the actions and behaviors of a mother during pregnancy can have powerful impacts on that growing baby and the personality traits they will exhibit throughout life. I have known friends who were anxious and inflexible during one pregnancy and calm and laid back during another. Guess what? Their children exhibited similar tendencies.
And hasn’t anyone ever thought about the fact that there may be something to birth order traits? After all, a mother is likely more stressed and regimented during her 1st pregnancy than she is during her 5th. Isn’t it possible that the stress hormones she releases during pregnancy could ultimately lead to effects on her unborn children? Couldn’t that explain why first borns tend to be driven and regimented, while last borns tend to be far more laid back and easy going?
Even beyond temperament though, I know how I would treat my body and that growing baby during pregnancy. I know that I wouldn’t drink at all. That I wouldn’t smoke. That I wouldn’t do any drugs. I know how hesitant I would be to take even aspirin. That I would eat a certain way, and go out of my way to provide as healthy a growing environment as possible for that little one to be.
I could never know the same about any potential birth mother though. And the idea of someone else getting to make those decisions (decisions which I do truly believe can have lasting effects on temperament and health) for my child during those formative months makes me want to scream out in frustration.
I understand that this is just the way it is. And that I can’t control every aspect of my children’s lives. But why? Why must I concede where others don’t? Why can’t I have the chance to provide my child with the best I possibly can from the moment they are conceived? Why can’t I love and nurture and protect them to the best of my ability from day one? Why do I have to rely on somebody else to do what I so desperately long to do? Why do I have to hope, and pray, and plead for them to do it “right”, while I stand on the sidelines helpless and unsure of everything?
These are my fears. Or at least, a small peak at what is in actuality a much longer list.
Fears and frustrations that confuse the hell out of me, and leave me wondering what exactly they say about me.
It’s possible that because I’m afraid that I couldn’t love any child, I don’t actually deserve to be a mother at all.
It’s possible that this really does become a case of beggars can’t be choosers, and my selfishness dictates me unworthy.
It’s possible that I will never overcome these fears, and in turn, that I will never be a mother.
I guess at some point I’m just going to have to decide what scares me more.
A life spent child free.
Or one risking what feels like everything on adoption.
March 20, 2011
In The Blink Of An Eye
I’ve been thinking a lot about Japan.
About the devastation. The lives lost. And the still incredibly precarious nuclear situation.
Honestly, I’ve been finding myself shying away from the stories. Hearing about what is happening over there is just heartbreaking to me. But it’s also terrifying. Worse than any scary movie I have ever lost sleep over. Because… because it could happen anywhere. At any time. Without warning.
In the blink of an eye, the world as we know it could shift and change and become something far more damaged and broken than we could ever fully prepare ourselves for.
I can’t help but think about those in Japan currently trying to rebuild, all the while having no real concept of how things are going to turn out with this nuclear crisis. Those risking their own lives in the hopes of saving others. An entire nation of people banding together in an effort to make it through this crisis still intact.
And then I think about all the disasters in the last year alone. The floods in Australia. The earthquakes in New Zealand. And now this. It all just seems like too much. Too much destruction. Too many lives lost. Too many sad stories.
It could happen anywhere. The places we live and call home could be destroyed tomorrow, leaving only a lucky few behind to collect the pieces. Would we all be as resilient as the people of Japan? As determined to move forward?
It kind of puts things into perspective. As much as any of us think we’re struggling, it can always get worse. In the blink of an eye, the rug can be completely pulled out from underneath you.
I can’t think about it too much, because it honestly gets my heart racing in a panicked way that I don’t like at all. But… it’s enough to make you want to appreciate the small things. The fact that the sun is out with not a cloud in sight slowly working to melt the snow away. The knock on wood moment when you narrowly avoid what could have been a pretty good car accident. The people in your life who are always there to make you smile or wipe away your tears.
Life is short. And in the blink of an eye, it could get even shorter.
And right about now, I’m questioning my innate desire to live places that are clearly plagued by major fault lines.
But there is so much beauty to be found here. To be found in this world. To be found even in the devastation of Japan, as people come together to rebuild and help each other in whatever ways they can.
In the blink of an eye, everything can change.
Which I guess just kind of makes you want to be that much more appreciative of today.
About the devastation. The lives lost. And the still incredibly precarious nuclear situation.
Honestly, I’ve been finding myself shying away from the stories. Hearing about what is happening over there is just heartbreaking to me. But it’s also terrifying. Worse than any scary movie I have ever lost sleep over. Because… because it could happen anywhere. At any time. Without warning.
In the blink of an eye, the world as we know it could shift and change and become something far more damaged and broken than we could ever fully prepare ourselves for.
(Courtesy of wishididntknow.com)
I can’t help but think about those in Japan currently trying to rebuild, all the while having no real concept of how things are going to turn out with this nuclear crisis. Those risking their own lives in the hopes of saving others. An entire nation of people banding together in an effort to make it through this crisis still intact.
And then I think about all the disasters in the last year alone. The floods in Australia. The earthquakes in New Zealand. And now this. It all just seems like too much. Too much destruction. Too many lives lost. Too many sad stories.
It could happen anywhere. The places we live and call home could be destroyed tomorrow, leaving only a lucky few behind to collect the pieces. Would we all be as resilient as the people of Japan? As determined to move forward?
It kind of puts things into perspective. As much as any of us think we’re struggling, it can always get worse. In the blink of an eye, the rug can be completely pulled out from underneath you.
I can’t think about it too much, because it honestly gets my heart racing in a panicked way that I don’t like at all. But… it’s enough to make you want to appreciate the small things. The fact that the sun is out with not a cloud in sight slowly working to melt the snow away. The knock on wood moment when you narrowly avoid what could have been a pretty good car accident. The people in your life who are always there to make you smile or wipe away your tears.
Life is short. And in the blink of an eye, it could get even shorter.
And right about now, I’m questioning my innate desire to live places that are clearly plagued by major fault lines.
But there is so much beauty to be found here. To be found in this world. To be found even in the devastation of Japan, as people come together to rebuild and help each other in whatever ways they can.
In the blink of an eye, everything can change.
Which I guess just kind of makes you want to be that much more appreciative of today.
March 19, 2011
The Shakes
My muscles feel like Jello.
Oooey goooey jiggly Jello.
For the most part, boot camp has been pretty low key. One of the reasons I signed up for this boot camp in particular was because it was low impact (which me and my still healing body needed), and because the first week was supposed to be fairly easy. The goal is to teach the basics this week, and then ramp up the intensity next week. After 3 days of attending, I can attest to the fact that there wasn’t a moment where I worried I was pushing myself too hard. Yes, there have been a few times when I have felt the burn. A few poses where I have silently begged for the instructor to tell us to go back to neutral and take a breath. But for the most part – those have each been few and far between.
Until today.
With the boot camp, we also received 2 free sessions in a regular class. The goals is likely to give us a taste of what typical classes consist of before we decide whether or not to sign on for a complete Pilate’s membership.
This morning, against my better judgment (and the side of me that wants only to sleep in on Saturdays), I crawled out of bed and threw on my sports bra and yoga pants. I figured I should head down to the studio and check out my first real class.
Let me tell you – I was not prepared.
It was still a class for beginners. One meant to take things at a slower pace and make accommodations for those who aren’t quite “there” yet. But while I have been at the very least towards the middle of the group in boot camp, I quickly lagged behind in this class.
It was a straight hour of consistent movements and muscle engaging. Yes, it was Pilates rather than an hour on the treadmill (so the truth is that I still barely broke a sweat) but… that does not mean it wasn’t the most intense workout I’ve had in a very long time.
And as a result – my legs are still shaking. Four hours later.
I strained, and pushed, and struggled through poses I’m not entirely sure I’m designed for. For the first time all week I felt an ache near my left incision and had to temper what I was doing with consideration of the fact that I just had major abdominal surgery 5 weeks ago. I was forgetting to breathe, and focusing on muscle groups I’m fairly sure I forgot about a long time ago.
But I did it. I still have the shakes, but I did it.
And even though I now feel like I want to spend the rest of the day curled up in bed being as lazy as humanly possible, I’m proud of myself.
And I am fastly falling in love with Pilates.
It feels good to use my muscles again. To push myself beyond what I think I can handle. To pinpoint certain areas and focus all of my attention on engaging.
It even feels good to have the shakes.
But now, I’m taking two days off.
Next boot camp class isn’t until Monday.
And this girl?
She may just need all of that time to get her muscles to stop feeling like Jello.
Oooey goooey jiggly Jello.
For the most part, boot camp has been pretty low key. One of the reasons I signed up for this boot camp in particular was because it was low impact (which me and my still healing body needed), and because the first week was supposed to be fairly easy. The goal is to teach the basics this week, and then ramp up the intensity next week. After 3 days of attending, I can attest to the fact that there wasn’t a moment where I worried I was pushing myself too hard. Yes, there have been a few times when I have felt the burn. A few poses where I have silently begged for the instructor to tell us to go back to neutral and take a breath. But for the most part – those have each been few and far between.
Until today.
With the boot camp, we also received 2 free sessions in a regular class. The goals is likely to give us a taste of what typical classes consist of before we decide whether or not to sign on for a complete Pilate’s membership.
This morning, against my better judgment (and the side of me that wants only to sleep in on Saturdays), I crawled out of bed and threw on my sports bra and yoga pants. I figured I should head down to the studio and check out my first real class.
Let me tell you – I was not prepared.
It was still a class for beginners. One meant to take things at a slower pace and make accommodations for those who aren’t quite “there” yet. But while I have been at the very least towards the middle of the group in boot camp, I quickly lagged behind in this class.
It was a straight hour of consistent movements and muscle engaging. Yes, it was Pilates rather than an hour on the treadmill (so the truth is that I still barely broke a sweat) but… that does not mean it wasn’t the most intense workout I’ve had in a very long time.
And as a result – my legs are still shaking. Four hours later.
I strained, and pushed, and struggled through poses I’m not entirely sure I’m designed for. For the first time all week I felt an ache near my left incision and had to temper what I was doing with consideration of the fact that I just had major abdominal surgery 5 weeks ago. I was forgetting to breathe, and focusing on muscle groups I’m fairly sure I forgot about a long time ago.
But I did it. I still have the shakes, but I did it.
And even though I now feel like I want to spend the rest of the day curled up in bed being as lazy as humanly possible, I’m proud of myself.
And I am fastly falling in love with Pilates.
It feels good to use my muscles again. To push myself beyond what I think I can handle. To pinpoint certain areas and focus all of my attention on engaging.
It even feels good to have the shakes.
But now, I’m taking two days off.
Next boot camp class isn’t until Monday.
And this girl?
She may just need all of that time to get her muscles to stop feeling like Jello.
March 18, 2011
My Face Needs Help
Lately, when I look in the mirror, I see an older woman.
I feel like my skin has become dull. My eyes tired. And my general appearance just worn.
In the last 3 years, I feel like I have aged 10.
I know that part of it (or maybe even most of it) is just the stress of the last few years. Then you add in 3 surgeries and all the drugs tied into IVF and treating endometriosis, and it all makes sense. But… something has to be done.
My face needs help.
I look at most of my friends, and as far as I can tell none of them have aged in the same ways I have.
Worse still, I compare pictures from just a few years ago to pictures from now, and I have to stop myself from calling salons and pricing out skin peels.
Need examples?
OK, here is a picture from this last weekend:
And here is a picture from right before I moved away from San Diego:
Now, to be fair, I think I should point out that in that second picture I have no makeup on at all beyond mascara. In the first, I have slathered on a decent amount of concealer to cover up the rampant breakouts I’m still getting from my now out of control hormones, and the dullness of skin that just screams “blah” right now.
Still, even with the use of makeup in the first picture, I feel like I am seeing much more than 3 years added.
So I repeat: My face needs help.
My entire life I have used cheap products. Things I can buy at Walgreens on the fly. I don’t have much of a skin care regime at all. I wash day and night and I use moisturizer, but that’s about the extent of that. And I have never paid much attention to what cleanser or moisturizer I’m using in the process.
It was a few weeks ago that I decided something needed to change though. And that I would happily splurge on something more pricey than what I can get at the corner store, so long as it’s something that could give me a few of those years back. A friend who is an Arbonne consultant offered to set me up with some samples to see if we could find some products I liked, and last night I got the package in the mail. I am beyond excited to start trying the different things in an attempt to quell the breakouts I’ve been plagued with over the last year (which is ironic, since I don’t remember having a single pimple in my teenage years - you've got to love what trying to conceive does to your face) while also putting some life back into my skin.
I want to not look so damn tired all the time. So… old.
And I realize that some of you are probably rolling your eyes right now. Thinking that the picture from this weekend doesn’t look so bad. But you don’t see what I see. The difference I notice when I look in the mirror.
So to help you see that, I’m going to take a leap and show you a photo. A photo of me with absolutely zero makeup. It’s not the first time I’ve ever done that (there was the whole firefighter incident, and then even worse – the just out of surgery pic), but it is the first time it’s been so close and so intentional…
In my mad dash to take a picture of myself (in my workout gear because I have boot camp tonight thankyouverymuch), I’m pretty sure I forgot to smile. Sorry about that - I'm not angry, I promise! But seriously, that is just an awkward thing to be doing!
Hopefully in a few months, this picture can serve as a “before” shot. Something to depict a remarkable transformation where I get the last 3 years of my life back in my face, even if nowhere else.
Heck, at this point I would even settle for just the last year.
My face needs some help.
And hopefully something in that little bag of tricks I got last night will turn out to be just what the doctor ordered!
I feel like my skin has become dull. My eyes tired. And my general appearance just worn.
In the last 3 years, I feel like I have aged 10.
I know that part of it (or maybe even most of it) is just the stress of the last few years. Then you add in 3 surgeries and all the drugs tied into IVF and treating endometriosis, and it all makes sense. But… something has to be done.
My face needs help.
I look at most of my friends, and as far as I can tell none of them have aged in the same ways I have.
Worse still, I compare pictures from just a few years ago to pictures from now, and I have to stop myself from calling salons and pricing out skin peels.
Need examples?
OK, here is a picture from this last weekend:
And here is a picture from right before I moved away from San Diego:
Now, to be fair, I think I should point out that in that second picture I have no makeup on at all beyond mascara. In the first, I have slathered on a decent amount of concealer to cover up the rampant breakouts I’m still getting from my now out of control hormones, and the dullness of skin that just screams “blah” right now.
Still, even with the use of makeup in the first picture, I feel like I am seeing much more than 3 years added.
So I repeat: My face needs help.
My entire life I have used cheap products. Things I can buy at Walgreens on the fly. I don’t have much of a skin care regime at all. I wash day and night and I use moisturizer, but that’s about the extent of that. And I have never paid much attention to what cleanser or moisturizer I’m using in the process.
It was a few weeks ago that I decided something needed to change though. And that I would happily splurge on something more pricey than what I can get at the corner store, so long as it’s something that could give me a few of those years back. A friend who is an Arbonne consultant offered to set me up with some samples to see if we could find some products I liked, and last night I got the package in the mail. I am beyond excited to start trying the different things in an attempt to quell the breakouts I’ve been plagued with over the last year (which is ironic, since I don’t remember having a single pimple in my teenage years - you've got to love what trying to conceive does to your face) while also putting some life back into my skin.
I want to not look so damn tired all the time. So… old.
And I realize that some of you are probably rolling your eyes right now. Thinking that the picture from this weekend doesn’t look so bad. But you don’t see what I see. The difference I notice when I look in the mirror.
So to help you see that, I’m going to take a leap and show you a photo. A photo of me with absolutely zero makeup. It’s not the first time I’ve ever done that (there was the whole firefighter incident, and then even worse – the just out of surgery pic), but it is the first time it’s been so close and so intentional…
In my mad dash to take a picture of myself (in my workout gear because I have boot camp tonight thankyouverymuch), I’m pretty sure I forgot to smile. Sorry about that - I'm not angry, I promise! But seriously, that is just an awkward thing to be doing!
Hopefully in a few months, this picture can serve as a “before” shot. Something to depict a remarkable transformation where I get the last 3 years of my life back in my face, even if nowhere else.
Heck, at this point I would even settle for just the last year.
My face needs some help.
And hopefully something in that little bag of tricks I got last night will turn out to be just what the doctor ordered!
March 17, 2011
If It Looks Like a Duck
We all have things that we’re self conscious of.
Those little nuances that make us us, but that we oftentimes wish didn’t.
I for one am knock kneed.
And if we’re being completely honest – also a little pigeon toed.
Sometimes, a lot pigeon toed.
It was something that was known almost from the time I was born, and my parents took me to see a specialist when I was maybe three or four years old. I guess most of the time this corrects itself with age, but with me - no such luck.
The official diagnosis had something to do with the fact that my hips were in their sockets wrong. I could call my dad and ask him for more details now, but I would bet $100 that he wouldn’t remember anymore. And obviously I have very little recollection of the entire event myself, considering how young I was. I vaguely remember being told to walk up and down a hallway while some old guy watched me, and then years later having to pretty much strip down for a series of uncomfortable x-rays where they had me bend into a bunch of awkward positions. That’s the extent of my memories of that though.
In the end, nothing was done. No braces or physical therapy. I’m pretty sure it was simply decided that the situation wasn’t exactly repairable without major interventions, and since I was walking and functioning fine – major interventions would have been overkill.
Either that, or my parents were just too cheap to fix my legs.
In which case – thanks a lot.
In the long run, it hasn’t ever presented much of a problem beyond the basic cosmetic issues. There was that one time in Junior High when I tripped over my own knees in track and field and landed in the sand pit, but besides that… my biggest concern has always been simply how it looks.
Over the years, I trained myself to turn my feet out when I walked. Now, unless I’m incredibly tired or a little bit tipsy – that tends to do the trick. People really only pick up on it if I’m sitting on the ground (since I tend to sit a little differently), or if they are trained to pay attention to people’s bodies (for instance, both Teeny and Dr. PT picked up on it on my very first appointments with them).
Still… it’s something I have always been self conscious of. When I was younger, I am embarrassed to admit that I was the proud member of a group of “mean girls”. Like all junior high cliques though, this group had a vicious habit of turning on each other. And when it was my turn to be the butt of all jokes – it was often my legs that took the biggest hits. I still distinctly remember one girl who would turn her toes and knees in, stick her butt out, and quack up and down the aisle of the school bus like a duck, all the while saying over and over that she was me.
Fun times.
As an adult, I have found ways to hide this deformity of mine from most people. I intentionally never wear shorts, even when I was living in Arizona. If people can't see my knees, they don't pick up on it as quickly. I also always make a conscious effort to pay attention to where my feet are pointing when I’m standing up. I have a tendency to let them turn in when I'm tired or uncomfortable, so I try to always be aware of that and keep it from happening.
The vast majority of the time I would bet that most people would never even guess that there was something wrong with my legs. Which is exactly how I like it.
But last night at boot camp, my dirty little secret became pretty blatantly clear.
We were working on a new exercise that involved having your feet on a bar, heels touching and knees still firmly placed together while we pushed in and out. I couldn’t do it though. I physically couldn’t keep both my knees and my heels together while moving back and forth. My knees pushed my heels apart every time.
The instructor came by and tried to help. I could see her looking at my legs and trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. Puzzling over how it was that I couldn’t seem to get the motion right.
And then suddenly, the light bulb went on and she proclaimed “Oh! You’re knock-kneed! Don’t worry about this one then. Just do…” and she named off some other exercise I have already since forgotten.
I’m pretty sure I turned beat red after having been found out. I had never even considered for a second that my legs may hold me back in any way in Pilates. Or that the moves involved would make my dirty little secret so clear to others.
I guess there are some things about ourselves that we just can’t hide all the time, no matter how hard we try. And in my case; if it looks like a duck…
I sat stewing in my own embarrassment for a few minutes longer. Cursing my deformed legs and the mean girl who once upon a time made me loathe them so.
But then… A girl a few machines over tooted.
Multiple times.
I can’t say I blame the girl. We were bending and twisting and thrusting our butts in the air. I’m sure it’s only natural.
It probably could just have easily have happened to me.
But the fact of the matter is – it didn’t happen to me. It happened to her.
And the mean girl inside of me let out a little giggle. In my head of course. Because doing so out loud would have just been cruel. And incredibly immature.
I may be 12 sometimes, but I’m not a jerk.
Still… It really put things into perspective for me.
I may be the girl whose duck legs keep her from doing certain Pilates moves for life, but…
At least I’m not the girl who farted in class.
It wasn't me.
Those little nuances that make us us, but that we oftentimes wish didn’t.
I for one am knock kneed.
And if we’re being completely honest – also a little pigeon toed.
Sometimes, a lot pigeon toed.
It was something that was known almost from the time I was born, and my parents took me to see a specialist when I was maybe three or four years old. I guess most of the time this corrects itself with age, but with me - no such luck.
The official diagnosis had something to do with the fact that my hips were in their sockets wrong. I could call my dad and ask him for more details now, but I would bet $100 that he wouldn’t remember anymore. And obviously I have very little recollection of the entire event myself, considering how young I was. I vaguely remember being told to walk up and down a hallway while some old guy watched me, and then years later having to pretty much strip down for a series of uncomfortable x-rays where they had me bend into a bunch of awkward positions. That’s the extent of my memories of that though.
In the end, nothing was done. No braces or physical therapy. I’m pretty sure it was simply decided that the situation wasn’t exactly repairable without major interventions, and since I was walking and functioning fine – major interventions would have been overkill.
Either that, or my parents were just too cheap to fix my legs.
In which case – thanks a lot.
In the long run, it hasn’t ever presented much of a problem beyond the basic cosmetic issues. There was that one time in Junior High when I tripped over my own knees in track and field and landed in the sand pit, but besides that… my biggest concern has always been simply how it looks.
Over the years, I trained myself to turn my feet out when I walked. Now, unless I’m incredibly tired or a little bit tipsy – that tends to do the trick. People really only pick up on it if I’m sitting on the ground (since I tend to sit a little differently), or if they are trained to pay attention to people’s bodies (for instance, both Teeny and Dr. PT picked up on it on my very first appointments with them).
Still… it’s something I have always been self conscious of. When I was younger, I am embarrassed to admit that I was the proud member of a group of “mean girls”. Like all junior high cliques though, this group had a vicious habit of turning on each other. And when it was my turn to be the butt of all jokes – it was often my legs that took the biggest hits. I still distinctly remember one girl who would turn her toes and knees in, stick her butt out, and quack up and down the aisle of the school bus like a duck, all the while saying over and over that she was me.
Fun times.
As an adult, I have found ways to hide this deformity of mine from most people. I intentionally never wear shorts, even when I was living in Arizona. If people can't see my knees, they don't pick up on it as quickly. I also always make a conscious effort to pay attention to where my feet are pointing when I’m standing up. I have a tendency to let them turn in when I'm tired or uncomfortable, so I try to always be aware of that and keep it from happening.
The vast majority of the time I would bet that most people would never even guess that there was something wrong with my legs. Which is exactly how I like it.
But last night at boot camp, my dirty little secret became pretty blatantly clear.
We were working on a new exercise that involved having your feet on a bar, heels touching and knees still firmly placed together while we pushed in and out. I couldn’t do it though. I physically couldn’t keep both my knees and my heels together while moving back and forth. My knees pushed my heels apart every time.
The instructor came by and tried to help. I could see her looking at my legs and trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. Puzzling over how it was that I couldn’t seem to get the motion right.
And then suddenly, the light bulb went on and she proclaimed “Oh! You’re knock-kneed! Don’t worry about this one then. Just do…” and she named off some other exercise I have already since forgotten.
I’m pretty sure I turned beat red after having been found out. I had never even considered for a second that my legs may hold me back in any way in Pilates. Or that the moves involved would make my dirty little secret so clear to others.
I guess there are some things about ourselves that we just can’t hide all the time, no matter how hard we try. And in my case; if it looks like a duck…
I sat stewing in my own embarrassment for a few minutes longer. Cursing my deformed legs and the mean girl who once upon a time made me loathe them so.
But then… A girl a few machines over tooted.
Multiple times.
I can’t say I blame the girl. We were bending and twisting and thrusting our butts in the air. I’m sure it’s only natural.
It probably could just have easily have happened to me.
But the fact of the matter is – it didn’t happen to me. It happened to her.
And the mean girl inside of me let out a little giggle. In my head of course. Because doing so out loud would have just been cruel. And incredibly immature.
I may be 12 sometimes, but I’m not a jerk.
Still… It really put things into perspective for me.
I may be the girl whose duck legs keep her from doing certain Pilates moves for life, but…
At least I’m not the girl who farted in class.
It wasn't me.
March 16, 2011
We ALL Deserve That
It shouldn’t come as any surprise to anyone that I'm kind of a fan of The Bachelor.
I mean, once upon a time I was totally destined to be one of those girls vying for a rose after all.
I don’t really ever talk about the show here, mostly because… well, because it’s pretty much the same show season after season.
I know that. It is contrived, and manipulated, and only as real as reality television can get.
I get it.
But I still love it. And I still watch every episode of every season with a gentle mix of shock, horror, and the pattering heart of a girl who just wants to see someone on TV finding real and lasting love.
And besides, how could I not be hooked when every rose ceremony is “the most dramatic rose ceremony EVER!”
Because of boot camp this week though, I didn’t get to delve into the finale until last night. And the truth is – I still haven’t finished the after the final rose episode.
I have a lot of thoughts about this season. A lot of hopes for Emily and Brad, and also a lot of questions.
The truth is – none of those things are really relevant here. At the end of the day, what we see is reality television. And I’m not sure if any of us ever really knows what is and is not real there. I’m not sure we ever really will. So dissecting all the ins and outs of the show here would just be kind of pointless.
And besides, that’s what the community is for!
The only reason I’m bringing it up at all is because last night as I was watching Brad discuss the remaining two girls with his family, he actually said something that struck me.
Probably the most profound thing I have ever heard during all my years of viewing the most mindless entertainment of all time.
He was telling his mom how happy he was. How truly in love he felt. And his mom said to him “I’m so glad! You deserve that!”
To which Brad responded “Yeah, well… We ALL deserve that.”
I stopped and stared at the screen. Liking Brad more in that moment than I probably had the entire season.
We DO all deserve that. That happy, in love, forever connected feeling.
Unfortunately, I find myself worrying that that feeling is often all too fleeting. As was revealed by just the brief glances I got at the after the final rose special before jetting off to work today.
I know very few people who have actually made it work. Very few couples who years down the line are still happy. Still in love. Still feeling forever connected.
And it makes me sad. And hesitant. I want to believe in love. In happily ever after. In having someone in my life who would forgive me all my craziness simply because they loved me. Someone who I would be willing to do the same for in return.
I want to believe it’s out there. But so often I really find myself questioning. Looking at the couples I know and the examples I’ve been given and wondering if it’s even possible. If it even exists out there for me at all.
Knowing only that I am a girl who could never find love on TV. Because as I watched Emily describe all of her current setbacks I just knew – those same exact things would trip me up as well. No matter how prepared I was going into it.
So, television romance is out.
Not that it was ever really an option, but you know… I like to cover my bases.
I want to believe that we do all deserve that happily ever after forever love.
I want to believe that I deserve it too.
And I want to believe that even more than just deserving it, it’s actually out there. Available for the taking.
But life is so full of ups and downs. Of starts and stops. Of on-again, off-again. I can’t help but wonder.
We do all deserve that.
But does that necessarily mean that we all get it?
Or that it’s even meant to last when we do?
I actually really hope Brad and Emily make it work. Mostly because, I love love. I love seeing people pull through tough circumstances and find their way right back to each other. I love knowing that sometimes even when things look like they're on the rocks, there is a way to redeem what was there in the end.
I want to see them make it work. I want to see them embrace that love. I want to see them find their happily ever after.
Because at the end of the day?
We ALL deserve that.
And I'm all for another example of someone getting it.
I mean, once upon a time I was totally destined to be one of those girls vying for a rose after all.
I don’t really ever talk about the show here, mostly because… well, because it’s pretty much the same show season after season.
I know that. It is contrived, and manipulated, and only as real as reality television can get.
I get it.
But I still love it. And I still watch every episode of every season with a gentle mix of shock, horror, and the pattering heart of a girl who just wants to see someone on TV finding real and lasting love.
And besides, how could I not be hooked when every rose ceremony is “the most dramatic rose ceremony EVER!”
Because of boot camp this week though, I didn’t get to delve into the finale until last night. And the truth is – I still haven’t finished the after the final rose episode.
I have a lot of thoughts about this season. A lot of hopes for Emily and Brad, and also a lot of questions.
The truth is – none of those things are really relevant here. At the end of the day, what we see is reality television. And I’m not sure if any of us ever really knows what is and is not real there. I’m not sure we ever really will. So dissecting all the ins and outs of the show here would just be kind of pointless.
And besides, that’s what the community is for!
The only reason I’m bringing it up at all is because last night as I was watching Brad discuss the remaining two girls with his family, he actually said something that struck me.
Probably the most profound thing I have ever heard during all my years of viewing the most mindless entertainment of all time.
He was telling his mom how happy he was. How truly in love he felt. And his mom said to him “I’m so glad! You deserve that!”
To which Brad responded “Yeah, well… We ALL deserve that.”
I stopped and stared at the screen. Liking Brad more in that moment than I probably had the entire season.
We DO all deserve that. That happy, in love, forever connected feeling.
Unfortunately, I find myself worrying that that feeling is often all too fleeting. As was revealed by just the brief glances I got at the after the final rose special before jetting off to work today.
I know very few people who have actually made it work. Very few couples who years down the line are still happy. Still in love. Still feeling forever connected.
And it makes me sad. And hesitant. I want to believe in love. In happily ever after. In having someone in my life who would forgive me all my craziness simply because they loved me. Someone who I would be willing to do the same for in return.
I want to believe it’s out there. But so often I really find myself questioning. Looking at the couples I know and the examples I’ve been given and wondering if it’s even possible. If it even exists out there for me at all.
Knowing only that I am a girl who could never find love on TV. Because as I watched Emily describe all of her current setbacks I just knew – those same exact things would trip me up as well. No matter how prepared I was going into it.
So, television romance is out.
Not that it was ever really an option, but you know… I like to cover my bases.
I want to believe that we do all deserve that happily ever after forever love.
I want to believe that I deserve it too.
And I want to believe that even more than just deserving it, it’s actually out there. Available for the taking.
But life is so full of ups and downs. Of starts and stops. Of on-again, off-again. I can’t help but wonder.
We do all deserve that.
But does that necessarily mean that we all get it?
Or that it’s even meant to last when we do?
I actually really hope Brad and Emily make it work. Mostly because, I love love. I love seeing people pull through tough circumstances and find their way right back to each other. I love knowing that sometimes even when things look like they're on the rocks, there is a way to redeem what was there in the end.
I want to see them make it work. I want to see them embrace that love. I want to see them find their happily ever after.
Because at the end of the day?
We ALL deserve that.
And I'm all for another example of someone getting it.
March 15, 2011
Anti-Climactic
Yes, I said it.
And you know what I’m talking about.
I had my cootchie PT today, and I know that at least a few of you have been waiting on the edges of your seats for a full detail report.
You should probably know that the devirginator just so happened to be calling me literally as I was walking out the door. The boy simply could not wait another second without hearing exactly what had gone down. And I know that some of you have been feeling the same way.
But first – a totally random coincidence:
Last night at Pilate’s boot camp, we received a packet with a few handouts. One of those handouts happened to be a Pelvic Floor Self Assessment. Imagine my surprise to see something like that in with my Pilates paperwork just a day before my dreaded appointment.
Apparently Pilates has a lot to do with the pelvic floor muscles, and kegel's especially. So not only am I right where I need to be, but I also would have gotten a gentle push towards PT last night even if I hadn’t already taken the plunge and set up the appointment.
Because it turns out that on a list of 10 qualifiers meant to help new members assess whether or not they may need PT for their cootchie – I was able to check “yes” next to 7 of them.
I almost had to start laughing right then and there. Instead I was simply left shaking my head and thinking “OK, I get it. My vagina is broken. I’m going to get that looked at. I swear.”
So today, at the start of my appointment, I pulled out that sheet and handed it to Dr. PT. She laughed too, but seemed genuinely impressed that the Pilates studio was handing out this information. She even asked me if she could make a copy of it.
After that though – things started to get a little awkward.
First, she asked me about sex. Yes, sex.
For the record – I like sex. I have always liked sex. In the last few years I’ve struggled with what my faith tells me about premarital sex, and what my body tells me about it, but the truth is that I still genuinely question whether or not I will ever get married at all. Given that, and the fact that this kind of feels like a bridge that was crossed a long time ago for me... I'm really not sure there is much going back on the fact that I'm a fairly sexual person.
Within reason of course. It’s not like I’m out humping strangers on the street or anything!
Despite the times when I may wish that I could.
But yes, I enjoy sex.
Unless… Unless a guy is too big. Or, if we’re being really honest, even if they're average.
There is no easy way to say this, but I find sex far more enjoyable when my partner is… less than endowed.
It’s been a long standing joke amongst my friends and I. I’m the girl who likes small penises. And trust me – there is no good way to tell a guy that. Nothing about those words that makes him feel better about his situation. In fact, I would bet that any guy I’ve had a history of good sex with in the past would probably cringe to read these words right now.
I’m sorry boys. I really am. But seriously – I like you just the way you are!
I actually thought this was normal for years. That the whole “size matters” thing was just a myth. I couldn’t imagine any girl enjoying a sexual encounter with a larger guy. I knew only how much it hurt me to be with even average men. The second things get too deep – I can’t breathe and it stops being fun.
It was only recently that I realized that no – everyone else was not lying about what they liked. I was just an oddball. Someone who had pain when others didn’t.
It was honestly just me.
And this is one of those things that now makes me wonder if perhaps endometriosis wasn’t always an underlying condition. One that hadn’t yet fully manifested, but was there lurking in the background all along. Leading me to walk away from more than one possible relationship when it became clear that what the guy was packing was beyond what I was able to accommodate.
And now that I’ve completely unleashed a very private fact all over my blog, I’m going to get back on point.
Because yes, there is a point.
The reason I bring this up is because one of the first questions she asked me was to rate myself on the following scale:
I sat there and thought for a second, and then said (dead serious) “Well… It depends. If he has a small penis, then I’m a 1. If we’re talking average, then I’m probably a 2. But anything above average, and I am definitely a 3.”
Dr. PT just stared at me for a second. I’m pretty sure she was dumbfounded by my answer. I would bet money that she even thought to herself “Did this girl really just say that?” Because after what seemed like far too long of a pause, she let out a little laugh and then moved on.
Hey – don’t ask me about sex if you don’t want an honest answer!
She then had me strip down and put on a pair of loaner gym shorts, which seemed a little odd – but I was more than happy to at least still have pants on.
From there, she had me walk for her, stand (precariously) on one foot and then the other, and complete a series of other exercises that seemed simplistic enough in theory, but left me stumbling just the same and wondering what the heck my ability to hold one leg still without moving the other had to do with my pelvic floor.
After all this observation, she sat me down and explained that she wouldn’t be doing any internal work today. She said that she prefers to wait a few sessions for a patient to be comfortable first, and that with cases like mine (where there is an underlying condition causing the problem to begin with, rather than just a simple muscle pull) manual stimulation isn’t typically super effective anyway.
So it looks like there may be no happy ending after all.
Which I have to say ladies, is something I am completely OK with! Especially today. The idea of anyone touching me anywhere while I am actively bleeding is really just one of those things that makes me want to shudder a little. And not in a good way.
She had me lie back on the table, and felt around my exterior points. There was a lot of near vagina touching, which wasn’t exactly comfortable, but was no more awkward than going to the gynecologist. She found a lot of the areas where I just tend to be tender all the time, and explained to me that even those points directly under my rib cage where I almost always flinch when touched are linked back to those pelvic floor muscles.
Who knew?
Then she had me sit up and gave me her assessment of my overall issues.
She explained that she suspected I had an overabundance of cartilage, and that people with this overabundance tend to be more clumsy (check), because their body doesn’t give them the same signals about their overall parameters that most people get.
Apparently there isn’t much that can be done to fix this, but hey – at least I feel like there is now an explanation for every wall I’ve ever walked directly into!
She also said that people like me tend to be at their best when they have an active lifestyle. That they typically feel better both mentally and physically if they have a regular athletic routine, and that they need exercise more than most people simply to maintain their own sanity.
Again, this describes me to a tee. I was always happiest when I was active and moving, and I’ve long suspected that my deviation from an active lifestyle over the last two years has only led to me feeling worse. Which I think could probably be true for most people, but it was just that much more motivation for me to get back in gear and reclaim my body as my own.
She then said that people with this excess cartilage (and she had a term for this, but it’s not something I can even kind of remember right now) are typically much more flexible (which is something she was able to assess during her exam of me – I will admit, I’ve always been proud of my flexibility!) but are also more prone to pain conditions in general.
None of this is really relevant to anything, except that I am always fascinated by the things doctors in different fields can tell me about my body and life just by looking at me.
And, she said it was information she would be able to use in determining how to best treat me from here.
At the end of the day though, the bulk of my problems now are the result of so much time spent clenching up in pain over the last 2 years. Endometriosis broke my vagina. And now I'll just need a little help fixing it.
We set up weekly appointments for now, and she said that she thinks I’ll be able to see a 50% improvement by the end of the year.
Yes, you read that right. Only a 50% improvement and it’s going to take a year.
I have to admit – my head spun at the idea of one more weekly appointment. I have an incredibly flexible job, and they are more than willing to allow me to use my lunches for doctor’s appointments, but… it just gets embarrassing. I feel like I have gone to the ends of the earth and back in an attempt to be functioning at my very best, but at what point do I put my foot down and say that normal people don’t see nearly as many specialists. Normal people see a doctor once or twice a year, and that’s just fine. Normal people definitely don’t have multiple standing appointments with a variety of practitioners though.
The truth is, I had surgery. This invasive, extreme, miracle surgery. I wanted that to be the end of all of this. I wanted that to be the point where I got my life back. To have it still being dictated by appointments and checkups is just kind of... disheartening.
I think I’m going to give it a few weeks and see how I’m feeling. Technically, this is a problem that I didn’t even realize I was having. Had Dr. Cook not specifically told me that I was having muscle spasms, I would have continued to attribute whatever the heck was going on down there with endometriosis and not thought much more about it. I like the idea of feeling good again. Normal even. But… I’m not sure I have much more patience or time to commit to this endeavor.
I’m tired of being the girl who uses all of her lunches for medical appointments.
But I’m going to give it an honest effort, I swear. Dr. PT said that some of the exercises she’s going to be giving me would be easier if I had a partner (thanks for rubbing it in Doc), but that we would get creative so that I could do most of them myself. So that I could become independent of her and start taking my care into my own hands.
Which is good to know, because I’m pretty sure that “Hey, my vagina is broken. Would you be able to help me work it out sometime?” wouldn’t be one of my better lines.
At the very least, it wouldn’t make me seem very lady like.
Cootchie PT is over.
And it was wholly anti-climactic.
But for all the build up and fear surrounding this appointment in the first place, I think I’m OK with anti-climactic.
Because a climax?
Well… That just would have been weird
And you know what I’m talking about.
I had my cootchie PT today, and I know that at least a few of you have been waiting on the edges of your seats for a full detail report.
You should probably know that the devirginator just so happened to be calling me literally as I was walking out the door. The boy simply could not wait another second without hearing exactly what had gone down. And I know that some of you have been feeling the same way.
But first – a totally random coincidence:
Last night at Pilate’s boot camp, we received a packet with a few handouts. One of those handouts happened to be a Pelvic Floor Self Assessment. Imagine my surprise to see something like that in with my Pilates paperwork just a day before my dreaded appointment.
Apparently Pilates has a lot to do with the pelvic floor muscles, and kegel's especially. So not only am I right where I need to be, but I also would have gotten a gentle push towards PT last night even if I hadn’t already taken the plunge and set up the appointment.
Because it turns out that on a list of 10 qualifiers meant to help new members assess whether or not they may need PT for their cootchie – I was able to check “yes” next to 7 of them.
I almost had to start laughing right then and there. Instead I was simply left shaking my head and thinking “OK, I get it. My vagina is broken. I’m going to get that looked at. I swear.”
So today, at the start of my appointment, I pulled out that sheet and handed it to Dr. PT. She laughed too, but seemed genuinely impressed that the Pilates studio was handing out this information. She even asked me if she could make a copy of it.
After that though – things started to get a little awkward.
First, she asked me about sex. Yes, sex.
For the record – I like sex. I have always liked sex. In the last few years I’ve struggled with what my faith tells me about premarital sex, and what my body tells me about it, but the truth is that I still genuinely question whether or not I will ever get married at all. Given that, and the fact that this kind of feels like a bridge that was crossed a long time ago for me... I'm really not sure there is much going back on the fact that I'm a fairly sexual person.
Within reason of course. It’s not like I’m out humping strangers on the street or anything!
Despite the times when I may wish that I could.
But yes, I enjoy sex.
Unless… Unless a guy is too big. Or, if we’re being really honest, even if they're average.
There is no easy way to say this, but I find sex far more enjoyable when my partner is… less than endowed.
(I sincerely hope my father and grandmother looked away about 200 words ago.)
It’s been a long standing joke amongst my friends and I. I’m the girl who likes small penises. And trust me – there is no good way to tell a guy that. Nothing about those words that makes him feel better about his situation. In fact, I would bet that any guy I’ve had a history of good sex with in the past would probably cringe to read these words right now.
I’m sorry boys. I really am. But seriously – I like you just the way you are!
I actually thought this was normal for years. That the whole “size matters” thing was just a myth. I couldn’t imagine any girl enjoying a sexual encounter with a larger guy. I knew only how much it hurt me to be with even average men. The second things get too deep – I can’t breathe and it stops being fun.
It was only recently that I realized that no – everyone else was not lying about what they liked. I was just an oddball. Someone who had pain when others didn’t.
It was honestly just me.
And this is one of those things that now makes me wonder if perhaps endometriosis wasn’t always an underlying condition. One that hadn’t yet fully manifested, but was there lurking in the background all along. Leading me to walk away from more than one possible relationship when it became clear that what the guy was packing was beyond what I was able to accommodate.
And now that I’ve completely unleashed a very private fact all over my blog, I’m going to get back on point.
Because yes, there is a point.
The reason I bring this up is because one of the first questions she asked me was to rate myself on the following scale:
1.) I sometimes find sex painful, but I don’t avoid it.
2.) I always find sex painful, and I sometimes avoid it.
3.) I always find sex painful, and I always avoid it.
I sat there and thought for a second, and then said (dead serious) “Well… It depends. If he has a small penis, then I’m a 1. If we’re talking average, then I’m probably a 2. But anything above average, and I am definitely a 3.”
Dr. PT just stared at me for a second. I’m pretty sure she was dumbfounded by my answer. I would bet money that she even thought to herself “Did this girl really just say that?” Because after what seemed like far too long of a pause, she let out a little laugh and then moved on.
Hey – don’t ask me about sex if you don’t want an honest answer!
She then had me strip down and put on a pair of loaner gym shorts, which seemed a little odd – but I was more than happy to at least still have pants on.
From there, she had me walk for her, stand (precariously) on one foot and then the other, and complete a series of other exercises that seemed simplistic enough in theory, but left me stumbling just the same and wondering what the heck my ability to hold one leg still without moving the other had to do with my pelvic floor.
After all this observation, she sat me down and explained that she wouldn’t be doing any internal work today. She said that she prefers to wait a few sessions for a patient to be comfortable first, and that with cases like mine (where there is an underlying condition causing the problem to begin with, rather than just a simple muscle pull) manual stimulation isn’t typically super effective anyway.
So it looks like there may be no happy ending after all.
Which I have to say ladies, is something I am completely OK with! Especially today. The idea of anyone touching me anywhere while I am actively bleeding is really just one of those things that makes me want to shudder a little. And not in a good way.
She had me lie back on the table, and felt around my exterior points. There was a lot of near vagina touching, which wasn’t exactly comfortable, but was no more awkward than going to the gynecologist. She found a lot of the areas where I just tend to be tender all the time, and explained to me that even those points directly under my rib cage where I almost always flinch when touched are linked back to those pelvic floor muscles.
Who knew?
Then she had me sit up and gave me her assessment of my overall issues.
She explained that she suspected I had an overabundance of cartilage, and that people with this overabundance tend to be more clumsy (check), because their body doesn’t give them the same signals about their overall parameters that most people get.
Apparently there isn’t much that can be done to fix this, but hey – at least I feel like there is now an explanation for every wall I’ve ever walked directly into!
She also said that people like me tend to be at their best when they have an active lifestyle. That they typically feel better both mentally and physically if they have a regular athletic routine, and that they need exercise more than most people simply to maintain their own sanity.
Again, this describes me to a tee. I was always happiest when I was active and moving, and I’ve long suspected that my deviation from an active lifestyle over the last two years has only led to me feeling worse. Which I think could probably be true for most people, but it was just that much more motivation for me to get back in gear and reclaim my body as my own.
She then said that people with this excess cartilage (and she had a term for this, but it’s not something I can even kind of remember right now) are typically much more flexible (which is something she was able to assess during her exam of me – I will admit, I’ve always been proud of my flexibility!) but are also more prone to pain conditions in general.
None of this is really relevant to anything, except that I am always fascinated by the things doctors in different fields can tell me about my body and life just by looking at me.
And, she said it was information she would be able to use in determining how to best treat me from here.
At the end of the day though, the bulk of my problems now are the result of so much time spent clenching up in pain over the last 2 years. Endometriosis broke my vagina. And now I'll just need a little help fixing it.
We set up weekly appointments for now, and she said that she thinks I’ll be able to see a 50% improvement by the end of the year.
Yes, you read that right. Only a 50% improvement and it’s going to take a year.
I have to admit – my head spun at the idea of one more weekly appointment. I have an incredibly flexible job, and they are more than willing to allow me to use my lunches for doctor’s appointments, but… it just gets embarrassing. I feel like I have gone to the ends of the earth and back in an attempt to be functioning at my very best, but at what point do I put my foot down and say that normal people don’t see nearly as many specialists. Normal people see a doctor once or twice a year, and that’s just fine. Normal people definitely don’t have multiple standing appointments with a variety of practitioners though.
The truth is, I had surgery. This invasive, extreme, miracle surgery. I wanted that to be the end of all of this. I wanted that to be the point where I got my life back. To have it still being dictated by appointments and checkups is just kind of... disheartening.
I think I’m going to give it a few weeks and see how I’m feeling. Technically, this is a problem that I didn’t even realize I was having. Had Dr. Cook not specifically told me that I was having muscle spasms, I would have continued to attribute whatever the heck was going on down there with endometriosis and not thought much more about it. I like the idea of feeling good again. Normal even. But… I’m not sure I have much more patience or time to commit to this endeavor.
I’m tired of being the girl who uses all of her lunches for medical appointments.
But I’m going to give it an honest effort, I swear. Dr. PT said that some of the exercises she’s going to be giving me would be easier if I had a partner (thanks for rubbing it in Doc), but that we would get creative so that I could do most of them myself. So that I could become independent of her and start taking my care into my own hands.
Which is good to know, because I’m pretty sure that “Hey, my vagina is broken. Would you be able to help me work it out sometime?” wouldn’t be one of my better lines.
At the very least, it wouldn’t make me seem very lady like.
Cootchie PT is over.
And it was wholly anti-climactic.
But for all the build up and fear surrounding this appointment in the first place, I think I’m OK with anti-climactic.
Because a climax?
Well… That just would have been weird
Breathe In, And Out
The first night of boot camp went well.
Except…
About mid way through I was overcome with the urge to cry.
An urge which I managed to keep at bay only until I was safely in my car with the keys in the ignition.
Then, the tears flowed.
And I don’t even know why. I had been having a good day. Laughing, socializing, and functioning just fine. No tears since sometime last week. Everything seemed fine.
But there I was in some beginning Pilates pose, and my heart began to ache.
I’m sure it was partially because I was tired. And cramping. My back hurt, and my stomach was tight. It might have had something to do with the fact that after it was too late, I realized I was bleeding through the back of my pants – a pad proving to be no match for the heavy first days of my period combined with the butt in the air poses I was twisting into with the instructors guidance.
(Which leads me to the side note that I think I am going to have to check out, and of course review, one of those Diva cup things… I want to talk to Dr. Cook about the possible retrograde bleeding from them first, but if he doesn’t think it will be an issue – I want to try. Because pads and me? We are not such good friends after last night.)
Of course, it's possible that my annoyance over The Waiter and his scandolous behavior caused me to snap a little (more at the statement his actions made about mankind as a whole for me, rather than because of any actual dissappointment over a boy I had just met and knew nothing about). Possible even still that he was the straw that broke the camels back in terms of my annoyance with men in general right now.
Or it could have had something to do with the two new pregnancy announcements that found their way to me yesterday. Announcements which I promptly pushed to the back of my mind, as though they didn't hurt at all. Because why should they hurt? Why should I feel anything but happiness for the joy of others?
Maybe it was just the release of finally doing something physical, no matter how low impact it actually was.
Perhaps that release broke open the dam, and the rest simply came tumbling through.
I don’t know. All I know is that I shouldn’t have been crying. I was moving. Just as I’ve been wanting to do. I was breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slowly. Calmly. Methodically. And according to the instructor – I was even picking up some of the nuances of Pilates like a champ.
Quite the feat, seeing as I almost never pick up new athletic activities with any kind of ease or finesse. I tend to lack coordination in a way that always leaves me dragging up the back of the pack in most classroom settings.
So, I don’t know what set me off. But it was a surge of emotions that was over as quickly as it began. By the time I got home, my legs were a little shaky, but my tears had subsided. I brushed my teeth, crawled into bed, did a little reading, and was feeling fine by the time I turned out the lights.
I’m wondering how long these unexpected bouts of heartbreak will continue to sneak up on me when I least expect them to appear. How frequently the feelings of having nothing will continue to plague my mind, even when I logically know it not to be the truth.
And I’m hoping that the concentrated breathing and movements of Pilates won’t continue to be a trigger for the same sinking feeling I felt mid-breathe under the calming words of an instructor who had no idea that I was on the verge of a breakdown right there on her floor.
Because I kind of liked what we learned last night.
I liked the way my body felt to be moving again. It was an easy night as far as actual physical exertion was concerned (we were told that this first week would be more about the basics, while next week will be more about increasing the intensity), but I liked it. I liked feeling like I was using my muscles again. Concentrating on tuning into what those muscles were telling me. And what they can become.
Still… I felt like a crazy lady for wanting to cry mid-kegel.
For now, I’m blaming it on my period though.
I mean, plenty of women get unexplainably emotional around their periods.
It's not just me.
Right?
Except…
About mid way through I was overcome with the urge to cry.
An urge which I managed to keep at bay only until I was safely in my car with the keys in the ignition.
Then, the tears flowed.
And I don’t even know why. I had been having a good day. Laughing, socializing, and functioning just fine. No tears since sometime last week. Everything seemed fine.
But there I was in some beginning Pilates pose, and my heart began to ache.
I’m sure it was partially because I was tired. And cramping. My back hurt, and my stomach was tight. It might have had something to do with the fact that after it was too late, I realized I was bleeding through the back of my pants – a pad proving to be no match for the heavy first days of my period combined with the butt in the air poses I was twisting into with the instructors guidance.
(Which leads me to the side note that I think I am going to have to check out, and of course review, one of those Diva cup things… I want to talk to Dr. Cook about the possible retrograde bleeding from them first, but if he doesn’t think it will be an issue – I want to try. Because pads and me? We are not such good friends after last night.)
Of course, it's possible that my annoyance over The Waiter and his scandolous behavior caused me to snap a little (more at the statement his actions made about mankind as a whole for me, rather than because of any actual dissappointment over a boy I had just met and knew nothing about). Possible even still that he was the straw that broke the camels back in terms of my annoyance with men in general right now.
Or it could have had something to do with the two new pregnancy announcements that found their way to me yesterday. Announcements which I promptly pushed to the back of my mind, as though they didn't hurt at all. Because why should they hurt? Why should I feel anything but happiness for the joy of others?
Maybe it was just the release of finally doing something physical, no matter how low impact it actually was.
Perhaps that release broke open the dam, and the rest simply came tumbling through.
I don’t know. All I know is that I shouldn’t have been crying. I was moving. Just as I’ve been wanting to do. I was breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slowly. Calmly. Methodically. And according to the instructor – I was even picking up some of the nuances of Pilates like a champ.
Quite the feat, seeing as I almost never pick up new athletic activities with any kind of ease or finesse. I tend to lack coordination in a way that always leaves me dragging up the back of the pack in most classroom settings.
So, I don’t know what set me off. But it was a surge of emotions that was over as quickly as it began. By the time I got home, my legs were a little shaky, but my tears had subsided. I brushed my teeth, crawled into bed, did a little reading, and was feeling fine by the time I turned out the lights.
I’m wondering how long these unexpected bouts of heartbreak will continue to sneak up on me when I least expect them to appear. How frequently the feelings of having nothing will continue to plague my mind, even when I logically know it not to be the truth.
And I’m hoping that the concentrated breathing and movements of Pilates won’t continue to be a trigger for the same sinking feeling I felt mid-breathe under the calming words of an instructor who had no idea that I was on the verge of a breakdown right there on her floor.
Because I kind of liked what we learned last night.
I liked the way my body felt to be moving again. It was an easy night as far as actual physical exertion was concerned (we were told that this first week would be more about the basics, while next week will be more about increasing the intensity), but I liked it. I liked feeling like I was using my muscles again. Concentrating on tuning into what those muscles were telling me. And what they can become.
Still… I felt like a crazy lady for wanting to cry mid-kegel.
For now, I’m blaming it on my period though.
I mean, plenty of women get unexplainably emotional around their periods.
It's not just me.
Right?
March 14, 2011
I Used To Be Active…
I swear. It’s true. Once upon a time, I used to be active.
There was a time when I would throw on my sneakers and run and run and run. When I would gladly jump into a pool and swim 100 laps with ease. When I was more than happy to call up a friend and spend hours upon hours hiking up new and unexplored mountains.
I used to be active.
Then, I was diagnosed with endometriosis. And there was the pain. The near constant pain. Throw in the drive to get pregnant, and the hormones involved (hormones that more often than not left me wanting nothing more than to eat and sleep), and… I’m not so active anymore.
In fact, over the last year and a half I’m pretty sure that all my previous muscles and strength have been morphed into a disturbingly jiggly pile of flesh.
Granted, I haven’t actually gained any weight. In fact, I was weighed at an appointment today and was told that I’ve dropped 6 pounds since last year. But… there is no question that I am no longer fit.
And I am certainly no longer active.
Which is why I had been so excited to start this boot camp tonight. It felt like it would be a good way to jump start my active lifestyle again. To get me back into shape, and maybe help pave the way to dropping another 15 pounds or so.
Because hey, if I can’t have babies – I wouldn’t hate having the body I had when I was 22. If nothing else, I am more or less determined to look better in a bikini than all of my baby making friends.
I've got to have a win somewhere!
I was ready to get moving though. Convinced that this is what I needed right now to not only get to feeling better physically, but also mentally.
And then… I started my period last night.
And while it is nothing compared to periods from the past, I’m still more than a little uncomfortable. And bloated. And achy. And tired.
All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep. And eat. And sleep some more.
I’m a little bitter with aunt flo right now. Did she really have to go and ruin my very first night of boot camp? With the exception of a few hikes last summer, I haven’t actually worked out at all in almost a year and a half. Two hours at a pilates boot camp was going to be hard enough without the excessive bleeding and cramping. And now, with this added element, I just really do not want to go.
But, it’s already paid for and I know that physically I am ready for this. So I’m going to power through. I am going to pop a prescription strength ibuprofen, make myself a quick dinner, and try to throw on some workout clothes that don’t cling too tightly to my overly bloated gut. I am going to work out tonight in a pad that hopefully won’t be totally visible through my yoga pants - but you had better believe I am cursing my stand against the evil tampon empire right now as well. There is just too much bulk and mess to really make me feel even kind of confident about whatever angles I’m going to be expected to bend in tonight.
This is the way of the world though. Or at least, it’s exactly what I should have expected from my period.
On the bright side, I looked at my calendar today and realized that I had a 32 day cycle this time around. I’ve been running on 40-45 day cycles for the last few years anytime I’ve been off birth control, so this is the most “normal” cycle I’ve had in a while. Not that “normal” means much of anything, since I’m not trying to conceive anymore, but… it’s nice to know that things are at least kind of working how they should be.
Of course, for those of you keeping track; I also have cootchie PT tomorrow.
Which only adds to the poor timing of my turn to ride the cotton pony this month – "normal" cycle or not.
I tried to call this morning and cancel. I explained that the crimson tide was flowing, and I would be more than happy to reschedule for a time when the situation down there wouldn’t be quite so… messy.
But, they assured me it would be no big deal. That they deal with situations like this all the time.
I immediately hung up the phone and turned to my co-worker and shuddered as I explained to her how disgusting this entire concept was to me.
She let out a little giggle before replying “What’s the big deal? It’s just a part of life!”
Yeah. Sure it is. A part of life that I wouldn’t want to be sticking my thumbs into.
I truly feel sorry for Dr. PT tomorrow. That is a dirty job that I’m not sure you could pay me enough to take on. And as far as I’m concerned – it pretty much completely takes away from any of the amusement I previously had surrounding this event.
I’m convinced the entire thing is going to be ridiculously disturbing. The kind of event that will likely scar me for life and leave me wishing for the days when my biggest concern was a little vaginal muscle spasm.
And on that note – I think it’s time for me to head out. I’ve got a 2 hour workout calling my name.
And a bed that might just be calling a little louder.
I used to be active.
Now, I’m just actively bleeding.
I should probably try to do something about that.
There was a time when I would throw on my sneakers and run and run and run. When I would gladly jump into a pool and swim 100 laps with ease. When I was more than happy to call up a friend and spend hours upon hours hiking up new and unexplored mountains.
I used to be active.
Then, I was diagnosed with endometriosis. And there was the pain. The near constant pain. Throw in the drive to get pregnant, and the hormones involved (hormones that more often than not left me wanting nothing more than to eat and sleep), and… I’m not so active anymore.
In fact, over the last year and a half I’m pretty sure that all my previous muscles and strength have been morphed into a disturbingly jiggly pile of flesh.
Granted, I haven’t actually gained any weight. In fact, I was weighed at an appointment today and was told that I’ve dropped 6 pounds since last year. But… there is no question that I am no longer fit.
And I am certainly no longer active.
Which is why I had been so excited to start this boot camp tonight. It felt like it would be a good way to jump start my active lifestyle again. To get me back into shape, and maybe help pave the way to dropping another 15 pounds or so.
Because hey, if I can’t have babies – I wouldn’t hate having the body I had when I was 22. If nothing else, I am more or less determined to look better in a bikini than all of my baby making friends.
I've got to have a win somewhere!
I was ready to get moving though. Convinced that this is what I needed right now to not only get to feeling better physically, but also mentally.
And then… I started my period last night.
And while it is nothing compared to periods from the past, I’m still more than a little uncomfortable. And bloated. And achy. And tired.
All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep. And eat. And sleep some more.
I’m a little bitter with aunt flo right now. Did she really have to go and ruin my very first night of boot camp? With the exception of a few hikes last summer, I haven’t actually worked out at all in almost a year and a half. Two hours at a pilates boot camp was going to be hard enough without the excessive bleeding and cramping. And now, with this added element, I just really do not want to go.
But, it’s already paid for and I know that physically I am ready for this. So I’m going to power through. I am going to pop a prescription strength ibuprofen, make myself a quick dinner, and try to throw on some workout clothes that don’t cling too tightly to my overly bloated gut. I am going to work out tonight in a pad that hopefully won’t be totally visible through my yoga pants - but you had better believe I am cursing my stand against the evil tampon empire right now as well. There is just too much bulk and mess to really make me feel even kind of confident about whatever angles I’m going to be expected to bend in tonight.
This is the way of the world though. Or at least, it’s exactly what I should have expected from my period.
On the bright side, I looked at my calendar today and realized that I had a 32 day cycle this time around. I’ve been running on 40-45 day cycles for the last few years anytime I’ve been off birth control, so this is the most “normal” cycle I’ve had in a while. Not that “normal” means much of anything, since I’m not trying to conceive anymore, but… it’s nice to know that things are at least kind of working how they should be.
Of course, for those of you keeping track; I also have cootchie PT tomorrow.
Which only adds to the poor timing of my turn to ride the cotton pony this month – "normal" cycle or not.
I tried to call this morning and cancel. I explained that the crimson tide was flowing, and I would be more than happy to reschedule for a time when the situation down there wouldn’t be quite so… messy.
But, they assured me it would be no big deal. That they deal with situations like this all the time.
I immediately hung up the phone and turned to my co-worker and shuddered as I explained to her how disgusting this entire concept was to me.
She let out a little giggle before replying “What’s the big deal? It’s just a part of life!”
Yeah. Sure it is. A part of life that I wouldn’t want to be sticking my thumbs into.
I truly feel sorry for Dr. PT tomorrow. That is a dirty job that I’m not sure you could pay me enough to take on. And as far as I’m concerned – it pretty much completely takes away from any of the amusement I previously had surrounding this event.
I’m convinced the entire thing is going to be ridiculously disturbing. The kind of event that will likely scar me for life and leave me wishing for the days when my biggest concern was a little vaginal muscle spasm.
And on that note – I think it’s time for me to head out. I’ve got a 2 hour workout calling my name.
And a bed that might just be calling a little louder.
I used to be active.
Now, I’m just actively bleeding.
I should probably try to do something about that.
For The Record...
The Waiter definitely has a girlfriend.
Who he lives with.
I have no idea why he wound up texting me and asking me to meet up with him. Other than the fact that he made the comment a few times while we were talking that he wasn't ready to grow up.
The man is 32 years old. And waiting tables. And apparently at least testing the waters of cheating on his live-in girlfriend.
It's time to grow up.
We were getting along great. Talking about traveling and seeing the world and all of that exciting stuff. He actually lived and worked in San Diego at one point in time. We frequented a lot of the same spots, and it's more than a little possible that our paths have crossed at one point or another.
Which is just kind of wild to think about.
But then, about half way through my beer, I finally got up the nerve to ask about the girlfriend he had mentioned the night before.
Now trust me, if I thought for one second that he actually had a girlfriend - I wouldn't have been there. It honestly didn't register to me that this guy could have a girlfriend, and also be using my number to ask me to meet up with him for a beer. I thought for sure there was some sort of logical explanation to the whole thing.
But at that point (only after I asked), he owned up to the fact that he did have a girlfriend. That she was actually at home waiting for him to get off work.
And... I was kind of just in shock. And more than a little annoyed with both myself, and him.
I started giving him a hard time, and he proclaimed that at least he had been honest. Which is true, but... Every once in a great while I meet a guy who makes me insanely glad that I'm single.
And this was one of those moments.
Because seriously - what the heck is wrong with men? Why would you have someone at home waiting for you, while also attempting to see how far you could get with a girl you've just met?
And, do I really strike people as the kind of girl who would be open to that?
OK, so I left my number for a guy who said he had a girlfriend, so... maybe I do.
But seriously, I thought for sure that if he used that number it would be because he had been lying about the whole girlfriend thing.
Needless to say, I left shortly thereafter, and The Waiter and I will not be seeing each other again.
I'm an idiot.
And The Waiter is kind of a douche.
But hey - at least I'm not his girlfriend.
Who he lives with.
I have no idea why he wound up texting me and asking me to meet up with him. Other than the fact that he made the comment a few times while we were talking that he wasn't ready to grow up.
The man is 32 years old. And waiting tables. And apparently at least testing the waters of cheating on his live-in girlfriend.
It's time to grow up.
We were getting along great. Talking about traveling and seeing the world and all of that exciting stuff. He actually lived and worked in San Diego at one point in time. We frequented a lot of the same spots, and it's more than a little possible that our paths have crossed at one point or another.
Which is just kind of wild to think about.
But then, about half way through my beer, I finally got up the nerve to ask about the girlfriend he had mentioned the night before.
Now trust me, if I thought for one second that he actually had a girlfriend - I wouldn't have been there. It honestly didn't register to me that this guy could have a girlfriend, and also be using my number to ask me to meet up with him for a beer. I thought for sure there was some sort of logical explanation to the whole thing.
But at that point (only after I asked), he owned up to the fact that he did have a girlfriend. That she was actually at home waiting for him to get off work.
And... I was kind of just in shock. And more than a little annoyed with both myself, and him.
I started giving him a hard time, and he proclaimed that at least he had been honest. Which is true, but... Every once in a great while I meet a guy who makes me insanely glad that I'm single.
And this was one of those moments.
Because seriously - what the heck is wrong with men? Why would you have someone at home waiting for you, while also attempting to see how far you could get with a girl you've just met?
And, do I really strike people as the kind of girl who would be open to that?
OK, so I left my number for a guy who said he had a girlfriend, so... maybe I do.
But seriously, I thought for sure that if he used that number it would be because he had been lying about the whole girlfriend thing.
Needless to say, I left shortly thereafter, and The Waiter and I will not be seeing each other again.
I'm an idiot.
And The Waiter is kind of a douche.
But hey - at least I'm not his girlfriend.
March 13, 2011
I Am 28 Years Old
First and foremost: I met a boy.
And he called me beautiful.
He already texted.
He wants to buy me a beer tonight.
But he might have a girlfriend.
Maybe?
I’m not really sure… you be the judge:
Loo and I headed out a little after 8 last night with the hopes of grabbing dinner before the band went on. We immediately snagged a spot towards the back of the bar sharing a large table with a handful of other people who we quickly made friends with.
Because we’re social like that.
My only complaint was that my back was to the entire bar, which is kind of a pet peeve of mine. I am a master people watcher, and I hate not being able to keep my eye on a crowd. Maybe it’s a throwback from the years I spent actually managing bars, but I’m just not comfortable having my back on that many people. You never know what could be going on behind you!
I kept my mouth shut though, because the bar was packed and our server was adorable.
That’s right. I had a thing for The Waiter.
And it’s here that I should probably mention that I have never in my life actually dated a server. Not even when I was a server. I dated plenty of bartenders, but never anyone who actually waited tables. Even when I was 15 and got my first job as a hostess, I was immediately courted by the 19 year old bartender – a fact which my father was none too pleased about.
So last night, as I was contemplating hitting on The Waiter, I really began to question whether or not I could date a server. No judgment of course (after all, I spent 8 years of my life working in some capacity or another in bars and restaurants), but… I’m kind of past that point in my life. I have a steady job, a home I own, and I tend to be in bed before midnight most nights of the week. I remember how my days in the bar and restaurant industry were spent, and it really is a totally different lifestyle.
But then I remember that I’m not necessarily looking to date Mr. Right at the moment. That I just need to have a little fun. A little flirtation. A little excitement back in my life.
And the waiter was cute. Tall. Dark hair. Beard. Pretty much the kind of guy anyone who knows me would immediately be able to point out as being my type.
So, I flirted. Dazzled him with my smile. Shot him looks across the bar. Gave him doses of my wit when he swung by our table.
I was doing my thing. And I was doing it well.
Until that is, Loo decided to take things into her own hands.
You see, Loo is more aggressive than I am. Which is fine. Great for her. And it works – she's constantly meeting new guys. A plethora of men she finds herself chatting up and getting to know. Most never turn into anything serious, but I have to hand it to her – she makes a ton of friends this way.
I just happen to be more about quality than quantity. Plus… I kind of have a thing for men who are willing to take the lead. Especially in the beginning.
Besides, I have plenty of friends.
And anyway, we all saw what happened the last time I took the lead.
So yes, the truth is – I like men who know what they want. And who are willing to take my more subtle clues and run with them.
Which is why when I saw Loo getting the urge to intervene (as she has now done 100 times when I’ve pointed out a guy I find attractive – much to my chagrin), I launched into a lecture about how I was 28 years old and perfectly capable of picking up on men all by myself.
It became the mantra of the evening.
I am 28 years old! A grown adult woman thankyouverymuch!
Of course, it apparently fell on deaf ears, because the next time The Waiter stopped by our table, she leaned over and asked him if he had a girlfriend.
Now, I had no idea this was going on. The band had started playing, and I couldn’t hear a thing. But when I saw the look she gave me, I just knew.
He walked away, and she leaned over to me to tell me that he had said he was seeing someone.
And, I tore into her. Loo is one of my best friends. I love her with all my heart. But… it drives me crazy that she doesn’t let me do these things myself. On my own time. In my own way. And she knows this.
“I am 28 years old!” I began. “I don’t need my friends hitting on guys for me. I don’t want you finding out information I am perfectly capable of finding out for myself. We aren’t in high school!”
I was irritated, but not really. I don’t typically get angry at my friends very easily, so even as I was shouting above the music – I was laughing. It annoys me, but I would choose my friends over random guys in bars pretty much any night of the week.
As I was laying into her though, The Waiter came back.
He couldn’t possibly have heard anything we were saying. We were sitting right next to a speaker, and the music was deafening.
But… He looked at me right in the eye and said “For the record though, you’re beautiful. And I might just have to call my girlfriend and see if she wants to break up now.”
Neither Loo or I could figure out how he had known she had been asking for me, but he must have just seen our body language after the fact. And from that point forward, he became much more attentive and receptive to my otherwise subtle flirtation.
To the point that I started to question if he really did have a girlfriend at all. I know that back in my bartending days, anytime a customer asked if I was dating someone I pretty much always said “yes”. It became second nature. I had no interest in dating anyone I had served drinks to the night before. And it just saved the awkwardness for those times when the customers asking weren’t exactly date-worthy to begin with.
I started to wonder if perhaps he hadn’t answered before thinking.
Which is why, when we left, I might have written “Just in case…” on the back of the receipt, along with my number.
Of course, in my chicken scratch handwriting there was nothing at all alluring about this note. Loo made the point of letting me know that my handwriting wasn’t very feminine, to which I responded “I am 28 years old!”
But really… I have the handwriting of an 8 year old boy. It’s embarrassing. And it’s the sole reason why I don’t handwrite anything if I've got a choice.
There was this guy I was dating back when I was 18 or 19 who wound up with one of my trademark letters.
Because as we’ve already discussed – I am a letter writer whenever things go south. Always have been. Probably always will be.
Months later, when we had found our way back into an “on” phase of our on-again-off-again thing, he proclaimed that the most hurtful thing to him about that letter was that I had typed it. He said it felt so impersonal that I hadn’t handwritten it instead.
The damn thing was 12 pages long. If I had handwritten it, my arm would have fallen off! And I can guarantee he would have only been able to read about every third word.
Plus, I know for a fact that letter was read aloud on a rafting trip, providing hours of endless entertainment to most of our mutual male friends. So really… I’m pretty sure he’s glad I typed it.
I’m pretty sure most people are glad when I type anything.
Which is why, when I looked at my own handwritten come-on (to a guy who may or may not have a girlfriend), I cringed a little and immediately wanted to take it back. My handwriting actually embarrasses me to that level.
But, I left it on the table. And Loo and I walked out.
We went straight for my car, with the intentions of swinging by one more bar before calling it a night.
And right there on my windshield was a ticket.
I had mentioned inside the bar that I needed to head out and pay for more time. I had only initially paid for 2 hours since I wasn’t sure how long we were going to stay. But when I tried to run out and quickly pay, Loo had begged me not to leave her side. She was getting some creepy looks from someone across the bar, and didn’t want to be left vulnerable for him to swoop in.
I knew better. I knew that I am a girl who follows the rules, simply because when I don’t – I get caught. I learned this lesson young. I am not a girl who can get away with anything. And so – I follow the rules. Even when those around me make fun of me. I follow the rules.
But for some reason, I conceded and stayed by her side. We would only be there another half hour or so anyway.
A half hour or so in which I managed to get myself a $30 ticket.
Cursing my own stupidity (because really, I knew better), I got in the car.
And Loo immediately grabbed the ticket out of my hand. Promising to pay for it for me, since she was the one who had convinced me to stay inside (and since her car [which was also over the limit] was mysteriously ticket-free - because some girls have all the luck).
I grabbed it back from her though, and again launched into my diatribe. “I am 28 years old. A grown adult woman. I could have told you 'no' and come out here and paid the $5. I caved to peer pressure, and I knew better. I can pay my own ticket. I am 28 years old.”
It was then (likely the 30th time in the evening I had announced my age) that Loo finally stopped me and with a smile on her face announced “No you are NOT! Your birthday isn’t for another month!” as she grabbed the ticket out of my hands.
She had me there.
We laughed for the rest of the night over my awkward note, and the boy who may or may not have a girlfriend. And then we parted ways after a short stint at the second bar with a bartender who was clearly smitten with her.
We both crawled into bed past our bedtimes, and realized too late that it was even later still because of the switch for Daylights Savings Time.
But it was a good night. A fun time. Flirting, and beer, and laughter.
Exactly what I needed.
And just about an hour ago, I got a text from The Waiter. Asking me to come back in tonight after the dinner rush. Telling me he would like to buy me a beer.
He’s a server.
He may or may not have a girlfriend.
And it has been a great many years since I have headed to a bar by myself with the intentions of flirting with someone still working.
But I think I’m going to go. Feel things out. Test the waters, and find out for the very least whether or not he does have someone waiting in the wings.
Because just to be clear – if there is a girlfriend, that would absolutely be a deal breaker.
He has an 808 area code though. Meaning he moved here from Hawaii at some point or another. Maybe he just got here, and is serving until something else comes up. Maybe he’s a world traveler, and works whatever jobs he can during the brief intervals that he lands. And maybe he’s just a waiter.
But either way, I kind of want to know his story.
And besides, I am 27 and 11/12th's years old.
A grown adult woman.
And if a cute boy asks to buy me a beer?
I’m going to let him.
And he called me beautiful.
He already texted.
He wants to buy me a beer tonight.
But he might have a girlfriend.
Maybe?
I’m not really sure… you be the judge:
Loo and I headed out a little after 8 last night with the hopes of grabbing dinner before the band went on. We immediately snagged a spot towards the back of the bar sharing a large table with a handful of other people who we quickly made friends with.
Because we’re social like that.
My only complaint was that my back was to the entire bar, which is kind of a pet peeve of mine. I am a master people watcher, and I hate not being able to keep my eye on a crowd. Maybe it’s a throwback from the years I spent actually managing bars, but I’m just not comfortable having my back on that many people. You never know what could be going on behind you!
I kept my mouth shut though, because the bar was packed and our server was adorable.
That’s right. I had a thing for The Waiter.
And it’s here that I should probably mention that I have never in my life actually dated a server. Not even when I was a server. I dated plenty of bartenders, but never anyone who actually waited tables. Even when I was 15 and got my first job as a hostess, I was immediately courted by the 19 year old bartender – a fact which my father was none too pleased about.
So last night, as I was contemplating hitting on The Waiter, I really began to question whether or not I could date a server. No judgment of course (after all, I spent 8 years of my life working in some capacity or another in bars and restaurants), but… I’m kind of past that point in my life. I have a steady job, a home I own, and I tend to be in bed before midnight most nights of the week. I remember how my days in the bar and restaurant industry were spent, and it really is a totally different lifestyle.
But then I remember that I’m not necessarily looking to date Mr. Right at the moment. That I just need to have a little fun. A little flirtation. A little excitement back in my life.
And the waiter was cute. Tall. Dark hair. Beard. Pretty much the kind of guy anyone who knows me would immediately be able to point out as being my type.
So, I flirted. Dazzled him with my smile. Shot him looks across the bar. Gave him doses of my wit when he swung by our table.
I was doing my thing. And I was doing it well.
Until that is, Loo decided to take things into her own hands.
You see, Loo is more aggressive than I am. Which is fine. Great for her. And it works – she's constantly meeting new guys. A plethora of men she finds herself chatting up and getting to know. Most never turn into anything serious, but I have to hand it to her – she makes a ton of friends this way.
I just happen to be more about quality than quantity. Plus… I kind of have a thing for men who are willing to take the lead. Especially in the beginning.
Besides, I have plenty of friends.
And anyway, we all saw what happened the last time I took the lead.
So yes, the truth is – I like men who know what they want. And who are willing to take my more subtle clues and run with them.
Which is why when I saw Loo getting the urge to intervene (as she has now done 100 times when I’ve pointed out a guy I find attractive – much to my chagrin), I launched into a lecture about how I was 28 years old and perfectly capable of picking up on men all by myself.
It became the mantra of the evening.
I am 28 years old! A grown adult woman thankyouverymuch!
Of course, it apparently fell on deaf ears, because the next time The Waiter stopped by our table, she leaned over and asked him if he had a girlfriend.
Now, I had no idea this was going on. The band had started playing, and I couldn’t hear a thing. But when I saw the look she gave me, I just knew.
He walked away, and she leaned over to me to tell me that he had said he was seeing someone.
And, I tore into her. Loo is one of my best friends. I love her with all my heart. But… it drives me crazy that she doesn’t let me do these things myself. On my own time. In my own way. And she knows this.
“I am 28 years old!” I began. “I don’t need my friends hitting on guys for me. I don’t want you finding out information I am perfectly capable of finding out for myself. We aren’t in high school!”
I was irritated, but not really. I don’t typically get angry at my friends very easily, so even as I was shouting above the music – I was laughing. It annoys me, but I would choose my friends over random guys in bars pretty much any night of the week.
As I was laying into her though, The Waiter came back.
He couldn’t possibly have heard anything we were saying. We were sitting right next to a speaker, and the music was deafening.
But… He looked at me right in the eye and said “For the record though, you’re beautiful. And I might just have to call my girlfriend and see if she wants to break up now.”
Neither Loo or I could figure out how he had known she had been asking for me, but he must have just seen our body language after the fact. And from that point forward, he became much more attentive and receptive to my otherwise subtle flirtation.
To the point that I started to question if he really did have a girlfriend at all. I know that back in my bartending days, anytime a customer asked if I was dating someone I pretty much always said “yes”. It became second nature. I had no interest in dating anyone I had served drinks to the night before. And it just saved the awkwardness for those times when the customers asking weren’t exactly date-worthy to begin with.
I started to wonder if perhaps he hadn’t answered before thinking.
Which is why, when we left, I might have written “Just in case…” on the back of the receipt, along with my number.
Of course, in my chicken scratch handwriting there was nothing at all alluring about this note. Loo made the point of letting me know that my handwriting wasn’t very feminine, to which I responded “I am 28 years old!”
But really… I have the handwriting of an 8 year old boy. It’s embarrassing. And it’s the sole reason why I don’t handwrite anything if I've got a choice.
There was this guy I was dating back when I was 18 or 19 who wound up with one of my trademark letters.
Because as we’ve already discussed – I am a letter writer whenever things go south. Always have been. Probably always will be.
Months later, when we had found our way back into an “on” phase of our on-again-off-again thing, he proclaimed that the most hurtful thing to him about that letter was that I had typed it. He said it felt so impersonal that I hadn’t handwritten it instead.
The damn thing was 12 pages long. If I had handwritten it, my arm would have fallen off! And I can guarantee he would have only been able to read about every third word.
Plus, I know for a fact that letter was read aloud on a rafting trip, providing hours of endless entertainment to most of our mutual male friends. So really… I’m pretty sure he’s glad I typed it.
I’m pretty sure most people are glad when I type anything.
Which is why, when I looked at my own handwritten come-on (to a guy who may or may not have a girlfriend), I cringed a little and immediately wanted to take it back. My handwriting actually embarrasses me to that level.
But, I left it on the table. And Loo and I walked out.
We went straight for my car, with the intentions of swinging by one more bar before calling it a night.
And right there on my windshield was a ticket.
I had mentioned inside the bar that I needed to head out and pay for more time. I had only initially paid for 2 hours since I wasn’t sure how long we were going to stay. But when I tried to run out and quickly pay, Loo had begged me not to leave her side. She was getting some creepy looks from someone across the bar, and didn’t want to be left vulnerable for him to swoop in.
I knew better. I knew that I am a girl who follows the rules, simply because when I don’t – I get caught. I learned this lesson young. I am not a girl who can get away with anything. And so – I follow the rules. Even when those around me make fun of me. I follow the rules.
But for some reason, I conceded and stayed by her side. We would only be there another half hour or so anyway.
A half hour or so in which I managed to get myself a $30 ticket.
Cursing my own stupidity (because really, I knew better), I got in the car.
And Loo immediately grabbed the ticket out of my hand. Promising to pay for it for me, since she was the one who had convinced me to stay inside (and since her car [which was also over the limit] was mysteriously ticket-free - because some girls have all the luck).
I grabbed it back from her though, and again launched into my diatribe. “I am 28 years old. A grown adult woman. I could have told you 'no' and come out here and paid the $5. I caved to peer pressure, and I knew better. I can pay my own ticket. I am 28 years old.”
It was then (likely the 30th time in the evening I had announced my age) that Loo finally stopped me and with a smile on her face announced “No you are NOT! Your birthday isn’t for another month!” as she grabbed the ticket out of my hands.
She had me there.
We laughed for the rest of the night over my awkward note, and the boy who may or may not have a girlfriend. And then we parted ways after a short stint at the second bar with a bartender who was clearly smitten with her.
We both crawled into bed past our bedtimes, and realized too late that it was even later still because of the switch for Daylights Savings Time.
But it was a good night. A fun time. Flirting, and beer, and laughter.
Exactly what I needed.
And just about an hour ago, I got a text from The Waiter. Asking me to come back in tonight after the dinner rush. Telling me he would like to buy me a beer.
He’s a server.
He may or may not have a girlfriend.
And it has been a great many years since I have headed to a bar by myself with the intentions of flirting with someone still working.
But I think I’m going to go. Feel things out. Test the waters, and find out for the very least whether or not he does have someone waiting in the wings.
Because just to be clear – if there is a girlfriend, that would absolutely be a deal breaker.
He has an 808 area code though. Meaning he moved here from Hawaii at some point or another. Maybe he just got here, and is serving until something else comes up. Maybe he’s a world traveler, and works whatever jobs he can during the brief intervals that he lands. And maybe he’s just a waiter.
But either way, I kind of want to know his story.
And besides, I am 27 and 11/12th's years old.
A grown adult woman.
And if a cute boy asks to buy me a beer?
I’m going to let him.
March 12, 2011
The Lights
We were supposed to go out last night.
Supposed to shake our booties and let loose a little.
Unfortunately, 6:30 hit and both Loo and I embarrassingly admitted that we were exhausted from the previous week.
We then convinced ourselves that the bar the band we wanted to see would be playing at tonight was preferable to the bar they were going to be playing at last night.
I still think that might be at least kind of true.
Either way, we decided to throw in the towel on our Friday night out on the town, and opt instead for Saturday night out on the town.
Because it turns out, we may be getting old. And Friday nights are best spent in bed. Catching up on sleep and the DVR!
It was as I was crawling into bed at the late hour of 9:30 that I thought to check the Northern Lights predictor though.
You see, I've never witnessed the Northern lights before. I’ve lived in Alaska for almost 3 years now, and have never been lucky enough to catch a glimpse.
Way back when the ex and I were still happy-in-love, he used to play this game with me. This game where he would start sentences off with “When you dump me…” I hated this game. It was based entirely upon the fact that I had never been in a real relationship until him, and upon my admission to him that my singledom up to that point had been completely by choice. There had been plenty of men. I just hadn't ever wanted more than a good time from any of them.
I had told him this for 2 reasons. One, I had wanted him to know that he was something special to me. That I hadn’t let many people into my heart, and he was the only man in my life I had ever really wanted more from. And two, because I was terrified of what we had. Because every day it got better, it scared me more. I had needed him to know that. To know that I wasn’t really equipped for what we were doing. That I had never done it before. That I had no idea how to really be in a relationship at all.
I had needed him to know that the fast rate at which our lives were becoming entwined with each other's scared the hell out of me.
But even though I knew this game of his was played in jest, I hated it. Because it felt like poking fun at the very real fears I had revealed to him. And it felt like his way of testing the waters as well. Of seeing how close I was to leaving. Even though I swore up and down I wasn’t going anywhere.
Until I did.
Either way, one day we were talking about how desperately I wanted to see the Northern Lights. I had only been in town for about 6 months, and my first winter was just kicking off. At the time, I had no idea how infrequent viewings were in Anchorage. I felt sure that I would be seeing the lights any day now. That my world was about to be rocked by the natural beauty of Alaska.
My world has certainly been rocked many times since by all that Alaska is, but the lights have remained elusive.
And so as we were having this discussion, the ex made me a promise. “When you dump me…” he began. “I promise I’ll still call you whenever I see the lights. I’ll make sure you get out and get to see them for yourself. No matter who you’ve moved on to and are dating then, I'll make sure you know the lights are out.”
I’m pretty sure I punched him in the arm, and then went about describing in great detail everything else in Alaska I still needed to see.
And after I did dump him, for a few months I waited. Wondering if I would get that text out of nowhere and when I least expected it. Letting me know that the lights were dancing in the sky. And that no matter where I was, what I was doing, or who I was with – I needed to get outside and see them.
That text never came, although many others did. It was simply that the lights didn’t make an appearance. That not once, in the last 3 years, have they been visible in the Anchorage sky.
Until a few nights ago that is. When I was curled up in bed, fast asleep and dreaming of who knows what. The Northern Lights decided to show up.
I woke up to Facebook messages and texts from plenty of friends proclaiming that they had seen the lights, while I slept peacefully away in my bed.
And I was bitter. How had I missed them? How had I slept through them? Would I ever get the chance to see them again?
Well, the next night they did show up again. And at 10:30 Loo called me and asked if I wanted to walk out into the woods with her to get a better view. It being a weeknight, and Loo living a good 20 minutes away from me, I passed. But I did get in my car and try to drive away from the streetlights a bit. Hoping for a glimpse myself.
Half an hour later, and after seeing nothing, I came home.
Loo informed me that she had been able to get a peak, but that they had been faint. And they had quickly grown fainter after she had initially spotted them.
Not worth getting out of bed, according to her.
Still, I’ve been hoping. Crossing my fingers that they would come back as good as they had been Wednesday night. That I would get to see them for myself. That I would maybe even get to take a picture or two. Something to remember for the day, when and if, that I no longer call Alaska home.
So last night, I checked the predictor. And I watched it as it looked like perhaps the lights were heading our way. I waited and waited, reasoning that it was a weekend and if I wound up out until the middle of the night chasing the Northern Lights, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.
But at midnight, when they had moved no closer than about 2 hours north, I finally closed my laptop up and went to bed.
I was talking to a guy who told me that the lights come in cycles. I want to say he mentioned 7 year cycles, but I could be wrong on the exact denomination there. Either way, he explained to me that the last few years we’ve been on a down cycle. He said that’s the explanation for why there has been nothing to see up to this point. But he said we’re starting to move into an up cycle, and that more and more – they will become visible over the next few years.
I can only hope he’s right. Cross my fingers that I’ll get a chance to see the lights before my time in Alaska ends.
Because really, I do think that’s one of those things that we should all hope to see at least once.
Loo and I are getting ready for our girls night out tonight. Gussying ourselves up, and putting our dancing shoes on. I’m ready. Excited for a night out, and for time spent flirting with random boys at random bars.
It’s been a while.
But even more, I’m hopeful that if we bide our time indoors imbibing in a little drinking and dancing, we may get our shot tonight to see what I’ve been waiting for the last 3 years to see. We may just walk out into something truly amazing.
Fingers crossed and wishes made.
Maybe tonight will be the night…
Supposed to shake our booties and let loose a little.
Unfortunately, 6:30 hit and both Loo and I embarrassingly admitted that we were exhausted from the previous week.
We then convinced ourselves that the bar the band we wanted to see would be playing at tonight was preferable to the bar they were going to be playing at last night.
I still think that might be at least kind of true.
Either way, we decided to throw in the towel on our Friday night out on the town, and opt instead for Saturday night out on the town.
Because it turns out, we may be getting old. And Friday nights are best spent in bed. Catching up on sleep and the DVR!
It was as I was crawling into bed at the late hour of 9:30 that I thought to check the Northern Lights predictor though.
Way back when the ex and I were still happy-in-love, he used to play this game with me. This game where he would start sentences off with “When you dump me…” I hated this game. It was based entirely upon the fact that I had never been in a real relationship until him, and upon my admission to him that my singledom up to that point had been completely by choice. There had been plenty of men. I just hadn't ever wanted more than a good time from any of them.
I had told him this for 2 reasons. One, I had wanted him to know that he was something special to me. That I hadn’t let many people into my heart, and he was the only man in my life I had ever really wanted more from. And two, because I was terrified of what we had. Because every day it got better, it scared me more. I had needed him to know that. To know that I wasn’t really equipped for what we were doing. That I had never done it before. That I had no idea how to really be in a relationship at all.
I had needed him to know that the fast rate at which our lives were becoming entwined with each other's scared the hell out of me.
But even though I knew this game of his was played in jest, I hated it. Because it felt like poking fun at the very real fears I had revealed to him. And it felt like his way of testing the waters as well. Of seeing how close I was to leaving. Even though I swore up and down I wasn’t going anywhere.
Until I did.
Either way, one day we were talking about how desperately I wanted to see the Northern Lights. I had only been in town for about 6 months, and my first winter was just kicking off. At the time, I had no idea how infrequent viewings were in Anchorage. I felt sure that I would be seeing the lights any day now. That my world was about to be rocked by the natural beauty of Alaska.
My world has certainly been rocked many times since by all that Alaska is, but the lights have remained elusive.
And so as we were having this discussion, the ex made me a promise. “When you dump me…” he began. “I promise I’ll still call you whenever I see the lights. I’ll make sure you get out and get to see them for yourself. No matter who you’ve moved on to and are dating then, I'll make sure you know the lights are out.”
I’m pretty sure I punched him in the arm, and then went about describing in great detail everything else in Alaska I still needed to see.
And after I did dump him, for a few months I waited. Wondering if I would get that text out of nowhere and when I least expected it. Letting me know that the lights were dancing in the sky. And that no matter where I was, what I was doing, or who I was with – I needed to get outside and see them.
That text never came, although many others did. It was simply that the lights didn’t make an appearance. That not once, in the last 3 years, have they been visible in the Anchorage sky.
Until a few nights ago that is. When I was curled up in bed, fast asleep and dreaming of who knows what. The Northern Lights decided to show up.
I woke up to Facebook messages and texts from plenty of friends proclaiming that they had seen the lights, while I slept peacefully away in my bed.
And I was bitter. How had I missed them? How had I slept through them? Would I ever get the chance to see them again?
Well, the next night they did show up again. And at 10:30 Loo called me and asked if I wanted to walk out into the woods with her to get a better view. It being a weeknight, and Loo living a good 20 minutes away from me, I passed. But I did get in my car and try to drive away from the streetlights a bit. Hoping for a glimpse myself.
Half an hour later, and after seeing nothing, I came home.
Loo informed me that she had been able to get a peak, but that they had been faint. And they had quickly grown fainter after she had initially spotted them.
Not worth getting out of bed, according to her.
Still, I’ve been hoping. Crossing my fingers that they would come back as good as they had been Wednesday night. That I would get to see them for myself. That I would maybe even get to take a picture or two. Something to remember for the day, when and if, that I no longer call Alaska home.
So last night, I checked the predictor. And I watched it as it looked like perhaps the lights were heading our way. I waited and waited, reasoning that it was a weekend and if I wound up out until the middle of the night chasing the Northern Lights, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.
But at midnight, when they had moved no closer than about 2 hours north, I finally closed my laptop up and went to bed.
I was talking to a guy who told me that the lights come in cycles. I want to say he mentioned 7 year cycles, but I could be wrong on the exact denomination there. Either way, he explained to me that the last few years we’ve been on a down cycle. He said that’s the explanation for why there has been nothing to see up to this point. But he said we’re starting to move into an up cycle, and that more and more – they will become visible over the next few years.
I can only hope he’s right. Cross my fingers that I’ll get a chance to see the lights before my time in Alaska ends.
Because really, I do think that’s one of those things that we should all hope to see at least once.
Loo and I are getting ready for our girls night out tonight. Gussying ourselves up, and putting our dancing shoes on. I’m ready. Excited for a night out, and for time spent flirting with random boys at random bars.
It’s been a while.
But even more, I’m hopeful that if we bide our time indoors imbibing in a little drinking and dancing, we may get our shot tonight to see what I’ve been waiting for the last 3 years to see. We may just walk out into something truly amazing.
Fingers crossed and wishes made.
Maybe tonight will be the night…
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