Unemployment is good for working out

I love games. I pretty frequently lose them (unless I'm on team "Winning!" for Taboo . . . hee hee!), but I enjoy how games mentally challenge me.

I also love, love, love my brother even though we are often competitive with each other. Who's mom's favorite? Which one of us is smarter, funnier, or most beloved? We are mostly kidding about these things (but not entirely). So, when he and I came up with a makeshift and ridiculously funny game, we both went all in.

I'm not sure how this came about, but when he got his iPhone he and I were showing each other tricks, tips, and apps. I showed him how to set up folders and move apps on the screens, he showed me how to set up my navigator. I told him to get Words with Friends, and he told me to get Dictionary.com. "Why?!" I said. He said, "Well, this might sound stupid, but I like getting the word of the day. Then, even though I'm a jock and a bartender, I try to use it in a sentence three times. I don't care if people think it's weird. I do what I want."

I was pretty impressed with that so I downloaded it immediately. And somehow over the next week, what evolved was a game of our own making. We started texting each other with sentences using the word of the day. And somehow this turned into, a sentence using the word of the day making fun of something or someone in our family. This, in turn, evolved into whichever one of us got the best sentence FIRST using the word of the day gets the "point." Now, we don't (to my knowledge) ever count points across weeks or months. But whoever gets the point gets the pride of that . . . until the next day :)

The effect of this is that I get to text my brother nearly every day. a couple of weeks ago the word was "excogitate." I managed to use it in a sentence referencing another running inside joke we have going right now. So, we were both laughing at my text. Then he asked how I was. And we started talking about working out - a common theme in our conversations. He said, "Unemployment is good for working out."

He should know. He played this game for nearly two years. And I saw how hard unemployment was on him. It was a similar situation in that his job was eliminated through no fault of his. He combated the difficult emotions of joblessness through humor. He would quote the movie "Knocked up" and say, "Yeaaaahhhh. I'm uh . . . no work today!" He laughed at the lifestyle of wearing sweats every day. But I know he was also anxious, antsy, and upset about the situation. So, he made jokes. He became sarcastic, and he poured even more of himself into working out. And that's saying a lot since he had been running, lifting, and practicing Jiu-Jitsu before he was let go. He had not one, but two low-cost gym memberships during that time. And he used them both.

So, when he said, "Unemployment is good for working out." I thought about it for a minute and then knew, that of all people, he would best understand when I said," And vice versa. It helps me not get crazy or depressed."

It will not be a shocker to any of you that while I don't exactly look forward to my dates with the treadmill, I have come to appreciate my time being active. Where it used to be a chore and necessity, I now really, really need that time. It is time out of the house. It is time away from screen. It is time away from my fears that I will end up living under someone else's roof.

So, it turns out, that I am not a sloth, regardless of what my physique might suggest.

A couple of weeks ago I was talking to another friend who was checking on me and I said to him, about not responding right away, "Sorry, you caught me at the end of my run." He asked if it was a good one. As it happened it wasn't, but what I said was, "There are no good runs. Only running assignments I accomplish and those I don't." This is still true almost every day. I don't enjoy how my body feels when I'm running. Pardon me while I sound like an old lady - my feet hurt, my back hurts, my knee hurts, and it takes a lot more focus than someone like me with some ADD tendency often has to get my breathing in rhythm. I often have to close my eyes and try to go inward to somewhere that has nothing to do with the people on the treadmills next to me, the TV screen above me, the (not really so awful) pain, and the voice inside my head saying, "Stop!"

But the other thing that is true is that I'm grateful for it. Where I used to be assigned 90 - 120 minutes of cardio a week and 3 hours of high interval resistance, I'm now still doing the resistance but adding to the cardio . . . on purpose. Yesterday I swam two miles and ran two miles. The day before I lifted and then swam two miles. On a treadmill I'm not second guessing a cover letter. On a treadmill I'm not wondering about an interview. On a treadmill I'm far too busy to add and re-add a budget. I can fight for something tangible on a treadmill.

I wish I had understood this before I lost my job. The truth is, this is, in very real ways, the cure for many of my very real health issues. Working out can only positively impact PCOSor anyone working against insulin by stabilizing their health through regular exercise, and particularly a good blend of cardio and resistance, interval and/or anaerobic training.  Asthmatics who exercise stand to reduce stress (which can trigger respiratory issues), increase lung function, and sleep better. Whatever issues with focus I have are measurably improved by burning some energy off, and even my migraine issues are improved by exercising. While running may not be the very best thing to do for my knees (swimming IS but is not the very best thing I could do for my hair. Yes, that's right, I am a real girl somewhere underneath all of my facade and I have this one vanity) I figure this: my knees are wrecked enough that they're not going to last the rest of my lifetime. But they're working now so I should take advantage of it (because I can still remember palpably how frustrated I was when confined to an arm bike for weeks and weeks while my knees couldn't bear weight).

"But Christie, you were getting 5 hours of exercise a week before." Yes. Yes I was. But it wasn't enough. I've written about this before. Everyone else in the world gets weight control results from 3-5 hours of exercise a week. I don't. That's just the way it goes. So, if my weight goals weren't responsive to 5 hours a week, it stands to reason that my other health goals weren't being completely serviced by 5 hours a week. Also, let's be honest - 5 hours a week was the goal but between being on the road or on a plane or in a hotel it was often closer to 3 or 4 hours a week. And as I said recently to my trainer, "The thing is, before, if my exercise was on, my food wasn't. Or vice-versa. It was never both being right at the same time." I take responsibility for that. I also think, in analyzing it, I wasn't ever going to be able to fully take on changing that if half my life was spent in transit, without any schedule that resembles normal human life, and unable on many occasions to plan or cook my meals.

So, I'm aimed at 5-6 hours of cardio each week now, in addition to my other "assignments." as much as possible, I try to keep it low impact cardio, and I'm really not thinking of it being "extra" cardio right now. To me it seems more like having missed school and needing to make up for it. As a child, I  was hospitalized for asthma related complications and illnesses at least 2 times a year. My shortest hospitalization was 4 days. My longest was 4 weeks. There was always some homework I could do once I had gotten a little better and wasn't fighting for my life (literal, not exaggeration. I know how to handle it, but fighting for a breath and having your oxygen levels drop despite medication is scary) but I also often had a busy schedule of blood tests, chest X-rays, respiratory therapy, and treatments. So, then, I'd go back to school and have a lot of homework to make up. I feel like that now - I'm making up homework from when I was sick. The difference is I wasn't consumed with chest x-rays or IVs, but with work before now. I did miss hours, and hours of agreed upon "homework" though.

So, when someone said to my 2 miles of running and 2 miles of swimming last night, "Gawwwd. that sounds awful," I was able to say, "I know. But it helps me not freak out right now so it's a good thing. It's hard to get too crazy when I'm this tired."

As I peer through the window of hopeful employment this month I find myself often thinking about the logistics of different positions and quickly on the heels of that thinking, "would I still be able to count on myself to get my workouts in?" I may not, when I go back to work, keep my gym time as high as 9-10 hours a week, but I'd like for it to be higher than the minimum required 5 hours. I sleep better, I like myself better, and the treadmill and I, if no yet friends, are now showing grudging respect for one another. That would have to be considered important even if I was spending 40 hours a week working instead of 30 hours a week job hunting and interviewing.

Brothers and Sisters

I talk a lot about my friends. My friends are amazing and make me truly one of the luckiest people I know. In a lot of important ways, my friends run deep in my blood the way family does for some other people. I am often stunned at the amount of love and support my friends give away and direct to me. I hope everyone has the kind of friends who will offer a guest room in a time of need, who will accept their boyfriend even when he isn't that nice, who will bend over backwards to visit. I hope so. I know that I am remarkable though, in that when I found myself grieving two different people and all alone in a place where I knew, literally, no one, one friend quickly offered, "I can come out if you need me," and another friend pushed, "Call me if you decide to move back and need a driving companion." (Not my family, though I a lucky to have a brother who said," If I ever see the guy who did that no amount of karate will save his ass.") This seems like a happy accident to me. A windfall.

I learn so much from my friends, and that is not an accident. I pick and choose people by who fascinates me. Who makes me laugh? Who kills me at Scrabble? Who shows me a way to look at things I don't achieve on my own? Who has a skill set I can't even imagine? Who flies a plane, makes cheese from scratch, can take my computer apart and put it back together, who knows art history or poli sci? Who can play the guitar with such shocking perfection that it makes me feel feelings I can't describe? Who makes me laugh until my sides hurt even when I'm in super serious Depressio mode?

Now that I'm at a certain age, it's rare to find many of my friends who don't have children and families that they are busily building on their own (I actually can count on one hand those people and for many of them it is by choice). I actually recently realized that somewhere in the last two years, I crossed an invisible line. When I was 32 and dating I encountered a few people who had been married or had kids. Now, it's everyone. This, more than all the weddings and baby showers I've bought gifts for are the sure sign that building new families is the business of being 30 something.

Of course, this means considering the families we all came from, or at least it does for all of my friends as they try to enter into this with their eyes open. I've been thinking a lot about this for the last month, for a lot of different reasons. And then I came across this TED talk. Let's all acknowledge that TED talks are pretty cool. Not all of them are my personal cup of tea, but they are all well done and thought provoking. I typically watch about 2 or 3 of them a week because it reminds me of the lunch series my grad department used to have a couple of times a month, or better yet, the "donuts and discussion" group the grad students did. Smart, smart people sharing their well detailed outlook, and yet not hours and hours long. Just enough to give you a taste and make you want to learn more.

I urge you all to listen to this talk as it may persuade you to think beyond the surface of your family. But, I'll say a few things about this talk by Jeffrey Kluger to set up some of my thoughts. He speaks powerfully for the fact that siblings color our lives profoundly, and that this relationship can be significantly defining in positive or negative directions.

"There may be no relationship that affects us more profoundly; that's closer, finer, harder, sweeter, happier, sadder, more filled with joy or fraught with woe than the relationship we have with our brothers and sister. there's power in the sibling bond," he says.

I have lived this. My happiest memories as a child revolve around hilarious or close moments with my brothers (please to note: I am not leaving out my sister here as a cut on her. We didn't grow up in the same house so my bond with her comes from a different place than playing Legos or dress up). I have significantly sentimental memories of long car trips, catching sand crabs, of building forts, of jumping on the beds in a vacation cottage by the beach, and, for some reason, of watching Star Trek with them one summer and realizing that as the oldest, it was my job to read the subtitles for them.

But some of my worst childhood memories are of brutal and vicious fights, of cruel things we did to one another, of being locked out of their room or locking one of them out of mine, of putting a CD in the microwave, of being pushed into a tree, concussions, or having toys sadistically dismembered. I'm sure I deserved this as much as every big sister, and more than many.

What stands to reason is that since my brothers were and are (and my sister now also joins in this) my peers in the family, they and I have an advantage of sharing each others' stories in a way our parents never can or could. We lived the same life, in the same house, growing up with much the same lot in life (though my youngest sibling and I not too long ago realized that in some ways we grew up in different families with different parents because the foundation of all of those relationships changed so radically when my parents divorced . . . which happened just as I left for college.) 

I'm not surprised that Kluger says,"The sibling bond can be a thing of abiding love. Our parents leave us too early, our spouse and our children come along too late - our siblings are the only ones who are with us for the entire ride. Over the arc of decades there may be nothing that defines us and forms us more powerfully than our relationship with our brothers and sisters."

I've written poems about this. It's possibly one of the most difficult connections I try to maintain and understand, but when it works, it is . . . well, it makes me feel my rough edges smooth out in a way that happens maybe nowhere else in my life.

I once wrote this piece of . . . something:

I miss them as often as I forget them,

When we are apart, I have to make whole cloth

Without them.

I discount them as often as I believe we

Three were once

Mistaken for triplets, sharing

Toys and triumphs as easily as we doled out

Fists or french fries.

The memories don’t blur, but the

Bright sharpness of elbows pressing against me reminds

Me suddenly of things I have shelved

and rarely dusted off.

(It is what it is as a piece of a poem I once wrote, good, bad, or blahhh, but it is also very, very true)

I believe in siblings. I believe they see me as no one else does, and so maybe I not only get to see them in that special light, but also borrow it and see myself differently through them. I also believe in siblings because as adults we've been able to come together to share some bigger than big things. Happy things that would have been less fun without them, sad things that would have been miserable or impossible without them. What would I have done if I couldn't turn to my sister and my brother when it came time to take care of a dying parent? What would happen if I stood alone in my family?

None of this, of course, is to say that our relationships are idyllic, or even as well knit as I sometimes wish they were. We've all had long moments of ignoring the others. When it has been my turn to do that I've sloshed back and forth between guilt and defiance. When I'm "in" and someone else is "out" I feel angry and hurt by their actions. So, the accidental bumps and bruises of riding in the back seat of the station wagon aren't that different from Kluger's assertion that our siblings are along for the ride, even as adults. I've been there for my siblings when I could and when I realized it was important, and whether that was showing up at wrestling matches, one strange afternoon spent sunbathing on the back deck with Chad hours before he graduated high school, or picking up my nephew from the airport, that's what it means. And they've been there for me. My sister brought her sister here and took me into the mountains. I will never forget that my brother Geoff drove up to my college graduation on the same Saturday as his prom, knowing he would have to immediately leave and drive 2 hours back to put his tux on.

But it's not all sunning ourselves and sand crabs, right? There's birth order, favoritism, and what Kluger calls de-identification to consider, and all of those played important roles in our house . . . though maybe not in exactly the expected ways in all cases. Here's the idea - evolution for most animals is to raise one or a very few babies at a time. Some mothers will do this by booting a smaller egg out of the nest (Crested Penguins), or letting hatchlings literally tear each other apart (Black Eagles). Humans aren't so different when we're competing for attention and resources by trying to discover our strongest selling points and hitting on them early, and often. Siblings have to de-identify with one another because if one is a talented artist, the next can pursue art for less than half of the attention the first artist in the family got. We have to differentiate to be worthy and to garner all of the attention in one area, is the idea. "Someone's the funny one, someone's the pretty one, someone's the smart one, someone's the athlete."

Pause. Beat. Pause.

I don't know about all of your families, but this was actually literally spoken out loud in mine. In a hospital room, about 10 days before my dad died. "Chad's the charmer athlete, and Geoff is the funny one. Camille is my southern belle. And Christie? She's the smart one." All of this is ironic and scientifically fascinating all at once. First, I will note some things carefully. None of us is only that one thing that was named. My brother the charmer is also he of a genius IQ, a Midas touch for seemingly almost any pursuit be it gourmet food, music, or writing, and he is and has ever been a gifted athlete. My brother the comedian is actually phenomenally smart and possessed of a singular perspective and a voice to tell it, despite not being interested always in academics. He has amazing determination and resolve, and this combined with his natural gifts have turned him into a fierce and accomplished mixed martial arts fighter. My sister the southern belle is an undeniable beauty, imbued with both the genteel southern coating, and the steel rod for a spine underneath. She is funny, warm, loving, forgiving, smart, spontaneous, sophisticated, scientific, and has a gift for feeling people out. It's not surprising that she is a truly talented nurse.

Now, it's interesting that Chad pinned so much of himself in athletics, because, well, I couldn't. Asthma, bad knees, and lets face it, I'm just not that swift or graceful aside from all those things! Meanwhile, Chad has so many gifts, he could've claimed "smart one." Actually, all my life what I heard was, "Chad and Geoff are gifted, despite some of their learning differences. But Christie . . . well she's such a hard worker." Which isn't exactly the same as being the "smart one," is it? (You could've knocked me over with a feather in that 2008 hospital room when that was said out loud) Meanwhile, in this tangled web of what I couldn't be (umm, I sucked at soccer, and I couldn't please by playing football, cello. It remains a crappy sports gender inequality) if working hard was my most pleasing trait, you bet your boots I was going to market the heck out of it. I wonder which came first - Chad being charming and athletic because I was pursuing an academic life at an early age, or me giving up on sports because it was never going to catch the eyes and therefore claiming school since it was what was left?

Whereas our youngest sibling being the "funny one"  . . . well, to be clear, he is. His tongue is sometimes barbed, but never unamusing. And this bears out exactly with expected birth order. The youngest or smallest has to develop "lower power strategy" (what a terrible phrase for that. It sounds like "Developing nation." So condescending). The idea here is that the littlest one has to make people laugh so they don't lock him in a closet (though I regret to admit, we did this so often that Geoff thought it was a game and used to bring the rope to us!) or belt him. If s/he can charm and disarm and work their way into the hearts of people, they'll be better provided for than if they fight for what they need and lose an unfair battle. So, it isn't surprising that Geoff is, truly, the funny one. What's remarkable is that he is so much more than that, and does fight so hard for what he wants . . . and wins!

This is perhaps one of a large cascade of things about my family that breaks the mold. I won't go into all of it here, but suffice it to say that there are good and hard things about the ways in which birth order was true in our upbringing, and good and hard things about the ways in which it was not true. I can't speak for everyone else, you understand, just for me.

The next fact was really, stop-me-in-my-tracks, stunning. Favoritism isn't just a joke that we've had in my family for years. It's not just my mom buying each of us a t-shirt one Christmas saying "Mom's favorite." It's real and has been investigated. There is evidence suggesting that 70% of fathers and 65% of mothers exhibit a preference for one child over another or others, and that often it's a different child for each of those parents. Some of this is influenced, perhaps, by birth order and gender, but some of it may be better predicted by what that parents values are. Well, I won't say anything about who is who's favorite in my story, but I will say that in a family of two parents, and three children, that means that someone is necessarily and mathematically left out at all times. I don't know that it was me; what I do know is that it's interesting that I wasn't making it up when I was heard to say recently, "There's not enough to go around in a family of three children. Two sounds good to me."

But if the question isn't who does this, just who does this in observable ways, then I wonder . . . is this an argument for only-children? I know that Kluger wants us all to see our siblings as the people who helped us learn to develop relationships in ways that impact us over and over in our lives. And I'm not sorry for mine. Hey, I wish my jewelry box didn't get chucked into the heater, making it impossible to retrieve my earrings. But I'm sure my brothers wish I hadn't been such an insufferable know-it-all. I'm not sorry I have them, or the addition of my sister. My therapist put it this way when we discussed my family for other reasons, "If you could change it, how would you be different and would you be giving up things you like about you." Umm, yes. Overwhelmingly. I'm a bothersome, bossy, know-it-all but I like that I can devour information and take it with me. I also like that people can count on me to get things done.

And, I would add, and have already written deeply about this, the facts of my family are these - there was love, but not without issues, and what that has meant for me is that I learned early, I learned profoundly, how to make my way outside of my family. How to not just strike out on my own, but to get wherever I was going and make for myself in that place another family to count on. There is a very real way in which I might not have the friend-families I am so often awed by if I hadn't had the bio-family I was sometimes disappointed by. I wouldn't give that up. I just wouldn't.

But, when I think of getting ready to plan kids that I want to raise, I'm no longer as sure that two is the magic number. I have a friend who recently decided to NOT have more children. She has a daughter that she loves magnificently, and when she told me this, she admitted it was "selfish." She said she felt she was supposed to give her child a sibling, and I countered that bringing a child into the world not for the fact of him or herself, but to do a job for her firstborn wasn't healthy either. Finally, what she said was, "It's a crap shoot though. I could have another child and they could be close, or I could have another child and they could care less about each other. " Yes . . . and, I would add, all of the reasons she has decided that doing another year of pregnancy, followed by a year of tending to an infant are not what will make her blissful and glowing shouldn't be discounted. When parents are happy, and stable and feel comfortable with the life they're making for themselves, they are undeniably more able to provide content, stable homes for their children. This much I know from my view outside of the parent circle.

All of this is a moot point for me, at this stage, because I am who I am and trying to turn back the clock even as a mental exercise, yields little reliable information but it makes much more deeply interested in the decisions my friends make about kids and building their families, and in the argument for siblings being the other pieces of yourself vs. never having to fight with them in the first place.

Maybe the point is this: my parents were, in a moment that held a world of pressure and lightheartedness all at once (it's impossible to describe the conversations that happen when someone is dying, or how you find yourself in those conversations. It just is.) able to boil each of us down to one, succinct characteristic. They stand in front of us, and for so long, above us knowing us by making choices for us and seeing what came of them. We know each other on a playing field where we all see each other level. Our parents were the soccer coaches, but we were the players. There were different roles in that game, but because I stand level with my brothers and my sister I can see them differently, and as more than one thing. We're all smart. We're all funny. We aren't all athletes, but hey, I'm sorry, I can't be good at everything. (It should be enough that I make award winning soup!) To be sure, we have different gifts and struggles, but there is more of us that is alike, as a unit, than different. Someday my sister and I will talk about being mothers together, and my brother will walk me down the aisle, while the other walks with my mother. I can't deny the power of those relationships, the shared stories are powerful alone.

But, it doesn't change the unanswered question of what I am capable of as a parent. I can't assume I would escape the statistics and manage to somehow not damage my kids through favoritism. It is true that I am often a 1% case when it comes to how medical knowledge understands this person we call Christie, but let's be honest - psychologically it's not hard to trace my path, eh? I suppose, much like my friends who have recently had children, I would have to see how that all plays out. Maybe, like my friend above, I'd discover that having parts of my pre-child lifestyle back were more crucial than raising a second child. Maybe like my other friend I would arrive, within three months, to the conclusion of, "I love this child so much it's indescribable. And, I'm also not a stay at home mom."

Because I really almost certainly can't have children, these choices are unlikely to be thrust on me suddenly by biology. I stand apart, able to consider the logistics of when and how to raise children and bring them into my home, and can probably even choose, to some degree, who they will be and where they will come from. It's a specialized vantage point when considering future parenthood. So, when Kluger puts forth that siblings are the dress rehearsal for your life what I think is, "not having siblings is just a different rehearsal for a different show."

Ok, before I close out, let me say this to all my many, many mommy friends. Whatever moments of favoritism have been in your house or not been in your house, please don't be offended by this. I know you all love your babies in ways I can't possibly fathom. I've seen it in action. I also know better than perhaps anyone else that how you act may or may not match up to every feeling you feel at any given moment. Just think about this talk and this book, that's all.

Author

Have you all read, The Hunger Games? They are fantastic, and interestingly morally challenging books. Especially considering that they are intended to be young-adult reads. I had a number of different people in my life over the last year or so mention them to me, and I never did much about getting my hands on the books. I was vaguely aware that a movie was being made, and that my English teacher and reading specialist friends were ecstatic about this. But, I was busy dealing with other things. A relationship that wasn't working, a job I was feeling the need to shed but wasn't prepared to leave, this blog, finding the resolve and accountability I wanted, my spiritual center.

Honestly, I spent a lot of my time working out my "stuff" on a treadmill, on a couch in my therapist's office, and in this writing. And sadly, I didn't read much between about March of 2011 and November 2011.

But, I found myself in an airport at 5am in early November. Let me just say that, I have a lot of rules and routines. Foods I don't eat, how often I drink caffeine, my regular breakfast every morning, exercise, etc. But if I have to wake up at 3am, to leave at 4, to be at the Southwest counter at 5am, a lot of that gets suspended. So, at 5am, after making it through security (which, if I can just brag for a minute, I am such a pro at) I found myself with a bagel, a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and 90 minutes to kill.

I was actually surprised that a book store was open, but it was. And a paperback copy of The Hunger Games was displayed and was $6.99. At shortly after 5am, it seemed like seven dollars was a good risk to take. The clerk became the 47th person to tell me how amazing the book was, and by the time I landed in Florida, I was hooked. (This is not the first time this has happened to me. I refused Harry Potter hype until after the third book was out thinking, "There's no way it's this good." Of course it was, and I'd add, I give many thanks to the dealer who pushed it on me. I now own the series and then some. I continue to resist the Twilight series . . . resistance may be futile but I just don't think I'm going to go there. For lots of reasons. And it was recently pointed out to me that it is ridiculous that I haven't read Game of Thrones yet.)

So, I've proceeded as a good addict to push this on other people. I've gotten three people so far. And the one who recently got his hands on my copy was talking to me about the book last night. He said, "Well, I think it's interesting to talk about this with an author."

What?! What?!!

I tried to play this cool, but in truth, playing things cool is not a skill I can put on my resume.

I was shocked to be referred to as an author. Yes, I publish here on a not infrequent basis, but ummm, anyone can do that. It took me all of 2 minutes to get an account established and less than an hour to design the page and set of pages holding this content.

Can anyone say the things I say? No. I like to flatter myself and think my writer's voice is unique. Certainly influenced by a lot of my reading, as well as by the audience I think of as my readers. Of course, I don't know exactly who they are. Part of the nature of blogging is that I don't know exactly who my readers are. When people comment on my posts - often on FB - I know they are reading here. Sometimes people make comments to me in other conversations and I realize, Oh, the only way they could make a joke to me about hoping I don't have to spend too much time on a stairmaster is if they read the entry on that because I haven't made that comment elsewhere.  (Then I preen a little and am secretly very pleased with myself for writing things that people are interested enough in to think of after the fact of reading it. It's totally egotistical, but true.) So, I can list for you two dozen people that I know have read this blog at some point, but what I can't tell you for sure is who's not reading this (my aunt? The guy who sells me bandaids? My next door neighbor?) or who is reading exactly what in here. Just because my friend Rebecca and I had a deep discussion about one of my posts, doesn't mean she reads the next.

I suppose this is the same for any "published" writer - that once you let your words out into the world, you don't know exactly where they will go. But, since the "publishing" is so informal, I feel that all the more palpably.

I have been published in small ways, but this is the most substantial, varied, lengthiest writing I've done that other people read. I have and continue to sometimes be a very amateur poet. I have and continue to write short stories (less and less . . . I like short stories, but it doesn't feel as connected to me when I'm writing them). And I am still pecking away at some children's books ideas (Oh, Deliliah the duck, I haven't forgotten you and your electric blanket). I also wrote a thesis, two masters, and countless papers in grad school. And when one reader remarked of this blog in the fall, "Christie, you should really look into writing professionally," my sharp tongued answer was, "I do write professionally. I write memos, communication documents, letters that my boss signs, and field visit reports." That sarcasm was ill placed since writing is central to someone I know myself as. I've been writing words and proudly displaying them as "stories" since I was 5.

In that sense, I identify very strongly as a "writer." It is part of who I am and how I interface with the world, and more importantly, the people in it. It is part of how I experience myself, or at least a side of myself that I don't fully know otherwise. I see and feel differently when I am bent on fixing words to what I'm experiencing. It sounds almost . . . autistic but it is an important thing to know about myself. This was never more evident than when I was in high school. I had a group of friends who were, perhaps not unsurprising to all of you now that you know me a little, very intense, and maybe just a little more grown up than teenagers are good at being. Because we spanned three graduating classes, a lot of different class schedules and interests, and housed some romantic relationships within the circle, there was often a lot to discuss. Problems to solve. Feelings to be tended. Wounds to clean out and salve. But we couldn't always find the 2 or 4 or 6 hours to do this in person. I found myself often exploring things that needed to be told, handled, discussed, or admitted by writing long notes. This was my primary occupation in high school. It might have looked like I was sitting in history class, but in practice what I was really doing was penning novel-lengthed letters most of the time. This had variable results with different people in the group, and at different times in different situations.

It is not, I don't think, an accident that the person who received and responded to most of those letters was the person in all the world I was most connected to then, and still today. (Oh the many blessings of having someone who has seen just exactly who you are for 32 years and still calls you "friend.")

I began to notice that while writing everything down was slow, and not immediate, I was able to process and feel things in a deeper way than if I just held it in and blurted it out loud when we were able to talk. This was the seeds of recognizing that the place that I am most introspectively honest with myself is on paper, and that sharing that is much less difficult for me than it might be for other people. Importantly, when I am able to be that honest to myself, to really access what is most deeply felt, deeply held, deeply raw for the person I am to myself, I am better able to be better at being that person to others.

There is no discounting that. I am a writer in that this is a very important part of the tools I bring to the task of walking through this world and the outlook I have. It is woven into the fabric of who I am and won't change.

In that sense, I suppose I am an author. I frame words around things and other people read them. I share who I am by being more verbal and articulate than is reasonable for most people. I am a creator, originator, and where others use pictures, musical notes, code, paint, I fit words together to try and create the feeling I want others to understand . . . more often, if I'm honest, the word-fitting and puzzle-piecing is for my own peace of mind and comprehension and those who read it and "get it" are secondary.

But author feels a step removed. Should that be defined by how many people have read me? Whether or not it's a professional pursuit? The manner of being published? Probably not, if I'm careful to think about the lifestyle of writing and what it means for me.

Like many writers, or artists for that matter, I feel compelled to write. It's not always easy or comfortable. But it often feels like less of a choice and more of a  . . . necessity. I find myself writing more and more often than the average person. I feel convicted by what I have to say and by getting it set down correctly. In college, while other students lamented revisions, I looked forward to getting feedback and getting what I printed on paper right. In high school I arranged my schedule around a new and experimental creative writing class. It has always been the case that when doing homework I make myself do busy work, math, calculations first and reward myself with writing papers. I often don't feel cold, hungry, tired or notice external indicators of normal life when I'm writing. I once wrote a paper I was thrilled about in 8 straight hours, from 9pm until 5am. Three revisions included, and forgot to check the time and go to bed. It's not a chore or a task for me often, and even when it isn't a joy it is a need as strong as or stronger than the need to eat or sleep. Even now in the cold and sober light of being a real grown up, I often find myself writing these posts and realizing after . . . oh, it's 2 hours later than I intended to eat lunch. Or, oh, it's the middle of the night now. and I have an interview tomorrow. Huh.

There are other creative pursuits in my life, and I mostly do those for fun or because I want to challenge myself. I sing because it turns on part of my emotional faucet that I don't control otherwise, and it accesses my issues around being guarded or vulnerable more succinctly than anything else. I take pictures because the combination of science, technology, and artistic vision involved in getting that right still baffle and amaze me. (When I get it right these days, it is usually an accident, but I'm getting better at reproducing those accidents.) The difference is, I have always written, and do so even when there is seemingly NO REASON to, and sometimes reason not to! The other pursuits are choices. I benefit from those choices, and I love singing and photography no less for being things I pursue consciously, but writing for me is a passion akin to the innate faith that some of my friends have, and have never questioned. It is simply what I do.

Annie Dillard has written copiously about The Writing Life. I'm not sure I can match myself up to that austerity and drive, though, I know other authors who have written about their processes as being far more practical. The theme is, most of the authors I admire started writing not to make money, but because they couldn't not.

In some senses, it's strange that the question of writer vs. author hasn't occurred to me before. I think I'm still likely to hedge my bets and not claim author-hood until I have some external and overwhelming reasons to claim it, but I can claim being a writer firmly as a lifestyle and outlook. this is the unrelenting fact of my life - that since I could speak and understood words could be written and read, I have felt the unrelenting need to participate in that activity. Whether that becomes a full time pursuit or something I do because it's who I am regardless of paycheck source, well that story is still unfolding.

Think of this as your desert island time

The set up is like this . . . last Wednesday had all the makings of an excellent, good news, shiny day. (And having recently availed myself of Firefly via Netflix I mean "Shiny!") Instead, it turned into a day where I worked very hard to stay professional and calm, and as a result found myself sitting in the back of my car, trying to meditate my way through not losing my shit.

In between the things that happened were an interview where the job offer that had been previously discussed was divided by 2, and the territory for said job had magically relocated too. (Note: even if the salary offer wasn't an issue, which it was, the fact that 4 hours of phone interviews had given me one set of details on salary and territory and the in-person interview gave me another was the bigger red flag.) I held things down and asked some pretty intelligent questions about this, I thought, without getting accusatory or defensive. So, that was good. But then, I got back into the parking garage and found that the jacknut parked next to me was literally about 3 inches from my driver's side. Couldn't even get my arm through to open the door. So, I had to see if I could crawl in from the passenger side. I tried a couple of tactics, all the while dreaming of notes with flaming hot prose left on their windshield. So, I ended up sitting in the backseat, trying to breathe out the rage and find the cool, calm, center of the universe.

I had posted lots of rainbows-and-hearts type things on Facebook about this interview, so of course when I got myself together and crawled my way into the front seat,  I posted something cursory on FB. I didn't want to be over-the-top negative; I did want people to know that things were not as promised and not hold out on details for the people who were wanting to know.

This caused my sister and a couple of my best friends to call me. I kept it together with my sister for half an hour, but finally found myself in a parking lot just saying, "Why can't I just have a year where everything is ok?" One of my friends then let me swear, pretty much non-stop for 10 minutes and then obliged me when I said we needed to talk about other things. We spent another 10 minutes talking about him and other things about me and making jokes.

The other friend asked me what happened. And I told him . . . calmly. Not without emotion, but with some perspective. We talked about my job prospects, and his work situation (job talk in the near future! Yeah!). And he asked me if there was anything else going on in my life.

The hard truth is . . . not so much. I see friends. I go running. I went on a date. (well, by now a couple) I've never been so on top of the TV shows I like. I write. A lot. I read. And in terms of job searching - I have 5 places I check on the regular, I file what I find, I write and adjust cover letters, I submit letters and resumes online. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I said to him, "I'm not chasing after a kid, but I'm growing to really appreciate how hard it is to be at home all the time. I feel very much not a part of the world, and so it's hard to have anything interesting to say when people ask me what I've been doing. It's a lot of the same." Over and over, I would add. (I have to say, I have two mommy friends in particular in mind as I write this paragraph and hope they know that I'm not saying I understand the full scope of how hard that job is, just a small glimpse)

My friend said to this, "Think of this as your desert island time . . . so rare are the down times that when they come they really annoy you!"

It is ironic, actually, that what I was fighting for in my last job was the ability to keep being successful but not have to sacrifice my personal life to do so."Be careful what you wish for" is cliche, and also doesn't adequately describe what I feel about this. I think this time is . . . harder work than my job. But maybe better for me in terms of my long term goals and needs and wants. I'm not sorry for what I wished for because it is still what I wish for - a job where I can use my strengths to my best advantage, make a difference, and be successful, but also go home and feel like I can service the rest of my life.

So, back to last Wednesday. I was annoyed that I spent 7 hours to hear what, had I heard in the first half hour, I would have said no to. Annoyed that I had to crawl into my car from the back seat. I'm annoyed that I had to invest 5 hours to get to was such a bust. I'm really annoyed that I'm becoming a boring person that pretty much only has this to talk about. And annoyed that I'm the horrible friend that had this discussion with my friend on his birthday. Ugggghhhh.

I'm also annoyed that because of the nature of this position, this could be a mind game. It could be (I don't think so, but I can't help but wonder) that they were expecting me to come back and sell them on me being worth the potential offer that was discussed initially in my phone interview. Of course, it could be, just thinking about the wording, that the phone interview person was just not being clear on how their compensation works . . . either on purpose or by accident.

If this is my desert island, well, it's filled with a lot of doubts, second-guesses, and questioning myself. But, as a very wise therapist pointed out yesterday (not related to this story, actually, which makes me believe that it's even more true) that is what my desert island is whether I'm interviewing, or employed, single or coupled, living alone or with someone. I often make decisions competently and confidently, and then second guess them. I sometimes aim lower than I should, and while it doesn't happen all the time doubting or blaming myself is something that has importantly defined some of the situations that have most shaped me. So, maybe this isn't the island I asked to be on, or maybe it is. But, I was living some of this island life before I was let go.

But now that I am on the island, coconut in hand, it's interesting to note what is different and what is the same. Once, in a very bad movie (that I nonetheless enjoyed) Harrison Ford said, "It's an island, if you didn't bring it with you it's probably not here," or something very like that. There's some truth to that. What I had with me, came to the island. In that sense my insecurities don't have a lot to do with my situation. And, the culture and realities here are importantly different. It's filled with a chance to sleep 8 hours every night, but also not always of peace of mind to implement that. It's filled with a lot of alone time . . . though I suppose that's the point of a desert island. If it was an island where I had more means, it would be a time to redo some of the rooms of my house and take some online courses, but as it is, it has been a chance to read a lot, and educate myself on a couple of new things. (Both of them pretty cool!)

Much like a desert island, I ration food, and other resources. And, my days are very repetitive and a little bit . . . boring, and lonely. It's clear that while I was making a zombie survival plan I should have also been making a plan to survive the desert island. You know - what would you bring, who would you want there, how would you make it through. You know the game.

Let's I was in the way of being stuck on the LOST island, for instance. My scary unseen monster is the day my bank account hits zero, and I have to live in my car. (Yes, that is hyperbole. Because as we all know there's a beautiful room waiting for me in Boston) Or ask people for money. (Of the two, the later is VASTLY worse.) The "others" on my island of unemployment island are . . . well, ok, I haven't figured that out yet. And, the force controlling everything that I'm trying to reconcile myself with, well that's obvious.

So, the survival plan so far has been, as my friend said that night, keeping my options open. (He actually said something porny-er but, you know, I'm reporting the part that applies.) In this case, it takes a lot of work and energy to create those options, but, this is ok because I am excited about finding them, and settling on the right fit. What I need on the desert island to keep that going are the people who help me see myself, and think out loud. I suppose this is like the zombie survival plan in that way. It's the people. In this case though, the skills I'm looking for may have a little more variation. If it were a real island, of course, my top priorities would be someone who knows about living/eating in the wild (food and shelter),  someone who can patch people up (medicine), someone who can fix the radio or get us things we need out of the scrap metal or plane crash (electronics and technology), and ideally, a barrista who happened to wash ashore with their trusty espresso machine. (Let's be clear though, if it's a choice between saving the barrista and the espresso machine itself . . . well, I'd at least have to think about it since I ran a cafe in college and could make my way back to making a decent latte if needed.) Those things don't change in my survival scenarios. You know, just the basics.

But, desert living, I've discovered, is different than zombie living.  A lot less flesh eating, a lot more people wanting to eat lunch with you. A lot less running for your life, a lot more making yourself go to the gym to run. So, on this island, I need my people. I need David who keeps me practical without letting me get grim. I need Wil's special brand of hope and pessimism, of intricate, even artistic language, and the ability to be blunt and efficient. I need Rob, because there is nowhere in my life where I don't need the person who knows me best, and has known me for 32 years. Also, who else can I find myself in 7 off-shoot conversations from the original topic? And more to the point, Rob and I are very different, but the same, so he is sometimes my conscience and heart, and yet can also make me laugh like no one else. I need my girls because they love me for exactly who I am, and it is rare that I'm with any of them for more than 30 minutes before things get pretty irreverent. Rebecca, Elisabeth, Gabrielle, Krystel, and Annette are high on this list because they keep everything real whether it's good or bad, celebration or consolation time, dance party or dealing. I need Heather, because where Rob is my heart, Heather is my head. She and I think much the same, and yet subtly differently. In the last year I noted that when I'm at her house, my working vocabulary goes up and I feel more intelligent and more clear in my thoughts. (Importantly, this doesn't mean I don't also need her affection. Just, if I'm giving out jobs, well, she excels at that one) And I need Susan who is much like Rob, in that we seem to be able to share everything without reserve. She has so much heart that some of it has to be on her sleeve, and in her over-abundance, she gives a lot of it away. She helps keep me grounded in faith and belief while also supporting me in every other way she knows how. And, I need a trainer on this island, so it's lucky that I have the best one.

I know, espresso, trainer . . . this is a very swanky desert island. That's just how I roll. I should just go for broke and wish for ice, limes, and tequila, eh?

The thing I'm trying to do is to leave the desert island, but take some of this with me. To have brought whatever I brought here is inevitable but to take out only what is useful is, I think, the task at hand. I'll take these friends without question, because they take me without reservation. I'll take the trainer, and the espresso and tequila (not together!) if it's available. But there are some other deeply important things I'd like to pack when I board to leave. this is crucial, because what I actually want is NOT a year where everything is "ok" but a year in which I have the same ups and downs as everyone else yet still feel, on the whole, that my life is better than ok, stunning and moving even.

• The belief that I live in a time, and have the skills and strength to choose and shape the future I want
• This new found faith and belief. But even more than that, the wonder I feel at being able glimpse the tiny bit of the pattern I see
• The understanding that it's not accidental that I "fall" into creative pursuits - this blog, other writing, singing, photography. That it is what most feeds and energizes me, and so it has to be part of my lifestyle. Not an afterthought
• The time and quiet to read as voraciously as I can, and have in the past. I missed you old friend, glad you're back.
• The understanding that my values of being there for others, showing love, and offering help where I'm able has to work both ways. There is a way in which always being the giver is . . . ironically, selfish. If I truly believe that being here for each other is what we're here to do, I have to be willing to participate in the whole cycle, not just the part I'm comfortable with. Independence is one thing, pride just damages that cycle.
• This new found ability to be passionate without apology
• All the honesty I brought in, has to come back out with me.
• Patience and Forgiveness. These are still underway but maybe will be formed enough to survive the trip when it comes time?
• The understanding that I can think one thing, and feel another
• The certainty that I am loved, and at the end of the day, that is enough.
• The ability to let go - total responsibility and accountability for the things I can and should do, zero judgment or blame for the things I cannot control
• As much gratitude as I can carry. I may need a bigger suitcase for this, honestly.
  
  
  

And you know, if customs isn't a problem, I'll take some coconuts too.

changing things up

I've written about this before - if people want things to change, they have to do things differently. Or to put this in addiction terminology as I understand it, "If nothing ever changes, then nothing ever changes."

Sometimes, I am fairly stunned by how fast I can see this in others, and not in myself. Then, of course, I kick myself for being a judgmental ijit. I'm sure we are all masters of seeing ourselves in other people, of casting the first stone, but people, I have aim.

I've also talked about the fact that I'm someone who requires some professional supervision from time to time - I have a trainer, saw a dietician for awhile, and see a therapist about once a month. And yet, I hate help. So, while I'm pretty broke at this point, I'm also aware that keeping my head on straight, working from my strengths, and making sure I can walk into my next job with all of that up and running is a clear priority. This means I still go see my therapist.

Now, I'm not in the habit of paying people and then ignoring them. Maybe it happened that the dietician suggested adding spaghetti squash and cottage cheese to my diet, and I only did one of those. (Because, ewwww, the texture of some things just cannot be overlooked.) Maybe it happened one week last year where I logged workouts that didn't happen because I just couldn't tell my trainer and deal with his disappointment on top of my own. And maybe it happens from time to time that I question the method behind his madness. (But it's only happened once that he's told me to do an exercise, and I've tried and then just said to him, "I don't think I can.")

Therapy is the same but different. As a grown up, I can say honestly that I choose therapy not because I feel broken or concerned or depressed, but because I know the value of being able to analyze myself. And because from my cognitive psych research background (important note: this is NOT the same as having a professional background in clinical psych) I am deeply aware that it's hard to research oneself. All jokes about research = me-search aside figuring yourself out and making friends with yourself seems like maybe the best thing any person can do. And doing it alone means the research will be flawed. I explained it this way to someone yesterday,"Nobody asks you to talk about the mechanics of your own gallbladder by intuiting it. Why do we assume we can self-report on our own minds and brains?"

So, I don't assume I can do that with complete fidelity and perspective. And because my therapist is very upfront about his own biases, and because he works uber-hard to make sure we are understanding each other and asking the right questions, I feel comfortable presuming he is a good choice for an extra set of eyes and ears on the scene.

To me, it seems like it would be wasteful and stupid and ignorant and rude to pay him and then neglect what he has to say. Instead, I often choose to tell him when I'm questioning his suggestion. I just lay it out there.

This is all to say, I was fairly surprised today to find myself listening intently to what he was advocating, agreeing with so much of it, and then leaning so hard away from it. Hmmmm.

But here's the thing. I'm structured, and I do the things I do to stay comfortable. But that doesn't mean I am always doing what is best for me. That, if anything, was the very best definition of the meaning of the title of this blog when I started it . . that there could be a disconnect between doing the "right things, or the things I thought I was "supposed" to do and my feeling of satisfaction from them. Comfort can denote contentedness, but it can also denote stagnation. If I'm all about growing and changing, and honesty, and self-assessment and analysis then I should have the integrity to say that I sometimes . . . settle. Much less in the last three months than ever before, but three months weighed against 30 some years may not stack up just yet. I'm sure this is true for a lot of people, but my tendency to make decisions quickly, but then immediately try to pull the dust down all at once into something resembling order means that I'm not always looking at all of the information carefully with a focused view on what's GOOD for me. I'm busy running around trying to keep my corner of the world neat and tidy - it often feels like a full time job.

And here is the other thing - what I really believe is that we are very sophisticated, wet computers. We may not understand exactly how that computer gets programmed, and when I was in grad school I was very busy trying to understand a specific competence of the computer, and what parts of it were "hardware" and what parts were "software." But, I do believe that changing the output can often be traced back to changing the input.

If I want a different life from how things were in the fall, and I do - I need to be willing to put different things into it. If I want a job that respects me as a human being, that allows me to feel productive, satisfied, challenged, and supported to succeed, I need to be clear about that. If I want to have more success in balancing work and life, I need to feed myself with different expectations about that, and what it's ok to ask for. If I want things to be different, I need to be ok with things being different. Importantly, this means doing things differently than I have, feeding myself differently literally and metaphorically, and releasing myself from old patterns just because they are habit.

I won't lie. What's on the table here from today's session is pretty radical. On the other hand, the changes I'm hoping to make are pretty far reaching too. Viewed in that way, it actually starts to look promising and hopeful that I have had a "sabbatical" from working for two months. I can't say it's been a vacation, since it's been very, very hard to try and be this productive, this hopeful, and this focused without, well, a focal point. But it does mean that how and when this happened created an opportunity for me step away from external expectations and to know myself based on my own standards, my own principles, my own expectations. I want to live in that world where I create the right things for myself.

So that means not discarding taking big leaps of faith, considering different jobs than I did 5 years ago, eating differently, exercising differently, using my time differently, listening differently, drawing boundaries differently, and making decisions differently. Where normally I might go with my first emotional reaction to some of the things that have been proposed to me this week, I also have to remember that I would never let an introspective self-analysis of my gallbladder make a decision for me. And so, it might be worth considering the person I pay to help me see myself better might have a point.

Well, very thoughtful indeed today, readers and a pledge to try for some more concrete posts in days to come.

Loving the lesson (church of Our Lady Gaga)

2/20/12 Addendum: This post has begun to be referred to as "church of Our Lady Gaga." Why that's the nickname will make more sense below, but you know, tee hee.

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Every time I write about faith or belief or God, I feel concerned. Will my atheist and questioning friends feel I'm on an agenda? Will my religious friends understand that my doubts and questions and struggles are about . . . envy for their deep reserve of confidence in something bigger than themselves?

Mostly, I worry that it's impolite to talk about it.

But, there are only so many posts I can write about the day-in-day-out of job searching, interviews, about disappointment, about hope, about possible futures. I could keep writing those posts, but I fear then that all of my readers would tire of me. And since well over half of my readers are people I know and love, that would be unfortunate.

So here it is - the promised post about my current religious struggles. I haven't been particularly closed booked about this. Over the summer, I had some very distinct experiences that were . . . bigger than myself. And, if I'm being honest, I think there are forces at work in the life changes that I'm sorting through now too. I might not have made these changes on my own and man alive do I need these changes.

In the midst of having the distinct feeling that God was trying to get my attention, I found myself in some very heavy conversations in surprising places in my life. Conversations about why it's hard to trust God, or to ask God for things, or to hand over problems to whatever concept of higher power applies. I found myself in a bunch of conversations, hearing a bunch of stories, about doubts, about losing faith, and about why some of my friends had defined their beliefs the way they had. And all of this happened without my initiating it.

At the same time, my most inspiring friend and I had been having a lot of deep conversations about beliefs, experience, and how they're not always right. She invited me to go to church with her and, here's the surprising part, I did. And after some misgivings . . . I kept going.

Let me make sure to say this - there are so many things at that church I love. The music is, well, phenomenal. And the message there every day is simple - God is love. And people were made to carry out that love here. Love one another, and be merciful. After conversing with their staff some, I also know the heartfelt belief there is that we all make mistakes, and all mistakes are viewed equally, and are equally forgivable. Those are my values, and I talk that talk even when I cannot walk that walk. As a new friend said to me today, "Everyone has inconsistencies, its just a matter of how much data you have." I'm not exempt from that, and I want to believe that even when I do mess up, and even when I say one thing and do another, I can be worthy not only of forgiveness, but love.

And so when I was sitting in a chair, with someone who loved me and didn't judge me, listening to music that moved me, and hearing some of my values spoken . . . I was too intrigued not to keep going.

And. Andandand, it did help me reconsider my relationship with God, and even more, reconnect with it.

So, the first time I heard something there and wondered exactly was meant by it I let it roll off of me. And the second time, I asked some questions. But, recently, I heard some things that really caused me to have to walk away.

Just now, the church is talking a lot about how to help men become their best selves. Something that they've said, that I agree with, is it's important to take aim at men because when men choose to be irresponsible little boys (their words, NOT MINE) it wreaks havoc on families and societies. Now, to be clear, I would say that when women choose to be irresponsible jerks, terrible things happen too. The difference is, in almost all religions, women are held to a standard that is really, really unequal and assumes they are responsible for things they never chose for themselves. So, I appreciate an open, religious discussion about men upholding their part of the bargain.

Speaking of equality, the last service I went to was talking about men, and women, and why it can be tricky for men and women to join together. And a major theme was that men and women are different - emotionally, physically, mentally. I've written about this before. Men and women are NOT the same. And equality should be aimed at giving men and women equal opportunities to get what they need, not reducing the differences between them down to nothing.

The choices men and women make are, by definition, different. If I choose that I want children, I have to think about my personal, bodily health and if its possible for me to be pregnant, and then out of work. If I choose I don't want to give birth, then I have to consider if I want to raise children in other ways, or if I don't want them at all. If I make those choices, they are comments on my femininity and my beliefs. If men think about having kids its whether or not they're with someone and can do it, if they can support them. There are no medical or physical implications and few workplace consequences. And if they choose not to have kids then it's not a comment on them as men. And while this is a very polarizing and publicly discussed example, it's only one of the many ways that the genders are not the same in how choices, realities, biases, and needs play out.

What we need, what we want, what we benefit from are not always the SAME. So, I was completely with the minister as he discussed how men and women aren't the same. I was with him as he said that pretending that we are the same diminishes our capacity to be who we need to be to ourselves and each other.

Where he lost me was when he gave this quote:

“The tendency today is to stress the equality of men and women by minimizing the unique significance of our maleness or femaleness…. Confusion over the meaning of sexual personhood today is epidemic.The consequence of this confusion is not a free and happy harmony among gender-free persons …but more divorce, more homosexuality, more sexual abuse, more promiscuity, more social awkwardness, and more emotional distress and suicide that come with the loss of God-given identity.”  John Piper

Now, I hate to be a stickler, but, that's not from the Bible. It's a weird thing for me to be a stickler about, since clearly I look a lot of places other than the Bible. I would even say . . . I don't reach for the Bible for answers. It's not unheard of that I would get inspiration there but in general I believe that the Bible may be true . . . but our society may not be smart enough to understand it. So, I reach for . . . my experiences, the imaginings of others, sci-fi, and research, wikipedia and well, LOTS of things to get my information. I also hold people to high standards and one of them is that I expect a lot out of people in terms of doing what they say they will do. So, when I'm at a church where the Bible is held out as the authority on life, I kind of expect it to be treated that way.

I also take issue with the content of this statement, in a couple of different directions.

First, I have to say, I think I'm over people simplifying their concerns about homosexuality down to men being effeminate and women being masculine. It's tired, and doesn't at all describe the lesbians I know, or the gay men. Plus, it kind of leaves me in the cold as a bisexual.

I also have to say, I find this quote just really negatively dismissive. I really can't hold with equating homosexuality with divorce, suicide, and sexual abuse, under any umbrella - gender roles, illness, traumas that families face, none of 'em. From my perspective, if people or communities REACT to homosexuality by treating it as a trauma, illness, or sin, that's where the problem originates. Not the fact of someone NOT being straight.

I struggle with God because I'm a planner and when my plans get subverted I am thrown. But here's something I never struggle with - I don't think God makes mistakes. I didn't choose to be me, just like my friends who are gay didn't choose that. And in the realm of believing that God manifests, if as anything, as love here on earth, then I will not condemn my friends who have found love. Even if that love looks different in their houses than in mine.

My friends' marriages, be they legally recognized federally or not, are the marriages I look up to. And when I went to their weddings, one of which I was the best woman in, I did not take my promise to uphold their union lightly.

So, when that quote was given, I actually sat back in my chair. I felt almost as bad as if someone had slapped me. I take my loyalty to my friends and my beliefs so seriously that I almost had to stand up and leave. But, I also felt that it would be hurtful to the friend I was there with, and to the other people there. It made me nauseous to sit in that chair for the next 20 minutes.

So, I went away and sat with myself for a week. I went back and listened to the service online. And I . . . blush . . . prayed. A lot. I prayed about maintaining my beliefs with or without that community. I prayed for that minister because I know he didn't mean to be spreading hatred, but that statement wasn't loving. I prayed that I could have that conversation with my friend and have it be about beliefs and love and questioning, not about judgement.

And to me, that's a little bit of the crux of the problem right there - a year ago, it wouldn't have occurred to me to pray, though if pressed, I would have said I believed in God. But that pressing might have had to be pretty forceful if I'm being very honest. And six months ago I would not have needed to be pressed to admit my belief, but gun to my head wouldn't have resulted in anything resembling prayer. I knew God was there for me, but I was far too pissed and tied up in knots to say anything to God about it! (Ironic, I know)

So, it matters to me that the lesson I've learned at this church is that God is something I can feel and reach out to and that my faith can be in trouble but still be something that anchors me. I am trying to love that lesson, even if I can't love the church as a whole.

And I spent a week really wrestling with that. The problem is, there has never been and will probably never be a religious community that is an exact fit for me. I often get involved with other people's rituals, beliefs, and traditions as an outsider. And I'm fascinated. I love to learn and understand - not just from an academic standpoint, but in terms of what drives and holds together people I know. And somewhere along the way I begin to notice things that make me think about something, or feel something that I didn't before and think, "Hey, there's something here." and then I see or read or experience something and think, "Oh, no, not for me. Not a match." And I'm never sorry I saw or learned or experienced those things but it does mean that finding a place for me to practice my religious beliefs has never worked.

On the other hand, it means that somewhere inside there is a compass indicating what directions my beliefs point in.

But, they never land all in one place. This is partially because there is no church or worship community that holds communion as a celebration (preferably using tequila shots), nowhere I can be baptized in bacon, and hear testimony from a gay drag queen (this is to say, no lifestyle judgments in my church except for fashion . . . sometimes we all need a fashion reality check, let's face it). I want to celebrate how things are mysterious and powerful and beautiful with Mozart, with sacred music, but with Lady Gaga too. And, in the words of a friend quoting a book we both were moved by, no evangelizing. The 10 commandments are fine as they are, but there needs to be an 11th that says that interfering with any other ways of seeing or finding the divine is forbidden.

I'm not going to find that church (aka the Church of Our Lady Gaga). Doing shots of chilled Patron with lime wedges alone rules that out, not to mention drag queens. But the point is, I went to a church that helped me define that showing and sharing love, whether it's in prayer or in a book or in a dance party is what I am looking for. Do I throw the baby out with the bathwater because they point to a book I have some concerns with? There's a lot of literature I have concerns with.

For now it means I can love the lessons I learned there, but can't BE there because the love that has best shown me what love can and should be like is my friends, and those friends that are my families (sometimes more my family than other people's bio families). I am understood for my good and my bad and my ugly by those people, and loved anyways. I can learn about my connection to God at church, but I can't feel that love without my friends. And this isn't just about my fierce loyalty, it's also that if I stand at a wedding of two of my best friends and am part of supporting not just their marriage, but the day they held themselves out to the world as a married couple, I can't re-neg on that promise on my part. And, at least for now, that means I can't go to a church that I couldn't bring my family to.

But, in the meantime, I walk away with a clear image of God's metaphorical hand wrapped around all that we know, and the space in that for everyone to make their own choices, but for only the things that can be shaped for good to be allowed to enter into that space, to make it through the fingers of that hand. I can't see my time there as bad. (And the fervent hope that I can be a visitor in my friend's church, and that she will welcome that and not be hurt.) This is progress, for me, if not yet the place that sees God quite as expansively as I do.

Zombie Survival Plan

About three weeks ago the wind was howling for days on end. 30 miles an hour all day long with gusts at 75 and above. It was intense and it interrupted my sleep. I had about three nights of really disturbing dreams, and one of them was right before an interview.

I had gotten an email asking me for that interview, and since my application had been as a response to Craigslist, the email didn't help me with the problem I had when I applied . . . which was that I didn't know very much about what this job would actually have me do. The email asked if I could meet that Friday at 11, and gave me an address, that was all. Somehow the combination of unnerving winds, sleep deprivation, anxiety, and unknowns combined and formed in my brain as a really horrible dream.

I dreamt that I showed up in an office park for this interview, and the building I was in had a long side hallway. It was dim, and there were no doors along the way. I walked down the hallway, entered the office, and the reception area was normal, normal, normal. I waited in a chair, and as the receptionist took me back, I was pushed into a dark room, chained to a metal frame on the wall, and locked up for over two days. There were other women there, most drugged or beaten. We were sold for . . . . well, you get the picture.

I was freaked out enough by this that when I went for the interview, I texted the address to a friend and picked a check-in time to text again. I joked about this on Facebook, but I was actually pretty upset.

A friend was joking with me the next day, and I was telling her about the actual interview, and how when I had to go down a long empty hallway, I actually almost reconsidered, and when their reception area was completely dark, I almost left. She joked, "You were thinking there were zombies in there." And quick as anything I retorted, "No! If it was zombies, I would know what to do!" You see, I have a zombie survival plan, but not a terrible-people-selling-woman-flesh plan.

So, you know, clearly, there were neither zombies nor disgusting pimps at that interview. But, in honor of my favorite show coming back tonight with the mid-season premiere, I want to talk about zombies. (I mean, let's be honest, I always enjoy talking about zombies. But since it has little to do with my quest to balance my life and make it more meaningful, I restrain myself here as much as possible. Other occasions in my life . . . maybe not so much restraint.)

So, here is the deal, while I don't believe in zombies, I do heart them deeply. And I have thought a LOT about zombie apocalypse preparedness. Luckily, a lot of the basics apply to being ready in case of other emergencies.

So, now for your reading pleasure, I will discuss my zombie survival plans.

If zombies attacked me in my home, well, I have two sliding glass doors and a window at garden level. So, I would pick something up and start swinging, close and lock a door behind me, and get out. There is no making a stand in this condo. If I had been in that office, same idea. Pick up a chair, start swinging. Aim for the head, and try not to get backed into a wall or room with no door. And then run.

But, the thing about running is, no matter how great your cardio endurance is, you will not be able to do it forever. So, in my mind, it's important to run smart, not just fast. You don't want to run into any dead ends or enclosed spaces. Nowhere dark if you can avoid it. And you want to aim for somewhere that will allow you to rest/close out the zombie pursuers for a bit or somewhere that will allow you a more permanent safety. Like the horror movie rules put forth in SCREAM, it is also wise to not run up anything you can't get down off of. Zombies used to be people, and people can climb stairs, and in some cases, trees. Run out and DOWN whenever possible

Now, most people who survive the initial wave do it out of luck and quick reflexes. Being in the right place at the right time, or accidentally figuring out how to stop a zombie that comes after you (go for the head!) will keep you alive on the first day, maybe the second. But the key to the third day and beyond is to start stockpiling necessities.

My list includes building a plan that allows me and whomever I'm with to have more of some important stuff:

• Water - need a source, and a plan to purify it
• Food - standard stuff applies here. Lots of protein, and stuff that keeps well. Canned goods are great, but hard to carry if you're hiking. Protein bars, protein powder, and jerky seem like the right call, however unappealing.
• Medications and someone who has some medical knowledge (EMT, nurse, doctor. More on that in a minute).
• Shelter
• Weapons (More on that in a minute too)
• Transportation
• People
  

Yes, that's right, people. The thing is, without other people, I'd be a goner. I'm not that fast, I don't know how to shoot a gun, and I have health issues. But even if those things weren't true, surviving an apocalypse depends on people working together. Anyone on their own can't sleep, whereas groups can set up shifts and protect one another. That is a BIG deal not just in terms of safety while sleeping/vulnerable, but also in that sleep deprivation will impact long term health, and can impair judgement in the short term. And, with more people, you are likely to bring together different skill sets than your own. My guess is that a camp of people trying to survive don't need my experience as a business consultant or writer, but I'm a fast learner, know basic first aid, and they would benefit from my cooking, and my ability to find answers and organize. Meanwhile, one hopes that there would be someone who knew more about weapons than me.

If we're to believe Hollywood, what I can expect is a magically blended group of lots of different ethnic backgrounds and skills. My requests are for one person who knows electronics, one person who know weapons and can train others, someone who has medical knowledge, and someone who knows something about food and agriculture or finding food in the wild (I have a friend who knows all about edible wild plants - she would be welcome in my group!). So, having more people isn't just about safety in numbers, it's about gaining different skills in those numbers. I'm accepting applications now . . . you know, just in case.

A special word about children: of course, with no kids, it doesn't matter if my group survives, or even another group. Humans would die out eventually. So, kids are necessary. But let's be honest, they're also risky. (In the race to stay alive, kids slow us all down. Brutal, but factual) The nature of children is that they have to push the envelope while growing up in order to become adults. That often involves impulsive, loud, messy, high-profile behavior. Which of course is dangerous when trying to protect an encampment or run for your lives. So, I think kids have to be handled very carefully. And honestly, that means there have to be enough people to help handle them. And a stable location if at all possible. Good lord, I just hope that no one with a toddler hooks up with my camp despite the fact that I love toddlers.

See how people are the most valuable resource in case of surviving a zombie apocalypse? A group of about 10-20 is ideal if actively running and not hunkered down somewhere stable. If somewhere stable, it's all about what your facility and supplies can handle without being stretched too thin. But, of course, if the group gets too large, some kind of hierarchy or decision making structure has to be put in place. Lord of the Flies plus zombie apocalypse is a baaaaaaaaaaaad plan.

Now, in an urban environment, you want to look for a building that has access to other things you need such as food and water, but at the same time, it can't be something too big to hold down. For instance, I would NOT recommend a hospital - it's too big to secure. Too many places where zombies could work their way in unbeknownst until it was too late. I have the same worry about department stores or malls, plus the big plate glass windows in those places too. I can see reinforcing a Target with a group big enough. Plus, then you have the air mattresses and granola bars right there, some basic first aid supplies, not to mention the built in Starbucks with the espresso machine (ahhhh). The other big concern in this situation is that nowhere, not even a Target or Walmart, will have everything you need for all time. So you need to have a plan to be able to get in and out very stealthily without being chased, or caught.  Here's the trick with that Target-type place. I and my zombie-surviving peeps  could decide, "Yes! That store is perfect!" but if you get there, and there are hordes of undead wandering around, and it will be noisy to get by them . . . it's not perfect. In an urban setting, you can bet that if there's a crowd of 50-100 zombies around your spot, there are hundreds more just a couple of blocks away that WILL make their way to you once they hear the scuffle or the shots fired. Move on to plan B, quickly and quietly.

In a more open or rural environment, the choices are a little more complex. I've heard arguments for mountain tops, valleys with water sources, small towns. I'm willing to be persuaded on most of those. I'm not a fan of the mountain top option, because it would be easy to get surprised by a tenacious horde that made the trek and happened to come upon you on the part of the mountain that sealed off your route. I have been convinced that a free-standing building that has a generator, some guns, and the ability to be secured could work. I'm also a fan of the secluded farm or ranch, as long as there are enough people to stand watch in shifts. I am NOT psyched about the idea of camping out doors . . . too vulnerable.

Transportation depends a lot on setting, but suffice it to say you need at least one form of transportation that is very maneuverable on different terrains and can weave in and out of things - motorcycles and horses come to mind. But this should not be the primary form of transportation for the group, since their strength of being smaller and more movable is also their weakness in that in the wrong situation, that lightness could easily be preyed upon and taken down . . . literally. So, you also need something big and tough - giant redneck trucks and tanks come to mind.

Now, here's the deal. Once shelter and a group of people to secure it and keep it supplied and secured are in place, then it's time to think of other things. Weapons are everyone's priority, and I see it as an important piece. But, for me, as long as a range of weapons (guns, yes, but something quieter too . . . guns with silencers? Cross bows? Axes? Throwing knives? I'm not entirely sure yet. ) and a cache of ammo is socked in, I'm good.

My primary concern is that after a group of people is assembled and has survived a week or more, then the issues become not just the zombie-problems, but the people-problems. This is to say, survival in an apocalypse is about more than not getting eaten; it becomes a lot about how civilization's answers to our problems may or may not exist anymore to be taken for granted. Routine surgeries and health issues quickly become life threatening. That appendicitis could kill you. That asthma attack could take you down. So for me, medicines and medical knowledge are paramount. Included in that is the dire need for birth control. Somehow, when trying to survive and make sure life is still being lived, people seem to like to . . . ahem . . .  get it on. Lets be honest, we need kids to grow up in this apocalyptic imagining, but nobody needs to be pregnant while running for their life. By the second trimester, that's just like a two-fer for the zombie that catches up to her.

There are other things too, though. Like, taking for granted the things that technology provides. Hence, someone with a background in electronics, technology, and/or mechanics is most welcome on my zombie team. I need someone to help me re-start a generator, hot-wire a car, fix a radiator, or get the radio working.

So, my hope is that if I could fight my way out of the aforementioned office or home invasion, and meet up with the right people, I could learn to shoot, make a fire, find food, or at least cook the food that was found, siphon gas, and expand my basic first aid to include giving stitches if not removing diseased appendixes. Let me know if you'd like to join me in case of apocalypse.