Three years ago today

Ah, Halloween. This is my mother's favorite holiday, and although I've been through different phases and thoughts about it, I do love this holiday. I love how excited children are about their costumes. I love how schools and pre-schools make this a fun day. I love that this is a holiday for everyone. I love that there are as many ways to celebrate this holiday as there are families. I love that this is a holiday where you can do as little as buying some stuff to give out and turning on your porch light, or as much as making a bug cake and putting a lot of thought into one's costume . . .

I love my memories of my mom sewing our costumes. And I love trick-or-treaters knocking on the doors of places I've lived. I went through a phase in high school where I pretended to dislike this holiday, but still not-so-secretly enjoyed staying home and giving out the treats to the kids knocking on our door. I went through a phase in college where this holiday genuinely struck fear into my heart. Hampshire Halloween is legend - wait for it - dary. It actually has gotten quite tame but when I was there there were some old-school staff who remembered the days of "Trip or Treat" where the open campus attracted a lot of outsiders, drugs, and parties fueled by acid and kegs. As Hampshire's answer to RA's (more responsibility and less power than RA's in regular dorms) I was typically working from noon until 3 or 4 the next morning on different shifts: setting up drug-free activities, running drug-free activities, patrolling the dorm, patrolling outside the dorm, and seeing a LOT of naked, drunk people. I mean a lot. We weren't allowed to be in costumes, so I sort of fell out of the habit of costumes somewhere between high school and college. It took a major push to put me in a costume for Halloween in grad school and it only happened once (And it was an incredibly offensive inside joke. Ahem.) .

So, when I started working, I had hoped to retire costuming and just be the cool lady who handed out  treats and stayed HOME watching scary movies. I have struggled, of course, on what to give out. I don't want candy in my house, and I don't really want to infect neighbor kids with corn syrup if I can help it, yet, you can't give out apples because most parents don't trust that, and with good reason. I gave out toys one year. I gave out water bottles another year, but of course I worried about being the "uncool" neighbor. Life has been easier in this condo because I don't get trick-or-treaters. Most people living in this development are young professionals. There are a few young families but I've learned they take their children to one of the local Halloween parties rather than trick or treating. So, for the past two years, I've made Halloween bags for the children in my building. This year they each got a toy (bug, mummy, etc.) or glow stick, a spider ring, a package of cheese crackers, a bag of organic animal crackers, and a water bottle. I know, so very Boulder-hippie-progressive of me.

As I was putting those together and delivering them yesterday, I was remembering how different things were three years ago. Three years ago I came home on Halloween afternoon devastated. I called my mom and best friend and left them messages updating them to tell them I was fine but not ok, and that I needed to be alone. I turned my lights off and prepared to drink a lot of vodka, and pass out ASAP and be left alone all weekend. In the end, drinking alone didn't appeal to me. I watched scary movies on my computer and pulled all the shades. It didn't occur to me until the next week that no one had come knocking so I must not have had trick-or-treaters. I was that emotionally absorbed.

See, I had arrived here only four months before. I came for my fiance, and my company created this position for me (though it has worked out very much to their advantage as well, so at least I don't have to feel guilty about THAT). About 2 months after my arrival, my dad, who had been sick, got much more ill very suddenly. My father didn't quite tell me what was going on, but between my mom having seen him in the hospital and being so, so quiet, and my aunt sharing news from the doctor, and my dad saying, "Well, I guess you should do something soon," in response to me asking if I needed to come home (sidenote: why everyone refers to Connecticut as my "home" is a mystery since I have not had residence there for as long as I DID have residence there . . . ) I decided to hop a plane with some black clothes. Sadly, I was right and I needed those clothes. I also needed the 10 days before he passed, and a couple of weeks after in order to clean out his house. All told, I was gone for more than 3 weeks. It was a long, hot, grueling, emotional, complicated 3.5 weeks where a lot of things happened that were just as difficult as my father's death.

It took a lot of fast foot work to make this trip happen, and a lot of financial maneuvering, but when I left I had a temporary apartment with my fiance, a security deposit on the condo we were jonesing for, bills paid, the move into the condo planned and paid for (even though I couldn't be there), and a relationship to come back to.

When I came back, well, things were subtly different. The condo was (and IS!) great, but the person I left in it . . . well, a lot of things happened to be sure, but let's just say that somehow he felt that my dad dying was about his feelings, not mine. I was shocked by his decision to not be part of anything that I needed, and frankly, I was exhausted from all of the family drama I had just flown back from. I had only enough fight in me to yell once, and throw one watermelon (yes that happened). It didn't quite sink in for me that the moment I needed something from the relationship he left. I had enough presence to say some really biting things and to insist that he take his things right away. I had scant threads of self-respect but just enough knitted together to insist that he pay me back for the money I had spent supporting him while on unpaid family medical leave. And then, nothing. Everything is a blur of unhappiness and trying to explain how this happened to various people. I put one foot in front of the other, I got up and worked, but my heart wasn't in anything. I was double-grieving and it sucked up all my heart and soul.

So, a few weeks later when he asked to meet me for pizza and then said he was getting counseling and wanted to start couples counseling with me, it seemed like a good thing. I took it as him taking steps to sort himself out, to try and make things better, to not give up on us. We had our first session which was really good and helpful, and I loved the therapist. We had a complicated time making our second appointment, and decided the only day that worked for all three of us was Halloween.

Do you see where this is going? I didn't.

In between the first and second session we had some things we were supposed to work on separately and together. And we had agreed on a couple of phone calls and a chance to get together in person. When he called, he immediately was stand-off-ish and had excuses why he needed to change that schedule. When I expressed my concern about that he hung up on me unceremoniously. After that, he wouldn't answer any texts, calls, or emails. I did let him know that barring hearing anything from him, I would plan to see him in therapy.

I had talked with my best, best friend about not wanting to show up after all of this. He said," It may not turn out well. But you have to go. Not only did you say you would be there, but if you don't go, you'll always not only wonder if things could've been different . . . I know you. You also need to know you did what you could. All you could. You need to be able to like yourself for that. "

So, Halloween arrived, and I took two hours off from work to get over there, and have time for the session and to drive back. I showed up 10 minutes early, and proceeded to sit in the waiting room for 25 minutes. It was the most humiliating 25 minutes of my life. I kept breathing, shaking, and checking my phone for the time . . . or any messages. It slowly dawned on me that he wasn't coming. It took me about 15 of the 25 minutes to really convince myself that not only was he not coming, but apparently didn't consider spending the 13 seconds it would've taken to text or email me so that I didn't leave work for this. Then it took me another 5 minutes to understand that the therapist didn't seem to be looking for me or him. And 5 minutes after that it occurred to me that nobody at the front desk was calling either of our names. This is how strongly I see and believe in the best in people. It took me 25 minutes of sitting in an empty waiting room before the horrible truth rolled over me.

Like I said, humiliating. Devastating. I felt so . . . used. Discarded. And so dumb. And honestly like the biggest asshole in the western hemisphere for making such a giant deal out of this thing that he so clearly thought nothing of.

I finally talked to the front desk, and the therapist, and found that my beloved (heh) had canceled the appointment four days before. Wow. So, I was stick-a-fork-in-me-DONE. I just couldn't fathom that this was the person who supposedly loved me so much just a couple of months before. I couldn't believe that I had done all I was asked to do and more, only to get this in return. I was absolutely floored that I had worked so hard to make it emotionally ok for me to show up to this session after being shunned, only to find that . . . he didn't care at all. Later is was clear that it was to his advantage to suggest free counseling and then run away from it because it delayed him having to write a check to me. But at the time, nothing occurred to me other than that he respected and cared for me so little after years of having my support (in a lot of different forms) and understanding and love that he would let me show up knowing he wouldn't bet there.

So, I drove home, sans candy but full of shock and profound numbness. I called a couple of people to say, "I'm not ok but I'm fine. He didn't show up." and I went to bed. At 3 in the afternoon.

All of a sudden today I remembered that this was my three-year anniversary of getting out of that relationship. What he did was shocking and hurtful, but in the end, I am so grateful I didn't marry him, or worse, have kids with him. I am grateful that I got OUT. I'm thankful, so thankful that I moved on. I never would have known how bad things were, and how needy and demanding he was if I stayed inside that environment, but from the outside, it is clear there was no room for me to take a deep breath, much less have a life or need things. So, even when I am struggling now, even when finding the time to work out is hard, when figuring out what to eat is effort, when my brain is consumed by new ways to walk, even then, I am grateful. I was sad, and lonely, and challenged by that break-up, but my life is truly better for it. I get to be MYSELF and figure out who that is now. there is room for me. sometimes I wonder if all this room will make it hard to have a lasting relationship with someone else, but I'm not sorry I get to be me. So, corn syrup or not, this is a day to celebrate and remember.

Stating the obvious

So, allow me to state the obvious: funerals, wakes, and memorial services are not fun. They aren't meant to be fun. They're meant to give us a chance to reflect, ponder, say goodbye, and comfort each other. I really believe that when someone dies, they are in a better place; though as a non-Christian I don't have a lot of images or news to share about what that place might be. It doesn't stop me from being sad. But it helps me understand why people I knew are missing from my sight.

Why I am up early today going to a service is complicated and has to do with my job. My job is so complicated to explain and when thinking about this post (you know, five minutes ago) I realized I haven't explained it other than to say that my schedule is a moving target each week, and I'm on the road a lot. I work for a world-wide after school education program. Our business model is that our instructors are our franchisees, and my job is to run this region as the field consultant/franchise development manager. I was hired by the company, so I work for the franchisor, but it is part of my job to have relationships with the franchisees who are also instructors. It is also my job, at times to be all business with them. And it is my job to travel to them to work side by side with them. It is my job to provide ongoing training and professional development. It is my job to set goals with them, and help make action plans with time bounded steps to achieve them. It is my job to be a consultant for operations, business, and the side of this that I am most drawn to, education, student observation, and lesson planning. It is my job to train new candidates and help them get their centers open. It is my job to work with existing instructors on making changes. It is my job to deliver good and bad news, and it is my job to plan lunches, meetings, and the Christmas party. I've eaten a lot of pizza and sushi with these people.

But they're not exactly my colleagues. Some franchisees would say I work for them, since their royalties keep the company's doors open. Some franchisees would say they feel they work for us when they're feeling especially put upon by the company's requirements. I hope that most would say I am their liaison and partner in helping them have more satisfying success in their business in terms of being educators, but also in terms of being profitable.

From the outside, if you saw us eating sushi, it would look like we are friends, colleagues, and equals. But there's an invisible line. I can't be their friends. I can't drink with them, or go to their houses, because that makes business messy and tense. Likewise, I gather from franchisees (from our company as well as other franchise systems) that while they may like their field consultant very much, they too feel the separation in that there are some things they might hesitate to bring up in a conversation with that person . . . just in case the field consultant's "Big Brother" ears are on.

Lines get crossed, and envelopes get pushed, sometimes to the benefit of the working relationship and sometimes to the detriment of it. If I've learned nothing else in my 5.5 years in this position, it's that you can't do this job well without a strong personal relationship with the franchisees built on respect, trust, and integrity. But on the other hand, since it's business, you also can't always fall back on that relationship.

This week the lines have been very blurry because one of my franchisees died. He was a beloved instructor to his students and their parents, and I have eaten a lot of sushi with him. In fact, there have been times where I've eaten with him, his wife, and his son - see above for where the lines get crossed. So, at once, I have been a shoulder to cry on, a business adviser, a counselor, and the action-taker who took charge of making a plan for the center, the communicator who called parents and families, and the only person here in Colorado to represent anything the company needed done.

Looking at that paragraph above, those are the shoes I fill every day at work, including a few others - office manager shopping for supplies and making sure necessary tasks like heating and cleaning are tended to, administrative assistant, party planner, presentation giver. This is because there is no one else here for me to share responsibility with. The difference this week is that it involves the loss of someone important in the colleaguial community I facilitate, even if I'm not exactly a part of that group.

Most weeks I see the benefits and the drawbacks of being on my own out here. I don't participate in office drama, but I also don't get the help and support of colleagues very often. I don't get fed for office meetings, but I get to work in my PJs sometimes. Our jobs have a lot of work hour flexibility, but mine even more so. I have to do my own admin, I get to do a load of laundry on my lunch break (when said lunch break isn't in a car on the way to a center).

Never have a I wished for a team of people to share the load with more than this week. For my readers, please anticipate and forgive what will likely be some pretty profound fogginess and inconsistency in the coming month. Going to the service will be hard, holding a business meeting with a grieving spouse next week will be even harder.

With that, I'm off to the service in as much of a black outfit as I could pull together.

Lacrosse balls, food logs, and breathing, oh my!

I'm someone who needs a lot of professional help. I try to do things myself as much as possible, but sometimes, I just can't do things on my own. I hire people to wash my car. I sometimes hire people to do my toenails, not because I can't do it but because I love, love, love pedicures. I used to cut my own hair, but the truth is, it's worth it to pay someone else to do it. I pay to have my clothes altered because I never learned to sew. I hire people to change my oil and my condo association hires people to do our lawn care and landscaping (thank god!). I have friends who do these things on their own. I have a couple of friends who do their own oil change, and one of my oldest and dearest friends spent the summer re-siding his HOUSE for God's sake. Not me. I mean, I don't pay to have my laundry sent out or anything, I can do things for myself (I cook! I do my laundry, I hate folding, but I do it!) there are just things that it would take me so much time to do or to learn to do that it's worth it to pay to get it taken care of.

There are a couple of things about this that fascinate me. For one, it is one of the most conspicuous signs that I am in the middle class. While I grew up in a family that was comfortable most of the time, I also grew up during the last great recession, in a family with three kids. So there was very rarely extra to go around. And with one parent who was working incredibly hard to transcend not attending college and another who left a white collar job for a blue collar one, I think it's fair to say I grew up not quite in the comfortable middle class - perched nearby but not quite soundly there. I grew up in a town full of incredibly privileged families, so while we weren't ever worried about putting food on the table, I was aware of the differences. We didn't have someone clean the house, we didn't go to Disney World. New cars, nuh-uh.

I am often uncomfortable with the fact that I have launched myself into this class in society. For instance, I can't fathom buying a new car. And, I don't know that I will ever be able to hire someone to clean my house (not that I need to, my house is fully cleanable by me) because cleaning houses was one of the four jobs I worked to pay college tuition. I feel very weirdly self-conscious when I pay someone to hem my pants. I am aware that I have choices like buying plane tickets and iPhones.  And there are times (like when I bought my iPhone, or when I moved into this place with in house laundry. Not in-building . . . in my HOUSE! Life-changer, woot!) that I celebrate it.

The other thing is that . . it becomes more and more natural to ask for help. In the long run, this is a good thing. I used to be pathologically, stubbornly independent. My mother loves to tell the story that when I was two I would cry out if either parent started to help me, "I'm inn-deeeee-peeenn-DENT!" It used to be painful for me to ask for or accept help. When I was on crutches for a year, my boyfriend-at-the-time offered to go down to the basement and get me a ginger-ale. I was mortified. Now, it seems like it's nothing to me to ask for help. But underneath, I am always a little concerned that I should just suck it up and do it myself.

But yeah, I get professional help. Just in the last week, I got my hair done, saw my trainer, saw a therapist, and followed a plan made by the dietician. I am logging my food, and following a plan of how many carbs, how many vegetables, how much fat and fruit, and what counts as a serving size.  This means I have to measure all my food, plan carefully to get enough of everything, and do a lot of cooking (thank goodness I can do THAT by myself). I am writing everything down and thinking, "Oh, I should eat more olives tomorrow," or "Oh, I should remember that that only counts as a half serving." It's a lot to think about when I just want to grab lunch.

Meanwhile, my trainer has me not only working the kinks out in my muscles, but re-learning how to stand and walk. Today it's snowing so I'm camped on the couch because my brain is full of thoughts on how to walk. "Three point walking - heel, ball, toe." Standing is work because I'm constantly having to remind myself to change my posture, shift my weight off my toes, and unlock my knees . . . it's how the rest of the world stands, but it feels like my knees are bent when I do this. This is what is in my head while I'm cooking, while I'm showering, putting on make-up, reading the label on some granola in the aisle of Whole Foods. While I'm standing in the grocery line, or talking to someone on my feet, it looks like I'm doing normal things, you know how you do, but really I'm trying to revamp my whole way of staying upright and moving through the world. My brain is full, and it's work to keep track of this.

I am foam rolling my muscles, and using a lacrosse ball to roll my feet out. That's not only work, but it's painful and time consuming.

Add to this following a technique from the therapist about how to be assertive without expectation, and breathe through anxiety and I'm constantly questioning myself. What would expectation look like? Is my weight on my toes? Is that cheese one serving of dairy or two? Am I walking correctly? Did I roll out my leg muscles and IT band today? Breathe, breathe, assert your wants, but don't cling to any expectation about them. Is this assertive or aggressive? What do I want. Unlock your knees! Oh no, didn't eat enough fat servings today!

Oh, it's work. And it sometimes seems backwards that I pay to add this work to my day. But, I know in the end, I asked for this help. And I need it. I need not to bring more mess to sort through into the middle of my relationship. I need to have a an eating plan that allows me to eat on the road, but also be healthy and chip away at my goals. And I need (oh, I can't believe I'm going to say this) to be able to go running. I need to work out and feel good about it. 


So I seek help. I work hard to work those things into my schedule. I work hard to follow the things I learn, the things I need to change, into my day-to-day. So, I bought me two lacrosse balls, I carry around my food log, and I'm working on breathing my way through the messy feelings I have right now. Oh my!

Toes up! Knees unlocked!

Yesterday I was reminded that paying a trainer isn't just about having someone to work out with, or tell me what I should work on for the week. Those things are nice, but when I think of paying someone to do those things, it feels like a massive luxury. When I remember the full range of knowledge my trainer brings to the table, it feels more like a reasonable expense.

Not only does my trainer have a degree in exercise physiology and kinesthesiology, not only can he consult on my nutrition as he reminded me last Sunday, but he also can help me problem solve when my body is falling apart. In 2010 I called him on a Friday from Phoenix and said, "Ummm, I dislocated my knee. I'm taking this Sunday off and will see a doctor on Monday." After seeing the doc and getting referred to PT my trainer was like, "Yeah, we can work out. No big deal." He built workouts that allowed me to keep progressing in as many areas as possible, and I was glad that I spent only one week laid up on the couch. I was grateful to have part of my life NOT be interrupted by that injury. All injuries seriously suck, but after going through a year of trying to avoid surgery on that very knee in 1997/98 and then having the surgery, followed by another year of rehab (1998/99), having that reconstruction fail me wasn't just physically painful, it was emotional for me to. Having my trainer work around it without a blink was actually reassuring and kept me motivated.

Six weeks after that knee took it's trip out to the side, my other knee took three trips out to the side. I can't say he and I soldiered on without blinking when it was crutches and two bad knees. I certainly can't say we just shrugged it off when my MRI results were in and the total wreckage news was delivered upon us (I tore my ACL, mediapatellar femoral ligament, and meniscus. I wrecked it good. Go big or go home!), but we did keep going. We kept going by doing a lot of things sitting down, a lot of exercises that strengthened my back, shoulders, arms, and abs and a few things laying down. we kept going by making fun of my crutches. We were limited, but we kept going. I had a few friends who said, "Wouldn't it be better to save your paid time with the trainer until you can do more?" Sure. But at a time when I felt helpless, weak, and useless it was important for me to have a few opportunities to feel strong, powerful and capable.

Any trainer who can work around two injured legs is a keeper, but yes, he is also fun to work out with, capable of guiding me nutritionally, and he makes me laugh. What amazed me today was how he set about fixing my running issues . I texted him on Thursday and said, "Something is wrong with my running - backs of my legs right under my calves feels hard and bruised to the touch, but there's no bruise. feet cramping so bad they're going numb. Please help me figure out what I'm doing wrong when I see you Sunday."

I walked in yesterday and he had a plan already in place, a plan that involved me working out without shoes. We rolled the muscles of my feet and calves with a lacrosse ball, and then he explained to me that the muscles and tendons in my lower leg connect up to my thigh and hip flexors, but also down into my feet, pulling on the achilles tendon. He told me that some of the ways I have compensated for my knees or have learned to walk with the joint laxity I have are causing me to put more pressure on my arches and toes. This in turn causes me to tense the muscles in my calves, and below, while relaxing the muscles on my shins. That pulls me forward, putting more pressure on my toes, and taking weight off my heels. Additionally, my knees are so loose that they often hyperextend . . . which means they bend backwards. That pushes my pelvis in the wrong direction, tightening muscles in my lower back, pulling up on my IT band and all the muscles and tendons of my legs . . . contributing more to the damn feet.

So, basically, I'm put together all wrong and so I walk wrong. I put pressure on my toes and arches, and I lock my knees out hyperextended which pulls my pelvis and lower back into the wrong place therefore pulling on the muscles in the backs of my legs and puts more pressure on my feet in the wrong places. I try not to blame my parents for constructing me wrong. After all, I was their first; they didn't know what they were doing. But a lot of issues seem to stem from these bad knees which are a result of faulty construction - it'd be nice to pass the blame off. But it won't help me walk right. And without walking correctly, it's unlikely that I will run correctly.

The workout was mentally difficult for me. It wasn't that physically strenuous, because we were focusing on a lot of exercises where I could stand with my knees straight-not-hyper-extended (which feels bent to me) and my toes flexed up towards my face. Every time I wasn't lifting something I got the treatment that tall willowy blondes get when they walk down the street. I got looked up and down to make sure my posture was good, my weight was on my heels, and my knees weren't locked. I was reminded over and over to "unlock [your] knees," and "take the weight off [your] heels." It's pretty frustrating to realize after more than three decades on the planet that I don't know how to stand properly. Arg! Retrain! Retrain!

I am hopeful that re-training myself will result in more comfortable joints, better ability to do more, and a return to running. Best of all would be not having my feet turn into hobbled nubs of themselves as they cramp so hard that my toes curl under.

I was also pretty impressed that without watching me walk or run, without "examining" my legs or feet, just through a text, my trainer could figure out what was wrong, and put me back on the right track. It was reassuring to find that I could walk in and have a workout designed specifically for the issue I was having. If you're interested here are some of the things we did: dead lifts while making sure I was weighted on my heels and not my toes, planks while lifting each leg for one second, keeping toes flexed and knees straight. I also did renegade rows. This is down in a plank position with toes bent to support me but arms are straight down from the shoulder and holding 25 pound weights. As I bring each arm up one at a time I curl into my body holding the weight. We did an exercise that reminded me of bobbing and weaving along the rope in karate - my trainer stretched a theraband our and had me squat (toes up!) and bob and weave for 60 seconds. We did a combination movement of one legged touchdown (enjoy the music on that one!) and lunge where I had to stand on one leg (toes up! knees unlocked!) and send my other leg out behind me and then touch the ground, then stand upright and swing that leg through to a lunge bending the toes of my back/planted foot and keeping the weight off the toes of the front/lunging foot. (I was sweating a lot after that one not because it was so physically strenuous but because the effort of keeping my feet even and my toes where they were supposed to be was enormous.) We did a few other exercises but you get the picture - with no shoes on we could always be looking at what my feet were doing, as well as keeping an eye on whether or not my knees were locked out. We finished by stretching and foam rolling my trouble spots. I won't lie - it was painful. In fact, it was a bitch. But I walked out of there feeling looser all over and more comfortable moving. And it's also good to know that something so simple can help.

I was relieved to find out I hadn't just been wimping out - that this is a real problem. (I always secretly worry that I am a wuss and that the pain I feel is "not that bad" and that I should just "suck it up.") One that I can fix. So, if you see me mumbling to myself about how my feet ar turned out, keeping the weight on my heels, making sure to walk so that I hit three points on my feet (heel, ball, toe), or my knees being unlocked, I'm not crazy. Well, I might be crazy, but it's for a reason.

ungood week

Have you ever had the kind of week where it's just like . . . . ughhh, please be over?!

I can't really say that anything horrible happened. There were no flat tires, no weight gains, not major work crises. My boyfriend and I are slowly sifting through some of the issues between us, and getting back to a place where it feels good to be together. Everything just feels like . . . work right now.

I know what a privilege it is for me to work this hard. I know that what I do in the gym matters. I know that planning my meals makes a difference. I know how lucky I am to be able to feed myself with healthy food in this country that has so many families struggling to feed themselves and resorting to processed cheap stuff. I know that I shouldn't complain about having a job that pays the bills. I know also that having someone who loves me and who is willing to work on the things that need attention and revamping is no small thing. I just feel so, so tired that everything is so time consuming right now. It's hard to keep being psyched about all of it. I feel like I keep moving my focus and gaze; I'll put a spot light on my eating for a week, and it will go well, and then I'll move the spotlight to my exercise the next week, and that will go well but the eating will slip a little, and then the next week my focus will be on my relationship and my feelings, and then my eating and exercise will start to go all wonky . . . I feel like there isn't enough of me to attend to all of the parts of me right now and that is frustrating. It's all well and good for me to tell my boss, "If everything is a priority then nothing is a priority," but I struggle when that prophecy comes true in my life.

If I'm allowed to whine a little bit more, I just want to sleep. I want a whole day where I do nothing but sleep, drink really tasty flavored Perrier, and read. And then sleep some more. I want a day where I get to eat pizza and not think about it. And I want a day that's all about me, not about anyone else and what they need from me. I don't want to be greedy so all of those things can happen on the same day. I'll condense so as to allow others to have their magical days - I assume magical days are a zero sum game and that there's only so many to go around, you see. The thing is, in order to have this magical day, I need an eight day in the week, because there are 5 days a week where I need to work really hard, and 6 days a week where I have to work out really hard. And then I'm all out of days.

A lot of what is fueling my down mood this week is that my running has been sucking a lot of suckage. When my friends were here, just two weeks ago, I jog/walked 2.5 miles in less than 30 minutes. This week, getting through 2 miles has been awful. There is something wrong with my calves, but since I'm not a "real" runner, I don't know what it is. the backs of my calves feel hard and puffy, and if I touch them, it feels like they are bruised. But they're not. (Does anyone know what this is?) It weirds me out that I can feel pain as though it's on the surface but not see the cause. Worse, this seems to be resulting in a return of my bad, bad foot problems that had been disappearing. The last couple of runs, my feet have cramped up so bad that they went numb and tingly.I am missing the feeling of simple, brute accomplishment I was getting from completing run and progressing in speed and endurance. No, I still don't get the "rush" my runner friend is always on about, but I do feel like I've done something real and tangible after I run. With everything else in my life being such a long, drawn out THING right now, I don't often get to have a good result right away - you can't get that from eating chicken and broccoli, you don't get an instant warm fuzzy from having a hard conversation with a loved one, and let me tell you, while database reviews need to get done at work, there is nothing immediately gratifying about them. So, I kind of - gasp, dare I say it - miss having a good run in my life right now.

It's a weird but true fact that when things are going well, I just expect them to keep going that way. I don't always think about what it takes to keep things going well, though I try to think deeply about what are the things that made a day or a week good. I think in this case, I just have to look at the things I have committed myself to, make sure they are still the things I want to do, and that they leave room for other things I love, and decide if I need a break from anything. Certainly part of this is about work - because I worked a ton on the road in September, I have a ton of office work to catch up on, and still not quite enough time to do it because October's normal travel schedule wasn't built around the idea of making up for the lack of office time in September. It's hard to work long days, every single day, for two months straight. It's harder still to have no days where I sleep in, and to be constantly trying to force an hour or more of exercise into my schedule during this busy time. It has often meant I roll out of bed very early, head into the office and then take a lunch break at a weird time in order to walk, run, or lift.

I find that when I'm tired and run down, my commitment to a lot of things wanes. I feel less excited about time with friends, about getting work done, about working out, and certainly eating right becomes very difficult. I definitely have found that my appetite is often not the predictor of when my healthy eating habits crack, but rather how tired and run down I am. It's hard to balance the need to keep going, do more, against the need to slow down and rest so that you don't crack in your resolve.

For that reason, after a long day at work yesterday, I chose to place more importance on spending time with two of my good friends and really slow down, not worrying as much about schedules and committments. I probably should have been in the gym, but it felt like it was really needed to stop being part of the machine. So, I had a beer, and a salad, and a run through Colorado's #1 haunted house (and yes, I mean a run. There were places that were sooooo creepy) and then back to my friend's house to listen to music and talk about plans for the upcoming Halloween party. Then I slept for a full eight hours, and soon I will go get my hair done and head out to a casual wedding reception. I know I need this time by the level of frustration and disenchantment I have with everything right now - as a for instance, I was so tired yesterday that I thought, "Ummm, maybe I just won't go out for food and the haunted house." And then I stood outside myself and thought,"Wait, you really want to do this, you're just tired. Go!" I also know the challenge is to not turn this little 1 day break into a bad habit of not doing what I need to do.

But for today, hallelujah, I feel like I got enough sleep and I'm looking forward to the fall weather and a chance to see a few people I like, and then who knows, maybe some more sleep. Fingers crossed that getting some rest and talking to my trainer will help me find the answer to how to get my mojo back in running - who knew that losing that groove would effect me so much?!

Honesty, Part 2

Six weeks ago, as a new blogger I wrote this post about honesty with myself. I'm fundamentally very, very attached to my honesty and my ability to say what is true, even if it isn't received well by others. So I explored how that would feel if I turned that honesty on myself. It felt a little uncomfortable, but not painful. In this post I got a small taste of how others must experience me - the uncompromising high standards are probably intimidating. I guess my honesty is too. A good friend pointed out yesterday that anyone with issues probably feels a little concerned or intimidated by the fact that I am very open and honest, because they know their issues will be exposed.

It was an eye-opening conversation for me. On the one hand, I'm not going to stop being honest, but on the other hand I don't want that penchant for speaking out about hard things to be mistaken for a lack of empathy, or worse, some kind of blind spot about my own issues. I take it as a given that my issues are up for grabs too - I mean, I started a blog about them - but I also recognize that if I appear intimidating, then it's probably doesn't seem like I'm approachable on those subjects. My sister told me that when she reads my blog she feels like she's trespassing on my private diary (I reassured her that I have a journal I wrote in just for myself and I'm aware that this is published and read by others) but at the same time, writing about me isn't enough to make sure I'm just as open to being honest about me as I am about others. I have to speak it too.

I often give people the impression that I'm very open. I think this happens because I answer questions very openly. There isn't much I won't talk about in terms of theme or subject - my childhood, my dad's death, sex, you name it. I'll answer it. This often gives people a false sense of knowing me deeply and/or that I am an open book. I remember last year during my scary-but-wonderful singing class my teacher trying to help me perform with more emotional openness saying, "I don't believe this performance. You need to show me more inside." I responded saying something to the effect of I didn't know how to do that and she said, very lovingly, "But I know you! You're an expressive person when you talk. You're very emotional and open!." She wasn't wrong but what I thought was, "Yeah, you THINK you know me, but there's a lot you don't know." Because I am expressive and talk a lot about feelings and reactions, because I talk with my hands and have animated facial expressions, because there are few taboo subjects with me, people frequently get a false sense of closeness with me. I don't mean to mislead them. I'm not trying to lead people down a garden path. It's more that I give a lot up front, but conceal important truths and feelings to keep myself safe. I described this once to another student in the class as being a real estate agent showing a house. I'll invite you in, tell you to look around, invite you to enjoy the open house food I've laid out and encourage you to ask any questions you have. But I'll just conveniently leave out that the house is haunted, or some other important detail.

The need to be more honest to other people, about myself, out loud, was never more clear than when I met with my trainer yesterday. This was the first time seeing him since I saw the dietician last week. I was medically referred by my doctor after messing up my body and my eating with the diet plan that could never work for me (silly Christie, diets where people lose large amounts of weight are for other people!). I didn't think anything about going, but after getting my new eating plan from her, I wanted to share it with my trainer. I texted him as I was leaving the office and said, "Saw the dietician today! Have lots to share - looking forward to Sunday."

When I ran into my friend who also works with the same trainer, she said, "So, you saw a nutritionist?" Since I don't really know the difference between a nutritionist and a dietician I said, "Yep. I really like her." And my friend said, "Well, that's great. Just a question for you. What about (insert our trainer's name here.)" In my brain it made this noise, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." All of a sudden I realized, CRAP! I totally didn't talk about this with him! And he might want in on this to make sure we're all on the same page.

I was medically referred, yes, and there's nothing wrong with me going, but if my goals with him are weight loss, then he needs to know about my medical status and diet; just like when I met with the dietiician I brought info about my diagnosis and medications, as well as about my workouts with him. That door has to swing both ways since the goals are the same in all three consultations. I had given him the impression that everything was transparent between us by conveniently leaving out that the house was haunted, or more specifically, that I was medically compromised and that's why I needed to see someone.

Actually, being more honest about it means saying this: I changed my eating drastically without telling him or my doctor when I went on that plan. I don't have to search hard to find that the reason I did that is because I didn't want to hear cautions or reasons not to go on that plan. I wanted to focus on the 50+ pounds my friends had lost. I wanted, no I needed, to believe that that could happen to me too if I was just committed and disciplined.

My trainer said to me, "I'm not sorry you went, and it sounds like the information and structure you got is helpful. I want to talk to you more about it while we work out. But I also want to make sure you know I could have done that for you too." He thought for a minute while he was setting up kettlebells for me and finished up with, "When I got your text I was a little surprised."

I looked him straight in the eye and said, "I know. I realized that after. I'm sorry. I know you can do this too, but I need as much structure as I can get. My doctor medically referred me because I messed up in July and August. I went way too low with my calories so I lost fast and then stopped losing at all, and that's a warning sign. And my labs were awful. Ahe waved them in front of me and basically said, despite being the nicest, sweetest little Indian lady, 'what the hell are you doing? This is a mess!' I think you should be pissed, but be pissed that I changed my eating drastically then and didn't consult you. It just feels like I'm always on the extreme ends of the spectrum with my eating, and I don't know how to find the middle point on my own." That was all deeply honest, but if I was plumbing the depths of this story I would also have said this: I am a food addict, but self aware enough to know I sabotage myself. That means there's hope for me to find recovery, but it also means when I mess up I feel not just like someone out of control, but like a bad person. It's very painful for me to go through these last few months having to fee my feelings during things that are really hard in my professional and personal life, and all I want to do is buy frozen pizza and Cheezits and pull the proverbial covers up over my head. But if I do that, I'm faced with the feelings of failure and being unworthy of love. I need help. From wherever I can get it.

I think he senses what a struggle this is for me, not just the weight loss, but talking about it because what he said was very firm, but compassionate. "I wish you had told me your labs were bad. In one sense, talking with your doctor is separate, but in another sense, if I had known that I could have done things differently. You don't have to tell me about your labs and doctor's appointments but if you do we can work together better. "

I said that I wanted to share my food logs with him, and have him be involved in that. He gently said,
"You can tell me the medical doctor stuff too." He's not wrong. By leaving things out of the conversation, I wasn't dishonest, but I wasn't honest either. I was avoiding his help because I didn't want to hear that what I did was wrong, or that what I wanted wasn't possible. I didn't know that this plan wouldn't work for me, but I knew that not talking about it with him was a bad idea. So much for the idea that I'm completely open and honest when it counts.

If I want to get better, if I want to like myself more and be more worthy of my own love, I need to be willing to, as a 12 step program says, "make a fearless and searching moral inventory and quickly admit wrongs." I was wrong to pay my trainer to help me get stronger and thinner but not tell him I had changed my eating. I was wrong to not tell him when my doctor discovered my body was crashing and burning on the inside. I was wrong not to tell him that I had been referred to a dietician. I was probably also wrong to not tell him the full truth about me as I know it now and to hold back on saying, "I'm really messed up on the inside, and for the first time I see a way to try and make it better." I was wrong to let him spend the last 3.5 months thinking he knew what was going on with me, and thinking that I was being open with him. Clearly, I'm not as strong on honesty as I like to think when I can so easily leave things out of the conversation to avoid things I don't want to hear.

Yesterday was a wake up call for me. When we sat down and he looked through some of the items from the dietician he said, "Well, I would like to be involved in this stuff with you even though i know you have a plan laid out with her (the dietician) too. "

I said, "Yes, I need you to look at my food log every week. I need all the accountability I can get because I mess up and it becomes a slippery slope really quickly and then I feel like I'm failing at life."

"Well, if you want to use me for accountability, you need to tell me these things. Just sayin'"

So true. Good talk.

zombies

Today is something of a holiday for me. Today ends 44 weeks of waiting. Today the long awaited season two of Walking Dead starts. (eeeeeeeeee!)

I know I have mentioned my love of zombies before, but I don't think I've explained why zombies cause me to grow as excited as small children get around bowls of chocolate. (In fact, all of my food addictions and love of carbs aside, I would rather watch zombies than eat a magical bowl of delicious and yet calorie free chocolate)

Zombies quite simply, are phenomenally fascinating. Of course, there is something kind of supernatural about them, but they aren't all airbrushed and pretend-sexy-scary like the vampires. You know what I'm talking about. (That fakeness and feeling of being in a magazine shoot doesn't do it for me.) And yet, zombies are the dead become undead. How beautifully brill.

They're gross and gory, so there's a lot of adrenaline involved in watching them. And while all of that is great, what is even better is the cognitive paradox they represent. Depending on which movie or show you're watching, there are fast zombies or slow zombies. Some zombies can climb, and some cannot. Some zombies have the presence to pursue or chase, and some can't. But they all share one important trait: they are mindless. Not brain-less, but mindless. They can't remember their name, speak, or formulate a plan more complicated than a goldfish would make. But they're still moving. And eating. Well, they're eating whenever they can get their hands on some flesh. (eeeeeeeeeeeeee!)

Zombies are one of the clearest ways to illustrate the important distinction that cognitive scientists make between the brain and the mind. The brain is an organ that but the mind is the living computer that allows us to make complex calculations, learn, and distinguishes us from other species. I sometimes describe this difference as the brain being the wet and mushy stuff in our skull that does biological stuff  and the mind being the tool that allows us to figure shit out via sophisticated processing. But my wonderful Cognitive Scientist friend boiled it down much more elegantly: the brain is what zombies want to eat, while the mind is what they lack.

And yet, do you know how to kill the undead?

Yes, that's right. The way to stop a zombie for good is to cause a serious, often severing, brain trauma. Shot to the head, decapitation, baseball bat repeatedly sunk into the forehead. What an awesome paradox for someone as nerdy as me.

I also have a hankering to be entertained by "end of the world" stories. Stephen King's The Stand, yep, read it three times. Disease outbreaks sweeping the planet? I'm there. Giant meteorite, sign me up. One of my best birthdays was when a friend took me out for dinner, and then we went to see, The day after tomorrow. It. was. awful. I mean - awesome. It was awfesome. Aliens, disease, famine, force of nature, government conspiracy, I enjoy them all. I love the end of the world because the story isn't just about the apocalypse, but also about the people left, their survival and whether or not the better angels of their nature prevail.

For me, zombies are the best, most entertaining example of this. Someone asked me once if my excitement and deep knowledge of zombies came from a real fear and belief that the zombie apocalypse might happen. Umm, no. I think zombies are a Hollywood way of saying, "We fear ourselves." But, for me, the stories that seem to really stick with me are the ones that really focus on the survivors and the difficult and dark places that decisions and morality go, but also the beautiful and uplifting examples of people trying not to lose their humanity. Nothing seems to bring this out for me quite as memorably or heart-tuggingly than the juxtaposition of people trying to make it while trying to survive the uprising of former-and-now-flesh-eating-people.

My love of zombies goes deep enough to have put serious thought into how they can function biologically but not have mind. I once spent an entire weekend writing down theories about how different agents/events could cause zombies and selectively strike their mind, but spare their brain. Yes, I am that much of a geek, and a zombie enthusiast. I had some pretty good theories too, and found out, with not that much work, that there have been "scholarly" publications about the cognition of zombies. Ahh, academia, how I love thee.

I also have spent a lot of time thinking about survival in the zombie apocalypse. I didn't realize how well formulated my plans were until last spring when my cousin posted something on Facebook. He asked if it would be ok to leave somebody behind in a zombie apocalypse, if it meant saving yourself. I answered that that question had more than moral overtones. Of course, morally speaking, it would be hard to sleep at night if you left your friend to be munched on (though with zombies on the loose it would probably be hard to sleep at night anyways), but there's a more important and less altruistic thing to consider: surviving the first wave of the apocalypse usually depends a lot on luck, location, and timing. But surviving the second wave is almost always dictated by things beyond luck such as having more of something - shelter, food, fuel, people. So, save people!!! What followed was a rolling Facebook conversation between me, my friends, my cousin, and my cousin's friends about how to survive zombies. We discussed optimal locations (remote mountains, warehouses, and army installations were most mentioned), how to gather food (don't forget water! Very important!), the best modes of transportation (horses are great for all terrain, but not for escaping hordes of flesh eating undead. Tanks are awesome for driving over the masses of zombies, but not so good if you want to be somewhere remote. Motorcycles . . . have a lot of maneuvering pros, but a lot of vulnerability cons. My mother suggests a dragon. Yes, A DRAGON.), and some other items. I raised the point that after civilization dies other problems arise. Simple things become less simple, such as common illnesses and appendicitis. It's important to stockpile medication and find someone who can act as a doctor. Also, people seem to like to get it on at the end of the world, and when running for your lives from zombies is not the ideal time to be knocked up. One of my other cousins (we have 19 first cousins on my mother's side) remarked that zombies must love pregnant chics because it's like an appetizer and an entree (ha!). Stockpile birth control, peeps. It was an awesome conversation.

As you can see, zombies are a BIG DEAL for me. So much so that I once drove from Central Jersey to Albany to see the opening of Dawn of the Dead with my fabulous Cognitive Scientist friend, who loves zombies as much as I do. So when AMC started making The Walking Dead really the only bad thing was that Season 1 was only 6 episodes long. (Luckily Season 2 is contracted for 13 episodes.)

Ittttttt'sssss baaaaaaa-aaaack! Yay, Walking Dead! Honestly, it's not just that I love zombies so much, though I do. It's also that nothing on TV is as well done as this show. My love for the West Wing still knows no bounds. But it ended  5 years ago, and though I mourn the loss, we all have to move on. Don't get me wrong, I like me some bad reality TV from time to time, and I watch a couple of other shows when I can keep up, but, this show, mmmmm. This show is produced at the level of a movie, which really shouldn't be surprising given that Frank Darabont is writing and producing most episodes, and he was hugely influential in the writing and direction of my favorite movie of all time. This show is moving, emotional, a heart-racing thriller, and an unrelenting exploration of humanity's highs and lows. We loves it, precious.

In honor of tonight's important event, I re-watched the last season, talked my mom into watching Season 1 (after informing her that, no, there would not be any dragons, and yes, she would have to endure some gritty plots, some complicated characters, and yes, some gore), and I plan to celebrate with some popcorn. I know that popcorn is a dangerous food for me, but I'd like to believe I can have foods that I like and not descend into mindless eating. I am not a zombie, after all. So, we'll see if I can enjoy zombies without becoming an undead-like-eater on my couch. I've been on my new eating plan for 5 days, and am feeling like I have some idea of how to fit foods in, and how to eat them in moderation. I won't know for sure how I handle this until I try it, so I have to try it. I can't let the zombies do all the eating, eh?

In other news, today is a real occasion. Someone whom I love very much turns 30. Welcome to the next decade, dude. I love you and hope this next year is everything you want and need it to be.

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Post Script - it has been suggested that I "tossed off" comments about The West Wing. Let me be clear. My love for the this show is unending. I feel the work the cast, crew and writers did in this show shattered the supposed limits of TV. It elevated television based drama to a new level, it changed the conversation about politics, at least in my circle, and it educated me. At turns, it amused me, devastated me, and taught me; sometimes all in the same episode (this episode is a particularly good example of that special blend of humor, drama, and information). I was hooked on this show within two episodes. I wrote my same fabulous Cognitive Scientist friend after he sent me a video with the same two episodes and said, "Damn you! Now I'm hooked on this show and don't have cable!" I love, love, love The West Wing. I miss, miss, miss The West Wing. What is important to note is that I have been interested in TV since then but never until The Walking Dead did I have anything that came close. Thank god someone finally found the right cast, with the right story line otherwise I might've sank beneath the weight of bad hospital shows!