Normally, I could care less about my weight. I don’t obsess over what I eat unless it tastes delicious, and then I tell everyone I can pin down. I don’t really exercise, because I dislike the sun, and I enjoy reading.
But over the last year and half, I’ve lost around 40 pounds. Which is cool because I now only weigh about 10 pounds more than when I graduated high school 10 years ago. And I love that I’m not as concerned about weight-related health issues. Pretty much, I’m content (and pretty pleased with myself) that I can manage my weight by making smart (if expensive) choices to eat healthy foods.
The thing no one tells you about growing up is that one day, you’ll look around and realize that all your best friends, the people who have chosen to walk with you through life (unlike family who are stuck with you), will move away (or you’ll move away from them) and begin the process of leaving you to your own devices. People will also neglect to tell you that, while this sucks, it doesn’t have to define your current reality.
Today was that day for me. And I’m writing this post to convince myself of the latter statement. Because I don’t want this sadness of life changing, and everyone moving far away to be the only side of life I focus on. And also, because I’m the one who kind of made it this way.
I tell my friends all the time that I love people. All but the people who know me best or least snicker whenever I say it. Because I don’t like talking to people I don’t know; I don’t like touching people I don’t know; I don’t even particularly enjoy being around large groups of people I don’t know.
When I was working on my undergraduate degree, I had a friend (with whom I’m still friends) that shared my proclivity for procrastination. She knew the degree of importance to her of any given assignment due to the activities she did instead of said task.
Chatting with friends about the newest movie of the moment indicated a low-level assignment. Debating the relative merits of obscure 1980s films was reserved for more time intensive and higher point papers. Obsessive dental hygiene was a reserved for semester-end research papers. Continue reading The Art of Procrastination→
I’m sitting in my car waiting for the time when I can meet my mom for lunch, and I’m listening to Amanda Palmer Goes Down Under and wondering what is going on with the world.
This morning started by reading NPR‘s Andy Carvin’s live tweeting of Qahdafi’s speech to Libya. He seems to have lost contact with the world the rest of us live in. Which would almost be laughable if he didn’t also control the means to begin the “cleansing” he threatened.
And then I read through Amanda Palmer’s blog about New Zealand. Which is about the same time I realized my heart was breaking for the rest of the world.
Because the world appears to be in the midst of another of those moments that have marked my interaction with the Earth – it’s tumultuous.
Perhaps you’re from a generation that managed to not have major uprisings or world breaking moments. I wonder what this looks like through you eyes. Is it more terrifying? Are you hoping it will all stop? Or are you more peaceful about it? Because for me, everything that’s happening in the Middle East and New Zealand falls in stride with the way of the world.
Growing up with family in friends involved in Desert Storm, watching the Berlin Wall tumble down at the hands of the people, seeing the revolutions and civil wars of the Balkans, seeing the horror of a home-grown extremist attack people who never harmed him, and then beginning college amongst the ashes of a terrified country makes for a perspective that sees how appalling the world can be.
But this kind of experience also places turmoil in a broader perspective. One that demonstrates the impermanence of each moment.
Because this too shall pass.
Which is no guarantee that the next moment will be better, but this moment will not last forever.
And so I will embrace this moment’s sorrow and joy and do what I can to help those in need. And when I feel like the next moment will never end, I’ll look back here and remember.
Most of the seniors are reading Shakespeare’sHamlet currently and hating it. I find this greatly distressing. Not because I hold 2 degrees in English and am expected to love Shakespeare, but simply because I love the character of Hamlet.
The play is fantastic and full of lines I quote frequently. But dysfunctional, brainiac, sad Hamlet keeps me coming back to the story. I can’t abandon a character reflecting the inner-workings of my brain. (which should probably terrify me at least a little more than not at all) Continue reading Hamlet and a Timelord→
Perhaps you’re familiar with 3am. I frequently wake up in the middle of the night, usually around 3. Sometimes it’s closer to 4am, and obnoxiously 5am.
If I’m lucky, sleep returns quickly. But most mornings my luck results in an hour or 2 awake with a slow morning when I finally do get out of bed.
Sure, I could just get up when I first realize it’ll be a while before I get to sleep, but then I’d be awake. And I’d have to do my whole day on 4 hours of sleep, which I can only pull off on occasion. Sleeping later is out because the only thing worse than simply waiting to go back to sleep is trying to wake up from a nap.
But the thing about waking up in the middle of the night is the different emotional responses to the various times.
5am carries its annoyance all day. This stems from 5am usually being almost enough sleep to make it through the day but missing the amount by a fraction.
4am side-tracks. This is certain if a game begins and sleep crashes in.
But out of all of the mid-sleep times to wake up, my favorite is 3am. I have yet to encounter another situation or time with the same kind of longing and regret as 3am.
3am longs for the past moments in a way that makes even decades minuscule barriers. Each moment, person, opportunity seems within reach at 3am. And each missed opportunity crushes the soul more completely at 3am. It is the only time that simultaneously hopes and despairs for the moments impossible to reach.
Life lived with the perspective of 3am would be richer for the bold acts, but it would also contain such profound regrets.
This is a rant. Not about the lack of privacy or the company deciding what I want to opt into. This is a rant on the way people use Facebook.
I’ve noticed a disturbing trend among my friends to rely on Facebook for the dissemination of important life news. It is a trend that I see beyond my friends, with Australia serving legal notices through the social site. But I am really just concerned with the posting of news from my friends. Continue reading Reason #465 Why I Dislike Facebook→
I had gotten comfortable. My foot was under my control once more; the dread and paranoia were finally beginning to abate. My life seemed to have moved on and reached a normal state.
And then, as always happens in these types of stories, the zombie foot reappeared.
But this time, the zombie foot arrived in a different form – an envelope full of papers requesting money. First the lab requested money for the blood work that revealed I was normal. This was followed by the bill for the neurologist who wanted money for the torture session that also determined I was normal. And then finally a monster of a bill for the MRI that concluded my lower back was not the cause of my zombie foot.
I could have told them all that my problem was nothing more than a dose of too much horror. And possibly the preservatives in the crappy food I eat. But instead I had to undergo close to $3000 USD of medical procedures and tests. And I thank God that I have the ability to pay for health insurance, because the 1/3 of that I still have outstanding will be enough of a challenge. Paying the total amount out-of-pocket would have been impossible.
And so my ability, luck, and foresight (and growing up the child of an insurance agent) saved me from the sneak attack of the zombie foot. But now I know that my zombie foot may strike at any time. Despite my current control over my foot, I have learned now that it will ever hunger for my brain. I must be ever cautious of its actions and plans to destroy me.
Of course, as Toni Morrison writes in Beloved, anything dead coming back to life hurts. And man did it hurt.
The natural process tiptoed up and fixed everything without much fanfare. The neurologist, however, had to check that all was well. And the way that one checks that nerves have no issues requires an electric current and needles.
So after what must have been an eternity of suffering an external electrical current in my legs followed by needles in both feet, legs, and lower back, the doctor pronounced everything as normal. He offered a diagnosis of a pinched nerve in my left leg at the knee, by crossing my leg, wearing tight clothes or high heels, or hitting my knee against something.
I will have to limit the amount that I wear high heels (no great sacrifice on my part), and I will be sure not to wear tight fitting clothes (the rest of the world will rejoice) all in an effort to prevent my foot from joining the league of the undead forever.
These modifications won’t simply be to keep from suffering the annoyance of dragging my foot everywhere again – I’ll need both feet to run from the hordes of the undead when the zombie apocalypse finally hits.