I was going to write a post about guilt, feeling inspired by something Jenny Crusie wrote and posted on Reinventing Fabulous (http://reinventingfabulous.com/?p=899), and because her post got this song stuck in my head and I can't find it anywhere ("I'm unworthy. Yes, no matter what I'm doing, I should certainly be doing something else. And it's selfish to be thinking I'm unworthy, all this me, me, me, me, self, self, self, self." It's hilarious and wonderful and if you find it, please let me know.) But my first few lines sounded terrible, so I deleted it and now I've been staring at a) a blank screen or b) my best friend telling me to write about buying a vineyard and moving to Italy because that's our new "plan" for the last 10 minutes or so.
Ugh. I should have something to say. I started this whole stupid project.
Oh, look what I did there. I should-ed. Bad, bad business.
And, interestingly enough, should-ing gets us back to guilt.
Why do we feel guilt? Because we should have done something, and we didn't. Well, where the heck does this obligation came from? From whence the should? Is it from society, from our loved ones? Well, sometimes yes. There are a lot of should's that come along with being a woman. We should be pretty, but not high-maintenance. We should be sexy, but only a little bit, and only for our chosen partner (who probably should, according to some small-minded jerkwads, be male). We should be sensitive, but not whiny. We should be confident, but not cocky. We should be assertive, but not bitchy. But I think, most often, those damn shoulds that pile up so high that we want to scream, come from ourselves.
For example, my husband has never once said, "I want dinner ready when I get home." For one thing, he knows better. However, I make it this big should thing. I should have the apartment clean when he gets home. I should have dinner ready, or at least well on its way to being ready. And on the occasion when I don't feel particularly well and I lay down as soon as I get home, I feel guilty for not having accomplished that should.
And when I think of all these damn shoulds, I realize that I had shoulded myself into a pretty serious depression a few years ago. I'm not discounting the fact that I probably had something chemically wrong with me, but there was a lot of should-ing going on as well.
And I'm still bloody doing it. Look at my reason for starting this blog: I should know what I want from my life by the time I turn 30. Well, what happens if I don't? What happens if I never really know what I want? What if I'm never a real "adult"? Am I just creating another massive should that I may never accomplish, and therefore creating just one more massive occasion to feel guilty?
I don't know. Maybe.
But maybe now that I know about the dangers of should, maybe I can look at the blog as more of an exercise. Not that this process should result in my being an adult, with a clear sense of purpose and follow through, but that this space is a place for me to explore any and all possibilities that I see.
Even buying a vineyard in Italy. ;)
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Breakthroughs
So, I've had this story idea floating around in my head for awhile. I was planning to really attack writing it for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this last November. However, the Universe had other plans. My back, which has been a touchy little bugger for the last six years, had been getting progressively worse. I would make it through a full day at work and hurt so badly when I got home that the only thing I could manage to do was lay down flat on my back with an ice pack. I debated the wisdom of trying to come home from sitting in a chair all day to sit in a chair all night to try to write. I decided it was probably not the greatest idea in the world. Ten days into November, the month some whackjob (kidding!) decided was a good time to try to write a novel, I coughed and my back completely crumpled and I was flat on my back for a couple of months.
I was incredibly bitter about that for a bit. I had wanted to write my book. I had had it all ready to go. I had prepped the hubby that he was probably going to eat soup or frozen pizza for most of the month, because I was going to be busy writing. I was finally, really going to do it. I was going to write a book. And then I couldn't. Not just I decided that it would be a bad idea to stress my back out that much, I absolutely could not sit in a chair for any decent amount of time, and I hadn't been prescribed painkillers yet.
But, all in all, it was probably a great thing that my back went out when it did. I found a new chiropractor, who suggested that I finally have an MRI to see what was going on with my back, and then I found out that I had two herniated disks, severe spinal stenosis, and some nerve tearing. I finally got some actual painkillers, and I finally got someone to say, "Hey, if sleeping on the couch makes the pain less, then sleep on the damn couch. Who cares what anyone else says." It was nice to know that my pain wasn't all in my head, wasn't made up, wasn't a result of me being tremendously messed up as a person. I wasn't crazy, there was actually a problem.
I've had this feeling before. I swam in high school (junior and senior year) and in college. In high school, I'd experienced a lot of pain in left shoulder, but, and I hate to say this because it sounds petty and bitchy and mean, but my coaches seemed to kind of blow it off. I think I came off as lazy (having never been an athlete, I struggled to keep up with practices), and I think they thought I was trying to get out of practices. College swimming was better. My coach realized that my times weren't improving the way they should have in the sprint events, and so tried me out in the 500 (which is a goddamn distance event as far as I'm concerned), which is a hilarious story for another time. And so we started training me for distance events. And I was starting to maybe get pretty darn good, even though I sometimes downed entire bottles of Advil before practices and meets. My parents were shocked when I came home for Christmas break my freshman year and I talked like a jock. (Everyone in my family is athletic, except for me. I think they were excited.) And then, halfway through training in Florida during the last half of Christmas break, my shoulder just gave up. Just gave right the hell up. It turned out I had lost some cartilage in my shoulder socket and the bones were rubbing together and it was all bad. I went through surgery, because I wanted to be able to swim again. But despite weeks of rehab stretches and physical therapy in front of Navy guys who oogled my boobs, I still can't really swim. And I'm kind of bitter about that. Because if I could've still swam competitively, maybe my sophomore year at Beloit wouldn't have been so disastrous, and maybe I wouldn't have been so depressed, and maybe I wouldn't have to have come home, and so on and so forth. I can play that game all damn day, and I have.
But that game is dumb. It doesn't matter that my shoulder is still a little bit screwed up when I try to swim. What should matter is that I was right. There was something very wrong, and I knew that. I wasn't lazy and trying to get out of practices, I was really hurting. That's important.
It's important to be able to listen to your body and to trust what you feel. It's something I've never thought about, but when I sit and think about this situation with my back, I'm really glad that I have trusted myself. I never listened to those doctors who treated me like I was a junkie, or that I was some hysterical, crazy female making up pains and problems to get attention. I pushed and I pushed until someone listened to me and acknowledged that I was right, and that's pretty darn impressive. I call myself out on my lack of follow through, and that's a valid concern in many areas, but when it's come down to my body, I have trusted myself and I haven't given up.
And so I'm not going to give up on my story, either. I've been thinking about the plot and some of the details and I finally had a brainstorm of brilliance this afternoon about what's motivating the biggest plot point. And I'm going to trust myself to know what's right for my story and to not give up on writing it. It may be awhile before I can actually sit down and start typing it (I see the neurosurgeon next Monday, so we'll see if surgery is in my future), but I can listen to the ideas I have and honor those, like I've honored my knowledge of the workings of my body.
It sounds like a plan.
I was incredibly bitter about that for a bit. I had wanted to write my book. I had had it all ready to go. I had prepped the hubby that he was probably going to eat soup or frozen pizza for most of the month, because I was going to be busy writing. I was finally, really going to do it. I was going to write a book. And then I couldn't. Not just I decided that it would be a bad idea to stress my back out that much, I absolutely could not sit in a chair for any decent amount of time, and I hadn't been prescribed painkillers yet.
But, all in all, it was probably a great thing that my back went out when it did. I found a new chiropractor, who suggested that I finally have an MRI to see what was going on with my back, and then I found out that I had two herniated disks, severe spinal stenosis, and some nerve tearing. I finally got some actual painkillers, and I finally got someone to say, "Hey, if sleeping on the couch makes the pain less, then sleep on the damn couch. Who cares what anyone else says." It was nice to know that my pain wasn't all in my head, wasn't made up, wasn't a result of me being tremendously messed up as a person. I wasn't crazy, there was actually a problem.
I've had this feeling before. I swam in high school (junior and senior year) and in college. In high school, I'd experienced a lot of pain in left shoulder, but, and I hate to say this because it sounds petty and bitchy and mean, but my coaches seemed to kind of blow it off. I think I came off as lazy (having never been an athlete, I struggled to keep up with practices), and I think they thought I was trying to get out of practices. College swimming was better. My coach realized that my times weren't improving the way they should have in the sprint events, and so tried me out in the 500 (which is a goddamn distance event as far as I'm concerned), which is a hilarious story for another time. And so we started training me for distance events. And I was starting to maybe get pretty darn good, even though I sometimes downed entire bottles of Advil before practices and meets. My parents were shocked when I came home for Christmas break my freshman year and I talked like a jock. (Everyone in my family is athletic, except for me. I think they were excited.) And then, halfway through training in Florida during the last half of Christmas break, my shoulder just gave up. Just gave right the hell up. It turned out I had lost some cartilage in my shoulder socket and the bones were rubbing together and it was all bad. I went through surgery, because I wanted to be able to swim again. But despite weeks of rehab stretches and physical therapy in front of Navy guys who oogled my boobs, I still can't really swim. And I'm kind of bitter about that. Because if I could've still swam competitively, maybe my sophomore year at Beloit wouldn't have been so disastrous, and maybe I wouldn't have been so depressed, and maybe I wouldn't have to have come home, and so on and so forth. I can play that game all damn day, and I have.
But that game is dumb. It doesn't matter that my shoulder is still a little bit screwed up when I try to swim. What should matter is that I was right. There was something very wrong, and I knew that. I wasn't lazy and trying to get out of practices, I was really hurting. That's important.
It's important to be able to listen to your body and to trust what you feel. It's something I've never thought about, but when I sit and think about this situation with my back, I'm really glad that I have trusted myself. I never listened to those doctors who treated me like I was a junkie, or that I was some hysterical, crazy female making up pains and problems to get attention. I pushed and I pushed until someone listened to me and acknowledged that I was right, and that's pretty darn impressive. I call myself out on my lack of follow through, and that's a valid concern in many areas, but when it's come down to my body, I have trusted myself and I haven't given up.
And so I'm not going to give up on my story, either. I've been thinking about the plot and some of the details and I finally had a brainstorm of brilliance this afternoon about what's motivating the biggest plot point. And I'm going to trust myself to know what's right for my story and to not give up on writing it. It may be awhile before I can actually sit down and start typing it (I see the neurosurgeon next Monday, so we'll see if surgery is in my future), but I can listen to the ideas I have and honor those, like I've honored my knowledge of the workings of my body.
It sounds like a plan.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Not Feeling Well...
I'm feeling really sick today. I'm cold and weak and hurty all over. So today I don't have anything interesting to say, except that I'm taking some medicine and going to bed.
Check out popcorndialogues.com tomorrow for a-sure-to-be-interesting conversation about Masterpiece Mystery's version of Sherlock, and have a great Sunday. That's all I've got. Now, back to bed.
Check out popcorndialogues.com tomorrow for a-sure-to-be-interesting conversation about Masterpiece Mystery's version of Sherlock, and have a great Sunday. That's all I've got. Now, back to bed.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Where I Get Sappy and Lovey-Dovey
So, my mood improved greatly last night.
First, the hubby told me what his secret surprise for me was. Are you guys ready for this? (I'm serious, this is, like, the sweetest thing ever.) The hubby has been in contact with The Goddess's (Jennifer Crusie's) daughter/business manager about sending my favorite book of The Goddess's to be signed. HOW SWEET IS THAT? Want something sweeter? Apparently, he came up with this idea at work. He told me he was working, and suddenly he thought that while we have a good time together and all that, he doesn't ever really surprise me with random presents or anything. And then he was thinking of a good present, and he decided that having Jenny Crusie sign one of my books would be the awesomest thing ever. (Which it totally is.) He was going to keep it secret and have it be my Valentine's Day present, but then decided that he'd let me open it as soon as it got here, and then decided that I would notice the book being missing, and that he really just needed to tell me that it was happening. And when he did, I was totally silly with glee, and after appropriate amounts of squeeing and dancing around in joy, I felt a bit shaken out of my grumpalicious mood.
And then, because The Hubby knew I was feeling pissy and resentful of not being able to go out and party and dance and generally shake my tushy, he decided to play some fabulous old school hip-hop that I love so that I could dance a bit in the apartment. That way, when my back started giving out, I could lay down and rest it immediately, instead of, at the club, having to seat on some super-unsupportive stool. It was awesome and after I danced to a couple of songs, I felt much, much better about the universe and my place in it. :)
Today, we looked at some used cars (the Explorer is getting very close to being dead and it makes life very exciting when I have to take it out of town), tried to get my book sent to The Goddess, ate a completely awesome lunch, and cleaned the apartment.
A quiet weekend, but a damn good one.
And so, instead of being grumpy and pissy about all the things that I can't do, I'm feeling really grateful that I have such a sweetheart for a hubby, and that he understands what I need, what makes me happy. It's something that I don't think we appreciate as much as we should. Romantic movies tend to disregard the devoted best friend as a hero, going instead for the sexy new guy. (Think of Buffy -- Xander was never a viable option for her to date (although, to be honest, that relationship couldn't have happened without hurting Willow), it was always Angel, or that Army guy who didn't last, or Spike.) But someone who knows what makes you laugh, who can make you laugh when you really don't want to (because you have a dramatic streak a mile wide and you're enjoying being a bit of a wench), and goes to get to chocolate and peanut butter ice cream is someone who is definitely to be appreciated.
Okay, are you gagging yet? I got a little sappy. I'm sorry. But Jenny Crusie is going to sign a book for me. It's allowed. ;)
Anyway, speaking of Jenny Crusie, here is an excellent chat transcript between her, Krissie, and Lani about the use of soundtracks for their books (and, if you remember, it was a song for my soundtrack that got me all sappy and grumpy yesterday). It's hilarious, as is anything with the three of them. Enjoy!
http://www.arghink.com/2012/01/28/the-three-goddesses-chat-book-soundtracks/#more-6634
First, the hubby told me what his secret surprise for me was. Are you guys ready for this? (I'm serious, this is, like, the sweetest thing ever.) The hubby has been in contact with The Goddess's (Jennifer Crusie's) daughter/business manager about sending my favorite book of The Goddess's to be signed. HOW SWEET IS THAT? Want something sweeter? Apparently, he came up with this idea at work. He told me he was working, and suddenly he thought that while we have a good time together and all that, he doesn't ever really surprise me with random presents or anything. And then he was thinking of a good present, and he decided that having Jenny Crusie sign one of my books would be the awesomest thing ever. (Which it totally is.) He was going to keep it secret and have it be my Valentine's Day present, but then decided that he'd let me open it as soon as it got here, and then decided that I would notice the book being missing, and that he really just needed to tell me that it was happening. And when he did, I was totally silly with glee, and after appropriate amounts of squeeing and dancing around in joy, I felt a bit shaken out of my grumpalicious mood.
And then, because The Hubby knew I was feeling pissy and resentful of not being able to go out and party and dance and generally shake my tushy, he decided to play some fabulous old school hip-hop that I love so that I could dance a bit in the apartment. That way, when my back started giving out, I could lay down and rest it immediately, instead of, at the club, having to seat on some super-unsupportive stool. It was awesome and after I danced to a couple of songs, I felt much, much better about the universe and my place in it. :)
Today, we looked at some used cars (the Explorer is getting very close to being dead and it makes life very exciting when I have to take it out of town), tried to get my book sent to The Goddess, ate a completely awesome lunch, and cleaned the apartment.
A quiet weekend, but a damn good one.
And so, instead of being grumpy and pissy about all the things that I can't do, I'm feeling really grateful that I have such a sweetheart for a hubby, and that he understands what I need, what makes me happy. It's something that I don't think we appreciate as much as we should. Romantic movies tend to disregard the devoted best friend as a hero, going instead for the sexy new guy. (Think of Buffy -- Xander was never a viable option for her to date (although, to be honest, that relationship couldn't have happened without hurting Willow), it was always Angel, or that Army guy who didn't last, or Spike.) But someone who knows what makes you laugh, who can make you laugh when you really don't want to (because you have a dramatic streak a mile wide and you're enjoying being a bit of a wench), and goes to get to chocolate and peanut butter ice cream is someone who is definitely to be appreciated.
Okay, are you gagging yet? I got a little sappy. I'm sorry. But Jenny Crusie is going to sign a book for me. It's allowed. ;)
Anyway, speaking of Jenny Crusie, here is an excellent chat transcript between her, Krissie, and Lani about the use of soundtracks for their books (and, if you remember, it was a song for my soundtrack that got me all sappy and grumpy yesterday). It's hilarious, as is anything with the three of them. Enjoy!
http://www.arghink.com/2012/01/28/the-three-goddesses-chat-book-soundtracks/#more-6634
Friday, January 27, 2012
Blegh
I don't know what's wrong with me, but I am in a seriously weird mood. I'm just the slighest bit sad, a bit grumpy, a bit annoyed with life in general. For some reason, I really feel like getting absolutely stupid drunk. I feel like wearing some small, little cute party top and go out and shake my butt. However, I cannot do any of those things, because of my freaking back (and the pills I'm that enable me to move without screaming).
So, blegh.
Another reason why I may be feeling so weird is because I've been thinking about my story a lot the last couple of days. I really like the premise and all, but I need to work out a couple of major plot points and a couple of little detail-y things. But I've been looking at a lot of "house" magazines (my heroine is a designer/contractor). And today I listened to some songs that are going to be on the book's soundtrack, and one of them is kind of depressing. But it's a totally kickass song, so I like it, so I tend to listen to it on repeat, and then I get all bummed out. That's super-dumb of me, but what are you going to do?
In other news, the hubby's being all not-secretive about this massive secret he's got. Haha. He told me that he may be getting me "the greatest present that [he has] ever bought [me] ever." (I asked if Jenny Crusie was going to ship herself to Oklahoma and he said, "Well... It's not that great.") So then I come home from work today, all grumpy and sad, and he said that he would tell me what the present was if I really, really, really wanted to know. And then he said, "But, I just want you to know, that it will mean much more if you wait. But I'll tell you if you say you want to know." Well, of course I can't say I want to know now! Butthead cheater. ;) (Hahaha, he just told me what the present is. Best Hubby Ever!)
And that's it. That's all I have today. Well, that and this (http://reinventingfabulous.com/?p=794#more-794), Lani's experiment on not using shampoo. I have insanely oily hair, so this experiment would probably be great for my poor overworked scalp, but I am way too concerned about my appearance to risk the crazy oily time.
Anyway, time to curl up with Maybe This Time (Crusie's adaptation of Henry James) and to eat some ice cream (and not seethe with resentment) while Hubby drinks some beer.
And here's the song that made me a little sniffly today, if you're interested :http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pv01LslEXbo
So, blegh.
Another reason why I may be feeling so weird is because I've been thinking about my story a lot the last couple of days. I really like the premise and all, but I need to work out a couple of major plot points and a couple of little detail-y things. But I've been looking at a lot of "house" magazines (my heroine is a designer/contractor). And today I listened to some songs that are going to be on the book's soundtrack, and one of them is kind of depressing. But it's a totally kickass song, so I like it, so I tend to listen to it on repeat, and then I get all bummed out. That's super-dumb of me, but what are you going to do?
In other news, the hubby's being all not-secretive about this massive secret he's got. Haha. He told me that he may be getting me "the greatest present that [he has] ever bought [me] ever." (I asked if Jenny Crusie was going to ship herself to Oklahoma and he said, "Well... It's not that great.") So then I come home from work today, all grumpy and sad, and he said that he would tell me what the present was if I really, really, really wanted to know. And then he said, "But, I just want you to know, that it will mean much more if you wait. But I'll tell you if you say you want to know." Well, of course I can't say I want to know now! Butthead cheater. ;) (Hahaha, he just told me what the present is. Best Hubby Ever!)
And that's it. That's all I have today. Well, that and this (http://reinventingfabulous.com/?p=794#more-794), Lani's experiment on not using shampoo. I have insanely oily hair, so this experiment would probably be great for my poor overworked scalp, but I am way too concerned about my appearance to risk the crazy oily time.
Anyway, time to curl up with Maybe This Time (Crusie's adaptation of Henry James) and to eat some ice cream (and not seethe with resentment) while Hubby drinks some beer.
And here's the song that made me a little sniffly today, if you're interested :http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pv01LslEXbo
Thursday, January 26, 2012
How My Self-Esteem Magically Improved, or, Carol Tuttle Is a Miracle-Worker
I've never thought I was pretty. I went through a couple of little phases when I had lost a lot of weight, and so I thought my body looked good, but even then, I never looked at myself in the mirror and saw anything but flaws.
And pretty much forget it when it came to the rest of my life. I was worthless, dumb, useless, etc.
And then I got an email from my mom. She asked me one question, "What are you willing to do to improve your life?" I assumed it was something about meditation, which she's been trying to get me to do for months, but when I clicked on the click she had copied into the email, I went to the Dressing Your Truth course homepage.
Um... What? I rolled my eyes, completely convinced that my mom had lost her mind. How was some system for dressing going to change my life? That was the dumbest thing I had ever heard of. But in case she asked me questions, I watched a couple of videos. And my cynicism began to fade a bit.
So, what is Dressing Your Truth? Well, it's a dressing system based on energy profiling. Carol Tuttle, the founder of the program, believes that there are four basic kinds of energy, and while we all have all of the elements, all of us also have one kind of energy that is dominant. She believes that if we dress in a way that honors that energy, we are fully honoring ourselves and it helps to improve our image, our feelings about ourselves, our health, and a host of other things.
(Note: if you think metaphysical stuff is dumb, you can skip this, but I encourage you to look it over, just in case. I thought it was stupid at first, too.)
So, the types of energy:
Type 1. Air. An upward, light, bubbling energy. Seen negatively as an airhead, or flaky, Type 1's constantly have new ideas, so many new ideas that they may become overwhelmed and never accomplish any of them. They are described as being naturally inspiring, fun-loving, hopeful. We tend to characterize the Type 1 energy as being childlike, something that should be grown out of. However, when Type 1's are being true to their energy, they give people hope and fun. Under the Dressing Their Truth rules, they wear lots of bright, happy, warm colors. They're frequently described as cute, regardless of their age -- think Sally Field.
Type 2. Water. A flowing, fluid, gentle energy. Seen negatively as a crybaby, Type 2's are emotional and peace-loving. They are always focused on details, and will sometimes take a very long time to accomplish things because they never stop asking questions and gathering details. When Type 2's are being true to their type, they give a sense of calm, peace, and connectedness. Under the Dressing Your Truth rules, they wear lots of subdued, muted colors. They are frequently described as beautiful -- think Jennifer Aniston.
Type 3. Fire. An active/reactive, swift, pushing energy. Seen negatively as aggressive, pushy, domineering, Type 3's want results, and they will push others to get those results. They may dive into things too quickly in order to get them done. When Type 3's are being true to their type, they dynamic, purposeful and can accomplish big things in a big way. Under the Dressing Your Truth rules, they wear rich colors and textured fabrics. They are frequently described as hot -- think Susan Sarandon.
Type 4. Earth. A still, quiet, reflective movement. Seen negatively as judgmental, or condescending, Type 4's are the perfectionists. Not in a negative way, but they just see how everything could be done better, perfected. They are bold, and because they are so reflective and think about things so deeply, it can take them awhile to get started on things, but once they start something, it is important to them to finish it. Under the Dressing Your Truth rules, they were lots of black and white and a few bold colors. They are frequently described as stunning -- think Audrey Hepburn.
The thing about this is that there a lot of cases where people don't want to be their energy. Type 1's wear lots of black and try to be more serious. Type 2's try to be brighter and more "fun." Type 3's try to be more subdued and quiet. Type 4's try to be more gentle and feminine. Guess which one I am? Oh yeah. I used to wear TONS of black and gray, and when I finally realized that I was a Type 1, lots of things shifted for me. I started buying all of these fun socks, and brightly colored clothes, and it was crazy how much these things, superficial as they seem, helped lift my mood. I kept adding new clothes and suddenly, it didn't matter that I'm chubbier than I would like to be, because, oh my god, I love my new bright clothes.
And then, right before Christmas, I went through my closet and threw out everything that was black or gray. And now my closet makes me happy in the morning, because everything in there is bright and happy.
And suddenly, I feel pretty. It's crazy. I smile more. I think I laugh more, and I was always a laugher. I have more fun. I feel more fun. I feel like I'm not as uptight, and when something does really get to me, I say something about it quickly, instead of letting it fester and blow up into something way bigger than whatever it initially was. This "stupid thing" about clothes has totally changed the way I look at myself.
And now that I know what my energy is, what my tendencies are, I'm reevaluating everything. I know that I have too many ideas, and that some of them are never going to happen. And I'm okay with that. I just need to find which ideas are really, truly important to me, and make sure that those ideas do happen.
And that's why I'm here.
If you're interested in Carol Tuttle, energy profiling, or the Dressing Your Truth course, check out her channel on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/user/CarolTuttleVideos), her blog (http://thecarolblog.com/), and the Dressing Your Truth course page (http://dressingyourtruth.com/).
And pretty much forget it when it came to the rest of my life. I was worthless, dumb, useless, etc.
And then I got an email from my mom. She asked me one question, "What are you willing to do to improve your life?" I assumed it was something about meditation, which she's been trying to get me to do for months, but when I clicked on the click she had copied into the email, I went to the Dressing Your Truth course homepage.
Um... What? I rolled my eyes, completely convinced that my mom had lost her mind. How was some system for dressing going to change my life? That was the dumbest thing I had ever heard of. But in case she asked me questions, I watched a couple of videos. And my cynicism began to fade a bit.
So, what is Dressing Your Truth? Well, it's a dressing system based on energy profiling. Carol Tuttle, the founder of the program, believes that there are four basic kinds of energy, and while we all have all of the elements, all of us also have one kind of energy that is dominant. She believes that if we dress in a way that honors that energy, we are fully honoring ourselves and it helps to improve our image, our feelings about ourselves, our health, and a host of other things.
(Note: if you think metaphysical stuff is dumb, you can skip this, but I encourage you to look it over, just in case. I thought it was stupid at first, too.)
So, the types of energy:
Type 1. Air. An upward, light, bubbling energy. Seen negatively as an airhead, or flaky, Type 1's constantly have new ideas, so many new ideas that they may become overwhelmed and never accomplish any of them. They are described as being naturally inspiring, fun-loving, hopeful. We tend to characterize the Type 1 energy as being childlike, something that should be grown out of. However, when Type 1's are being true to their energy, they give people hope and fun. Under the Dressing Their Truth rules, they wear lots of bright, happy, warm colors. They're frequently described as cute, regardless of their age -- think Sally Field.
Type 2. Water. A flowing, fluid, gentle energy. Seen negatively as a crybaby, Type 2's are emotional and peace-loving. They are always focused on details, and will sometimes take a very long time to accomplish things because they never stop asking questions and gathering details. When Type 2's are being true to their type, they give a sense of calm, peace, and connectedness. Under the Dressing Your Truth rules, they wear lots of subdued, muted colors. They are frequently described as beautiful -- think Jennifer Aniston.
Type 3. Fire. An active/reactive, swift, pushing energy. Seen negatively as aggressive, pushy, domineering, Type 3's want results, and they will push others to get those results. They may dive into things too quickly in order to get them done. When Type 3's are being true to their type, they dynamic, purposeful and can accomplish big things in a big way. Under the Dressing Your Truth rules, they wear rich colors and textured fabrics. They are frequently described as hot -- think Susan Sarandon.
Type 4. Earth. A still, quiet, reflective movement. Seen negatively as judgmental, or condescending, Type 4's are the perfectionists. Not in a negative way, but they just see how everything could be done better, perfected. They are bold, and because they are so reflective and think about things so deeply, it can take them awhile to get started on things, but once they start something, it is important to them to finish it. Under the Dressing Your Truth rules, they were lots of black and white and a few bold colors. They are frequently described as stunning -- think Audrey Hepburn.
The thing about this is that there a lot of cases where people don't want to be their energy. Type 1's wear lots of black and try to be more serious. Type 2's try to be brighter and more "fun." Type 3's try to be more subdued and quiet. Type 4's try to be more gentle and feminine. Guess which one I am? Oh yeah. I used to wear TONS of black and gray, and when I finally realized that I was a Type 1, lots of things shifted for me. I started buying all of these fun socks, and brightly colored clothes, and it was crazy how much these things, superficial as they seem, helped lift my mood. I kept adding new clothes and suddenly, it didn't matter that I'm chubbier than I would like to be, because, oh my god, I love my new bright clothes.
And then, right before Christmas, I went through my closet and threw out everything that was black or gray. And now my closet makes me happy in the morning, because everything in there is bright and happy.
And suddenly, I feel pretty. It's crazy. I smile more. I think I laugh more, and I was always a laugher. I have more fun. I feel more fun. I feel like I'm not as uptight, and when something does really get to me, I say something about it quickly, instead of letting it fester and blow up into something way bigger than whatever it initially was. This "stupid thing" about clothes has totally changed the way I look at myself.
And now that I know what my energy is, what my tendencies are, I'm reevaluating everything. I know that I have too many ideas, and that some of them are never going to happen. And I'm okay with that. I just need to find which ideas are really, truly important to me, and make sure that those ideas do happen.
And that's why I'm here.
If you're interested in Carol Tuttle, energy profiling, or the Dressing Your Truth course, check out her channel on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/user/CarolTuttleVideos), her blog (http://thecarolblog.com/), and the Dressing Your Truth course page (http://dressingyourtruth.com/).
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
A Lazy Woman's Post
I don't have anything deep to share today, so I'm going to cheat and send you other places. :)
Check out here to see Jenny Crusie's incredibly beautiful collages for her books : http://www.jennycrusie.com/more-stuff/book-collages/
It's amazing to see the visual mood of her work. They are so gorgeous.
Check out here to listen to Lani Diane Rich and Alastair Stephens talk about The Five Man Band, basically the archetypes who are represented in almost every ensemble cast you've ever seen. They're going through each of the five, and showing examples from Star Wars, Buffy, Leverage, and Dodgeball. It's really fascinating, and listening to Lani and Alastair at any time is wonderful stuff. http://storywonk.com/?cat=3
Check out this blog to see Anne Stuart/Kristina Douglas, Jenny Crusie, and sometimes Lani talk about growth and change, weight, furniture, and life. It's one of the things that inspired me to do this. And they're all hilarious. http://reinventingfabulous.com/
Okay, I've cheated, but I did "blog." :)
Check out here to see Jenny Crusie's incredibly beautiful collages for her books : http://www.jennycrusie.com/more-stuff/book-collages/
It's amazing to see the visual mood of her work. They are so gorgeous.
Check out here to listen to Lani Diane Rich and Alastair Stephens talk about The Five Man Band, basically the archetypes who are represented in almost every ensemble cast you've ever seen. They're going through each of the five, and showing examples from Star Wars, Buffy, Leverage, and Dodgeball. It's really fascinating, and listening to Lani and Alastair at any time is wonderful stuff. http://storywonk.com/?cat=3
Check out this blog to see Anne Stuart/Kristina Douglas, Jenny Crusie, and sometimes Lani talk about growth and change, weight, furniture, and life. It's one of the things that inspired me to do this. And they're all hilarious. http://reinventingfabulous.com/
Okay, I've cheated, but I did "blog." :)
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
A Literate Rant
I have admitted I was a pretty big snob about literature. I either read literary fiction, some kind of nonfiction (usually histories or historical biographies), or YA, where I would indulge my passion for fantasy and love stories. I mocked my mom and grandma for reading romances. Romances were dumb, I sniffed, pointing my little elitist nose up in the air.
And then something changed.
I left my first college because I was suicidal and I realized that if I stayed there, one of my attempts would probably wind up being successful. So I moved home for awhile. When I'm deep in Depression Mode, I tend to stay up all night and sleep all day. One night, I had nothing to read and I was bored, so I went down to our basement where a lot of my mom's books were kept. I dug around for awhile, looking for something that wasn't a "romance." I found Fast Women by Jennifer Crusie, with an innocuous cover with a white teacup and a red lipstick stain. It didn't look like a romance, so I read the back cover and the book sounded pretty interesting. So, I took it upstairs to read.
I devoured it. It was smart, funny, and interesting. I kept going back down to my mom's books in the basement, finding more titles by Jenny Crusie -- all of them without the cheesy bodice-ripper-looking covers that made me cringe. But every one of the stories were smart and funny, I frequently would laugh out loud reading, and they were sexy without being embarassing or corny. There were no throbbing rods, no heaving bosoms. I was hooked, so I started hunting bookstores for more of her books. At some point I realized that her books were considered romances, but I argued that they weren't "real" romances, they were romances for smart women.
One night my depression kind of exploded and I tried to kill myself. My dad took me to the hospital and I was admitted in the psych ward for the night. When I got out, my parents took me to my mom's apartment to stay, and I promptly showered and curled up with one of my favorite Crusie's, Welcome to Temptation. I started to laugh reading some of the funny dialogue, and it was so amazingly comforting to be able to go to this lovely world Crusie had created.
So eventually, I started losing my snobbery. I started reading other romances. Mostly they were paranormals and I went through a phase where I read every romantic suspense Mariah Stewart had written. I have finally dove into the historical pool and I have found some seriously awesome stuff. I started to lose my embarassment of being seen in the romance aisle of the bookstore, I have started to stop stressing if a great book has some completely ridiculous cover.
This process has been hastened by my realization that "literary fiction" is not always better written, or smarter, than romances.
Michael Ondaatje used to be one of my favorite authors. I still love The English Patient and Anil's Ghost, they are excellent stories, written in a fantastic, interesting style. However, I'm kind of over worshipping Ondaatje as a writer. A couple of years ago, I saw that he had a new book out -- Divisadero. It was about these two sisters who lived on a farm or a ranch. One of the sisters had a limp, the other sister had a sexual relationship with the young man who worked for them -- until one night, the father busts in and finds the lovers and all hell breaks loose.
That's the first section of the book. It was great stuff.
The second section started with the young man from the farm/ranch, older now, and he's doing something sketchy involving a poker game. I never really understood if he was cheating cheating or if he was counting cards or what, but he won a game and then he and his group all had to scatter for awhile. Then the sister with the limp runs into him. Then somebody wants him to play poker for them, and he refuses, and they drug him and beat the shit out of him, and the sister with the limp is trying to nurse him back to health. Then the third section starts. It starts off with the story of the other sister, who's living in France, in some guy's house, who she is studying and writing about. This sister is also sleeping with some Gypsy guy. And then the story veers off into the Gypsy guy's past, and then it may go into the story of the guy the sister is writing about. And then it ends.
And I threw the book at the wall.
I mean, seriously, what the hell?! How you end a book and not finish the freaking story? What happened to the ranch-hand guy? Did the sister with the limp ever tell her other sister about seeing the guy again? Did the sister finish her book? What. The. Hell?
Now, not all romances are perfect. Far from it. But I have never read a romance that just ditched the major characters halfway through the book. But, yet, romances get zero respect, and anything considered "literary fiction" is immediately deemed to be better than anything genre fiction -- and romances are considered the bottom of the barrel of genre fiction.
It's such a goddamned crock of shit.
There are a lot of theories about why this has happened to romance: Because romances are made by and for women, they are "less than." Because romances focus on emotions, relationships, and sex that is positive and not degrading to anyone. Because romances focus on the happiness -- the happily ever after of the couple -- when, basically, happiness is not cool, not valued.
I think it is because of these things that romances should be valued and appreciated. In a world that devalues women and in a society that sees women as varying degrees of whore, it's important to see women in healthy relationships, where female sexuality is healthy, important, and natural. It's empowering to hear women's voices. I love that.
For more on how important romances are, check out Beyond Heaving Bosoms : The Smart Bitches Guide to Romance Novels (Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan) and Everything I Know About Love I Learned from Romance Novels (Sarah Wendell), and the Smart Bitches, Trashy Books website: http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/.
And then something changed.
I left my first college because I was suicidal and I realized that if I stayed there, one of my attempts would probably wind up being successful. So I moved home for awhile. When I'm deep in Depression Mode, I tend to stay up all night and sleep all day. One night, I had nothing to read and I was bored, so I went down to our basement where a lot of my mom's books were kept. I dug around for awhile, looking for something that wasn't a "romance." I found Fast Women by Jennifer Crusie, with an innocuous cover with a white teacup and a red lipstick stain. It didn't look like a romance, so I read the back cover and the book sounded pretty interesting. So, I took it upstairs to read.
I devoured it. It was smart, funny, and interesting. I kept going back down to my mom's books in the basement, finding more titles by Jenny Crusie -- all of them without the cheesy bodice-ripper-looking covers that made me cringe. But every one of the stories were smart and funny, I frequently would laugh out loud reading, and they were sexy without being embarassing or corny. There were no throbbing rods, no heaving bosoms. I was hooked, so I started hunting bookstores for more of her books. At some point I realized that her books were considered romances, but I argued that they weren't "real" romances, they were romances for smart women.
One night my depression kind of exploded and I tried to kill myself. My dad took me to the hospital and I was admitted in the psych ward for the night. When I got out, my parents took me to my mom's apartment to stay, and I promptly showered and curled up with one of my favorite Crusie's, Welcome to Temptation. I started to laugh reading some of the funny dialogue, and it was so amazingly comforting to be able to go to this lovely world Crusie had created.
So eventually, I started losing my snobbery. I started reading other romances. Mostly they were paranormals and I went through a phase where I read every romantic suspense Mariah Stewart had written. I have finally dove into the historical pool and I have found some seriously awesome stuff. I started to lose my embarassment of being seen in the romance aisle of the bookstore, I have started to stop stressing if a great book has some completely ridiculous cover.
This process has been hastened by my realization that "literary fiction" is not always better written, or smarter, than romances.
Michael Ondaatje used to be one of my favorite authors. I still love The English Patient and Anil's Ghost, they are excellent stories, written in a fantastic, interesting style. However, I'm kind of over worshipping Ondaatje as a writer. A couple of years ago, I saw that he had a new book out -- Divisadero. It was about these two sisters who lived on a farm or a ranch. One of the sisters had a limp, the other sister had a sexual relationship with the young man who worked for them -- until one night, the father busts in and finds the lovers and all hell breaks loose.
That's the first section of the book. It was great stuff.
The second section started with the young man from the farm/ranch, older now, and he's doing something sketchy involving a poker game. I never really understood if he was cheating cheating or if he was counting cards or what, but he won a game and then he and his group all had to scatter for awhile. Then the sister with the limp runs into him. Then somebody wants him to play poker for them, and he refuses, and they drug him and beat the shit out of him, and the sister with the limp is trying to nurse him back to health. Then the third section starts. It starts off with the story of the other sister, who's living in France, in some guy's house, who she is studying and writing about. This sister is also sleeping with some Gypsy guy. And then the story veers off into the Gypsy guy's past, and then it may go into the story of the guy the sister is writing about. And then it ends.
And I threw the book at the wall.
I mean, seriously, what the hell?! How you end a book and not finish the freaking story? What happened to the ranch-hand guy? Did the sister with the limp ever tell her other sister about seeing the guy again? Did the sister finish her book? What. The. Hell?
Now, not all romances are perfect. Far from it. But I have never read a romance that just ditched the major characters halfway through the book. But, yet, romances get zero respect, and anything considered "literary fiction" is immediately deemed to be better than anything genre fiction -- and romances are considered the bottom of the barrel of genre fiction.
It's such a goddamned crock of shit.
There are a lot of theories about why this has happened to romance: Because romances are made by and for women, they are "less than." Because romances focus on emotions, relationships, and sex that is positive and not degrading to anyone. Because romances focus on the happiness -- the happily ever after of the couple -- when, basically, happiness is not cool, not valued.
I think it is because of these things that romances should be valued and appreciated. In a world that devalues women and in a society that sees women as varying degrees of whore, it's important to see women in healthy relationships, where female sexuality is healthy, important, and natural. It's empowering to hear women's voices. I love that.
For more on how important romances are, check out Beyond Heaving Bosoms : The Smart Bitches Guide to Romance Novels (Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan) and Everything I Know About Love I Learned from Romance Novels (Sarah Wendell), and the Smart Bitches, Trashy Books website: http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Paperback Writer
I have always wanted to be a writer. Always. I wanted to be Jo March or Anne Shirley when I was a kid. I don't remember a time when I wasn't reading. I mean, I know developmentally I had to learn to do it, so there was an obviously a time when I couldn't, but yeah, I've always been a reader.
I think to want to be a writer, you need to be a reader. You need to love words, and to love how words can deliver a story that takes you completely to a different time and place. You need to be able to become so engrossed in a story that you'll totally forget that you need more than three hours of sleep to be able to function properly at work.
And that, folks, is me.
There are books, that are not "classics" like Little Women and Anne of Green Gables, that I keep from my childhood because they are my oldest friends. I was a military brat growing up, and there was a period of time during my middle school years, where I was switching schools every year, making and discarding friends as the districts continually changed, and as kids who'd been dorks like me became "cool." So, a lot of the time, I focused on my books as the constants in my life.
There is a book that I picked up from the library in League City, Texas, when I was in third grade. It was probably a bit over my head at the time, but I remembered a girl named Claudia who could talk to animals. A few years later, I may have been in eighth grade, I went into the brand new Barnes and Noble in Brandon, Florida and found a book called The Heart of Valor about a girl named Claudia who could talk to animals and her siblings. I snatched it up, remembering that I had read it before and that I loved Claudia. At some point, between moves or purging sessions once I went to college, I lost my copy of that book. And I was really sad, I felt like I had lost one of my friends.
I woman who wrote The Heart of Valor, L.J. Smith, also wrote The Vampire Diaries and The Secret Circle (also a favorite of mine, I finally gave away my copy of that trilogy when I moved last Memorial Day. Yes, I am serious), both of which are apparently popular TV shows on the CW. Therefore, there's been a renewed interest in her work, and... Guess what was republished? The Heart of Valor, baby! Guess what I have on my bookshelf? Oh yeah. :) And every now and then, when I'm feeling snuffly and sad and homesick, I'll pull that book out and visit my good friends Claudia and the other Hodges-Bradley kids.
So, anyway, that's what I've always wanted to be able to do: to write something that would touch someone, that someone would look at and think of as an old, dear friend. I remember after 9/11, when we all walked around shell-shocked, when we sat and discussed what life was supposed to be, when I was personally starting to crumble, I told someone that all I wanted out of my life, was to write something that made some girl somewhere feel like someone understood what she was going through, that comforted her what she was going through, that comforted her when she was feeling sad and alone.
Now, I've never had any delusions of wealth or anything to be gained from writing, so, growing up, I always said that I wanted to write and [fill in the blank] with whatever else my flavor-of-the-month career was at that moment. But writing was the constant. I wrote poems on Post-Its while working at a record store. I wrote a million different first chapters. I would always write. But, for some reason, I totally shelved my ambition to write.
Well, not for "some reason." A very specific reason: disillusionment.
It's not what you're thinking. Despite all of my emotional issues and my occasional basket-case-ness, I have a pretty thick skin when it comes to critiques. I took a couple of poetry workshops in college. The first go-round was good. I learned a lot and wrote some stuff that I loved. The second go-round pissed me off. The problem with "literary" types? Apparently, some random bullshit words on a page is brilliant. For example, we workshopped some guy's poem, and no one knew what it was about. We were all guessing, maybe it described a kiss? The writer said, "No. It was an elevator." And everyone fell down all over themselves talking about how amazing and postmodern and whatever it all was. I was going through a random happy period in my life, and my poetry reflected that. It wasn't Hallmark, by any means, but everything that was positive was called lame. And I was like, so what, you can't write a poem about a happy relationship? You have to be miserable, or so freaking obscure as to border on ridiculous, to be considered talented? And even though I was starting to get over my snobbery regarding romance novels, I wasn't over it enough to try to write one. Somehow I thought I was better than Jennifer Crusie, who had an MFA.
Yeah, I was an ass. I admit it.
So, anyway, I shelved the whole writing thing for a really long time. Every now and then I'd start playing with an idea, but nothing has ever come of it at any time. I lack follow through.
I had started to look into becoming a librarian because I liked books. I decided maybe I didn't want to write so much as I liked to read. I liked research, it seemed to make sense. I still like my job as a copy cataloger (I call it a librarian apprenticeship), but I'm starting to have those ambitions again. So, I'm thinking about dusting them off and seeing what happens. I just need to start following through.
I think to want to be a writer, you need to be a reader. You need to love words, and to love how words can deliver a story that takes you completely to a different time and place. You need to be able to become so engrossed in a story that you'll totally forget that you need more than three hours of sleep to be able to function properly at work.
And that, folks, is me.
There are books, that are not "classics" like Little Women and Anne of Green Gables, that I keep from my childhood because they are my oldest friends. I was a military brat growing up, and there was a period of time during my middle school years, where I was switching schools every year, making and discarding friends as the districts continually changed, and as kids who'd been dorks like me became "cool." So, a lot of the time, I focused on my books as the constants in my life.
There is a book that I picked up from the library in League City, Texas, when I was in third grade. It was probably a bit over my head at the time, but I remembered a girl named Claudia who could talk to animals. A few years later, I may have been in eighth grade, I went into the brand new Barnes and Noble in Brandon, Florida and found a book called The Heart of Valor about a girl named Claudia who could talk to animals and her siblings. I snatched it up, remembering that I had read it before and that I loved Claudia. At some point, between moves or purging sessions once I went to college, I lost my copy of that book. And I was really sad, I felt like I had lost one of my friends.
I woman who wrote The Heart of Valor, L.J. Smith, also wrote The Vampire Diaries and The Secret Circle (also a favorite of mine, I finally gave away my copy of that trilogy when I moved last Memorial Day. Yes, I am serious), both of which are apparently popular TV shows on the CW. Therefore, there's been a renewed interest in her work, and... Guess what was republished? The Heart of Valor, baby! Guess what I have on my bookshelf? Oh yeah. :) And every now and then, when I'm feeling snuffly and sad and homesick, I'll pull that book out and visit my good friends Claudia and the other Hodges-Bradley kids.
So, anyway, that's what I've always wanted to be able to do: to write something that would touch someone, that someone would look at and think of as an old, dear friend. I remember after 9/11, when we all walked around shell-shocked, when we sat and discussed what life was supposed to be, when I was personally starting to crumble, I told someone that all I wanted out of my life, was to write something that made some girl somewhere feel like someone understood what she was going through, that comforted her what she was going through, that comforted her when she was feeling sad and alone.
Now, I've never had any delusions of wealth or anything to be gained from writing, so, growing up, I always said that I wanted to write and [fill in the blank] with whatever else my flavor-of-the-month career was at that moment. But writing was the constant. I wrote poems on Post-Its while working at a record store. I wrote a million different first chapters. I would always write. But, for some reason, I totally shelved my ambition to write.
Well, not for "some reason." A very specific reason: disillusionment.
It's not what you're thinking. Despite all of my emotional issues and my occasional basket-case-ness, I have a pretty thick skin when it comes to critiques. I took a couple of poetry workshops in college. The first go-round was good. I learned a lot and wrote some stuff that I loved. The second go-round pissed me off. The problem with "literary" types? Apparently, some random bullshit words on a page is brilliant. For example, we workshopped some guy's poem, and no one knew what it was about. We were all guessing, maybe it described a kiss? The writer said, "No. It was an elevator." And everyone fell down all over themselves talking about how amazing and postmodern and whatever it all was. I was going through a random happy period in my life, and my poetry reflected that. It wasn't Hallmark, by any means, but everything that was positive was called lame. And I was like, so what, you can't write a poem about a happy relationship? You have to be miserable, or so freaking obscure as to border on ridiculous, to be considered talented? And even though I was starting to get over my snobbery regarding romance novels, I wasn't over it enough to try to write one. Somehow I thought I was better than Jennifer Crusie, who had an MFA.
Yeah, I was an ass. I admit it.
So, anyway, I shelved the whole writing thing for a really long time. Every now and then I'd start playing with an idea, but nothing has ever come of it at any time. I lack follow through.
I had started to look into becoming a librarian because I liked books. I decided maybe I didn't want to write so much as I liked to read. I liked research, it seemed to make sense. I still like my job as a copy cataloger (I call it a librarian apprenticeship), but I'm starting to have those ambitions again. So, I'm thinking about dusting them off and seeing what happens. I just need to start following through.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Let's Start at the Beginning, a Very Good Place to Start
So, here I am. Exactly nine months until my 30th birthday.
I used to be freaked out about the big 3-0, but it's finally started to grow on me. This is mostly because 29 has been pretty eventful so far.
After six years of unexplained pain, I finally have an answer for why my back is all screwed up (I have two herniated disks and severe spinal stenosis), and fairly soon I will have a game plan on how to correct the problem or ease the pain.
After dealing with depression/bipolar disorder/borderline personality disorder (different doctors equal a different diagnosis) for 16 years, I am finally doing extremely well, and I have been medication-free for over two years.
After wallowing in a mire of self-loathing for ... oh, I don't know exactly, but most of my life, I finally feel like I'm a worth a damn. I look at myself in the mirror and actually think I'm pretty. I've stopped calling myself fat. I've stopped feeling fat and unworthy. That is a goddamn miracle.
I'm not perfect. I still get awkward. I still get whiny. I still have problems demanding that people treat me with the respect that I deserve. I still get sad. But, for the most part, life is pretty fucking amazing.
But there's still some work I need to do.
For example, for being nine months away from 30, I am remarkably immature. Well, perhaps "immature" isn't the right word. But I am pretty unfocused. I don't have a career yet, like most of my friends or general peer group seem to. Plus, I seem to change my mind about what I want to do every few days. No, I seriously do.
On Saturday nights, while I'm watching "Pitbulls and Parolees," I want to run a dog shelter. I listen to podcasts on StoryWonk, Popcorn Dialogues, or Will Write for Wine and I dust off my dream to be a writer. I get into a fight about women's rights online and I want to become an advocate for women and healthy sexuality and self-image. One day, I'll bake some truly amazing muffins and decide I want to open a bakery/bookstore. I get a complicated or incomplete record for a book at the library where I work, and I manage to figure out how to fix it myself and I feel like a Cataloging Goddess and I renew my librarian ambition. I watch historical documentaries and I want to be a curator and handle dusty manuscripts with white gloves. I watch The Daily Show, and I want to give birth to Jon Stewart's love children.
That kind of thing.
It is so frustrating.
Now, part of this is probably because I'm a Type 1 (more about that at a later date), but I need to start making decisions in order to start growing up -- you know, to be an actual professional, one who could get a house and make mortgage payments and all that. To one day not have to live paycheck to paycheck.
So, Lani Diane Rich/Lucy March had a project where she blogged every day until she was 40. She talked about her divorce, her writing process, her personal journey, and lots of other things. She created this beautiful, incredibly supportive internet community that helped her through that chaotic time. And now Anne Stuart/Kristina Douglas, Jenny Crusie, and Lani/Lucy have created a new blog called Reinventing Fabulous, where they are talking about their health, weight, and life struggles and their endeavors to change things for the better. They also have an amazing community to spur them on (and to try to get them to eat kale) and support them on the rough days.
And I had an idea: What is I blogged everyday until my 30th birthday? I'm not a famous writer, so I'm not going to develop as vast a community as my role models have, but it would be helpful to have the space to talk about some stuff and see what comes up. Perhaps this project could help me achieve maturity -- or at least a focus, a direction, a plan with what to do with my life.
I'm not going to demand myself to blog something deep every day -- that would just be a ticket to failure. So some days I may cop out and direct you to some of the sites I love so you can find some depth, or I may just talk about how friggin' awesome my glasses are, how much I like purple eyeshadow. If I have to have surgery, I will probably have to take a hiatus for a bit. But other than that, I ask that anyone who does wind up reading this, please call me out if I start skipping. I come up with all these awesome, grandiose plans, but I very rarely follow them through. This is one of the big things I would like to rectify here, so bitch me out if I start slacking. Well, don't bitch me out. Let's try to make this a positive environment. But make me accountable for what I set out to accomplish.
And with that, welcome. Let's do this thing.
I used to be freaked out about the big 3-0, but it's finally started to grow on me. This is mostly because 29 has been pretty eventful so far.
After six years of unexplained pain, I finally have an answer for why my back is all screwed up (I have two herniated disks and severe spinal stenosis), and fairly soon I will have a game plan on how to correct the problem or ease the pain.
After dealing with depression/bipolar disorder/borderline personality disorder (different doctors equal a different diagnosis) for 16 years, I am finally doing extremely well, and I have been medication-free for over two years.
After wallowing in a mire of self-loathing for ... oh, I don't know exactly, but most of my life, I finally feel like I'm a worth a damn. I look at myself in the mirror and actually think I'm pretty. I've stopped calling myself fat. I've stopped feeling fat and unworthy. That is a goddamn miracle.
I'm not perfect. I still get awkward. I still get whiny. I still have problems demanding that people treat me with the respect that I deserve. I still get sad. But, for the most part, life is pretty fucking amazing.
But there's still some work I need to do.
For example, for being nine months away from 30, I am remarkably immature. Well, perhaps "immature" isn't the right word. But I am pretty unfocused. I don't have a career yet, like most of my friends or general peer group seem to. Plus, I seem to change my mind about what I want to do every few days. No, I seriously do.
On Saturday nights, while I'm watching "Pitbulls and Parolees," I want to run a dog shelter. I listen to podcasts on StoryWonk, Popcorn Dialogues, or Will Write for Wine and I dust off my dream to be a writer. I get into a fight about women's rights online and I want to become an advocate for women and healthy sexuality and self-image. One day, I'll bake some truly amazing muffins and decide I want to open a bakery/bookstore. I get a complicated or incomplete record for a book at the library where I work, and I manage to figure out how to fix it myself and I feel like a Cataloging Goddess and I renew my librarian ambition. I watch historical documentaries and I want to be a curator and handle dusty manuscripts with white gloves. I watch The Daily Show, and I want to give birth to Jon Stewart's love children.
That kind of thing.
It is so frustrating.
Now, part of this is probably because I'm a Type 1 (more about that at a later date), but I need to start making decisions in order to start growing up -- you know, to be an actual professional, one who could get a house and make mortgage payments and all that. To one day not have to live paycheck to paycheck.
So, Lani Diane Rich/Lucy March had a project where she blogged every day until she was 40. She talked about her divorce, her writing process, her personal journey, and lots of other things. She created this beautiful, incredibly supportive internet community that helped her through that chaotic time. And now Anne Stuart/Kristina Douglas, Jenny Crusie, and Lani/Lucy have created a new blog called Reinventing Fabulous, where they are talking about their health, weight, and life struggles and their endeavors to change things for the better. They also have an amazing community to spur them on (and to try to get them to eat kale) and support them on the rough days.
And I had an idea: What is I blogged everyday until my 30th birthday? I'm not a famous writer, so I'm not going to develop as vast a community as my role models have, but it would be helpful to have the space to talk about some stuff and see what comes up. Perhaps this project could help me achieve maturity -- or at least a focus, a direction, a plan with what to do with my life.
I'm not going to demand myself to blog something deep every day -- that would just be a ticket to failure. So some days I may cop out and direct you to some of the sites I love so you can find some depth, or I may just talk about how friggin' awesome my glasses are, how much I like purple eyeshadow. If I have to have surgery, I will probably have to take a hiatus for a bit. But other than that, I ask that anyone who does wind up reading this, please call me out if I start skipping. I come up with all these awesome, grandiose plans, but I very rarely follow them through. This is one of the big things I would like to rectify here, so bitch me out if I start slacking. Well, don't bitch me out. Let's try to make this a positive environment. But make me accountable for what I set out to accomplish.
And with that, welcome. Let's do this thing.
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