Feigning Adulthood

That right there is my ability to be responsible. I won it when I was 25.

As a denizen of the Internet I've been hearing a lot of buzz about the latest entry on the Hyperbole and a Half blog. It rings true for a lot of young people, I think, in that we're finding out that being a Grown Up isn't anything like what we thought it would be. I'm not too sure what I thought that Growing Up would entail, but I definitely thought, and still cling rather naively to, that at some point I will indeed be An Adult whose life consists of doing Grown Up Things.

I've been experiencing a lot of generalized anxiety recently. Some of this stems from things with The Boy being tossed abruptly out of their tattered nest of status quo and making what feels like a reckless decision to pretend to be a City Girl. When the generalized anxiety flares up and manifests itself in an acute form I tend to deal with it very badly. Getting up and facing the day means being conscious and thinking about things, so I compromise by staying in bed and brooding instead. The knot in my stomach makes it nearly impossible to eat, and thanks to the scale in my bathroom I know that two weeks ago during an acute flare up I lost 4 pounds in three days from sheer stress.

Now I've gained it all back, don't worry yourself Interested Party. The acute knot of anxiety eventually diffused into a more generalized nervous tingle throughout my body. This sort of general anxiety is handled much, much better than the Acute Onset Emotions. Somehow my body hardwired itself over the last few years to develop the natural coping mechanism of "getting my life in order" when I get stressed out.

Much like the above linked blog post (did you click it? You should have, and if you didn't here's another chance) I will go into a frenzy of doing adult-like things in order to make some semblance of order out of the chaos I feel has infused my life. I deposit my money wads into the back with more regularity. I shower more frequently and even shave my legs. I make my bed in the morning and remember to brush my teeth immediately after getting up. I make sure the kitchen is free of unsightly dirty dishes and crumbs. I do laundry and actually fold and put it away. I read books I've meant to catch up on. I re-hang the posters in my room that have fallen down. I vacuum. I make important phone calls and schedule lunch dates with friends I've neglected (because lunch dates are far more mature and Grown Up than spontaneous bar outings). I splurge on a latte from Starbucks. I make it to the gym once or twice. I go grocery shopping and buy things other than peanut butter and salad dressing.

I suppose you can't fault me for performing healthy tasks in the face of less than healthy anxiety, but I do hate that it takes extreme discomfort on an emotional level to kick me into Being a Grown Up.

Seester and I will be moving in together in a month and I have grand notions that living with her will up my Adult Behavior quota. She, for example, personalized the condo she'd only be in for 3 months within the first day or so, which included lugging almost every book she owns up three flights of stairs. I on the other hand didn't even put posters up in my room until 9 months had passed. I'm really hoping that her innate skill at living like an Adult will rub off on me.

Who am I kidding. It's likely that after a week or two she'll be yelling at me for leaving dirty dishes in the sink and my socks on the living room floor. But who knows, making such a huge change in my life might knock some tidiness into me.

Swiffer,
Cathi

You know, this could be something

You know that it all takes my breath away

There's a handful of things that I am really, truly bad at; drawing immediately comes to mind, as does the ability to have a poker-face. More abstractly, I am laughably terrible at demonstrating genuine enthusiasm, passion, or devotion to anything. I chalk this up to a massive fear of being let down--if I don't vocalize my excitement, then that somehow makes it less real, and therefore I won't be as deflated when whatever it is doesn't pass muster. Try surprising me sometime with news of something awesome (like an all-expense paid road trip to follow LBC on a nation-wide tour *cough cough*) and I guarantee that I will either seem mildly pleased, or any sort of histrionics I produce would get me kicked out of acting school.

It might come as a surprise to you, Interested Party, but I've been in a relationship for over four years. I can promise you that I'm still occasionally taken aback by the passage of time and wonder to myself how we've made it this far without breaking up at least once or growing apart. Having been 450 miles away from Fuzzy for the last year with very little scratchy-face time has given me a lot of quiet hours of reflection. While I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tell you exactly why or how we started our journey together, I have had time to find the reasons, though perhaps not the words. Words would be handy for making a convenient list that I could post on my wall for days when I get frustrated over missed calls or postponed return dates, but alas, photographic representations of his cute face have to suffice.

Last weekend I was down in Kentucky, and there was one of those moments that I just took a deep breath and vowed I would hold on to. It wasn't anything special, really. We were out to dinner, waiting an absurdly long time for what turned out to be delicious fried pickles, just enjoying our night out. We were happy, he was laughing, and we were together. I don't get to see my mountain man often these days, and having the ability to take notice of a small moment in time where we were simply coexisting and content has been a tremendous help in my not going crazy over the past year. Despite the angst it caused me, I am so ridiculously proud of that boy and what he's been doing. My life over the last few years has been made richer because of his presence, and I know that we are two very lucky people.

I love him. I miss him. I'm glad he will be home soon. I know this has all been absurdly schmoopy for this here blog, but I think it's about time that I started loosening my death grip on my feelings and letting them have visitations with other people. They need to be socialized.

1571+, 10?-, 17-, 33-,
Cathi

I Am Still Praying For Revolution

she still doesn't have what she deserves
but she wakes up smiling every day
she never really expected more

Being a girl is hard, ya'll.

Since I've been retired from college I've had a lot more free time on my hands to scrutinize every aspect of my life and find Internet Validation to back me up on it. I've traditionally been considered more robot than woman, but lately a lot of things have jumped out of the most well-lit of alleyways to remind me that I am, in fact, a girl and that society at large views me as such.

There's different levels of this, naturally. On the most basic of levels, adhering to societal standards for female beauty and behavior is work. Expensive work, at that. Through the miracles of a combination of genetics and luck, I've been blessed with a generally socially acceptable body and face. I don't face harassment from men and women alike like many, many women do for not falling into society's narrow definition of how a woman should look, but I do feel constant pressure to "be better". I could very much stand to lose my tummy flub, to spend a little extra time on my hair, to tone down my glaring paleness (especially since my skin tone is less "ivory" and more "sickly"), or to have a less lackadaisical approach to selecting my make-up and wardrobe. Even from where I stand at a privileged status-quo with society, achieving any of the above goals requires time, effort, and money that quite frankly I'm not willing to invest at this point in time. I can't imagine the sheer logistics that a bulkier, less-conventional, poorer, and more track-suited woman faces when contending with these same obstacles. God forbid that any of us forget to shave our legs during this quest for societal acceptance.

And that's just the aesthetic value of American females. While there's numerous problematic ways that women are expected to behave (I'm looking at you, "women who are assertive and successful are bitches and shrews"), the one that really gets me is the expectation to be nice and pleasant in the face of being treated like objects. This is rarely as blatant as the old man who once asked a (male) coworker of mine how much he would have to tip for a (female) coworker to accompany him out to his car. That sort of obvious objectification is blessedly dealt with swiftly, harshly, and with great justice. I cannot count the number of times, however, that strangers have told me to smile or laid their hands on me for no reason. I am constantly being touched by friends and strangers alike whether it's just to get my attention by gently grabbing my elbow or shoulder, or to force me to come closer by guiding me by the waist or hips. I've had bar patrons reach out and grab my hand from me to look to see what note I've scribbled in ink on the back and I've had complete strangers put their arms around my shoulders to move me out of their way. While this sort of thing isn't nearly as damaging or offensive as a male coworker being offered money for my services, it is still insidious and indicative of the general mindset that my body belongs to the general public to be both manhandled and commented upon.

The rub here is that if I try to take control of myself by, say, snatching my hand out of bar seat 605's clammy clutch and telling him "please don't touch me, dude. I'm display model only" then I will be viewed as an uptight bitch. I once asked a random bar patron "why?" when he told me to smile. His response? "You're a pretty girl, you should smile!" I know he thought he was just being nice and giving me a compliment but the implication that a) if I were ugly I wouldn't need to smile since I wouldn't be pleasing to look at in the first place and b) my lack of smile was somehow ruining his enjoyment of my presence is appalling.

All this, of course, is not new to me; just old wounds resurfacing after a recent incident made me question my minimally-enlightened view of myself and the world around me. I know that there's still a lot of work to do, both internally and societally, when my first reaction to a male friend aggressively pursuing my, um, "company" was guilt (guilt!). As if I had done something wrong by being present and female and still having the audacity to resist his advances.

Ordinarily I try not to bring up various -isms in this blog, or anywhere for that matter, because not only am I largely uneducated about them but I also feel like I'm not telling you, Interested Party, who is likely of my generation, anything you've never heard before. We're all fairly enlightened about the comparative unfairness of gender relations in our nation, to varying degrees of concern or notice, and I feel a bit silly pointing them out. Sometimes, though, I get a bit rage-y and a blog entry pops out. So here we are.

N'me touchez pas!
Cathi

Hard lessons, and love

Questions of science, science and progress, do not speak as loud as my heart

My very first memory, something pieced together with bits of actual recollections and photographs, is of Linda being born. They put me in hospital regulation animal pajamas and were very forceful about me washing my hands before going in to meet my new baby sister. I was extremely indignant, my sense of pride very strong for a not-yet 2 year-old, that the nurse assumed I was a dirty child. I remember snuggling next to my mom in the hospital bed, looking at the tiny, red-faced bundle in her arms, and being told that I was a Big Sister now; I had Responsibilities.

Most people don't have solid memories of their lives that young, and most of my other memories of early childhood are simply hazy remembrances of an emotion, a snatch of a sentence, or mash of very similar events that have blended into one. Kudos to Wee Martin for making such a big impression.

One thing I have precious few memories of is that of my parents being together. My mom and dad divorced when I was very young, and I feel that it's safe to say that all I've known, really, is a two-family life.

In my line of work I will get asked about my personal life from completely impersonal people. I always answer truthfully (albeit with brevity) and so on the odd occasion where it's merited mention, I will tell people my parents got divorced when I was but a wee little sprog. The universal response is "I'm sorry, that must have been hard", to which I surprise people with the counter-response of "not really, actually." I like to think that I've grown into a mature, sensible, well-rounded person who is doing her parents proud, and I neither attribute this to, nor feel it is in spite of the early separation. It is simply How It Is.

I've encountered very few issues being a child of divorce. The only major hiccup I can recall is my bff across the street not being allowed to come out and play anymore because her parents didn't want her associating with divorced riff-raff, and the only real emotional scar I can put my finger on is the tendency to question the viability of long-term relationships.

The benefit of having my faith in the almighty Love and Marriage shaken so young is that I've had a very long time to work through it. I've seen both the ugliness and the happiness that can result from a separation, and I have the wisdom to know that it will, in time, get better. I learned very early on that one relationship is not a barometer for others; just because my parent's couldn't work it out doesn't mean my friend's parents can't either, and just because my friend's parents were happy and in love doesn't mean that my parents were somehow less happy or loving. Every person, every experience, and every relationship is different and it took a lot of observation and questioning in my formative years to realize that there is no Golden Rule for relationships. It will work, or it won't. That is all.

Most importantly, especially as I've gotten older and my parents have had both time and distance to heal their old, deep wounds, I have learned that an unhappy ending doesn't invalidate the happy years that preceded it. My mom will come across a recipe card and wistfully remember how my paternal grandmother was so darn good at it, and wonder aloud if my father would like to have it back (you know, 20 years after the divorce). My dad will laughingly recall how once my mother was mortified when he got angry at a Sears salesperson over car repairs. Even though it ended badly and took a long, long while to smooth over, my parents had, at one time, a good relationship. That has been my hardest lesson to learn. Though there were fights and court dates, kid-shuffling and FAFSA disagreements, the 17 years of marriage they had before all this mess was still worthwhile. Once, they were happy, and that long-irrelevant emotion and memory doesn't just vanish into the ether when the bond does.

Nostalgia,
CB

On Counting Calories

Diet Coke and pizza please

Kate Moss once said that "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels", and I had this concept in the back of my mind while on this Squish-loss quest. I kept mental tabs about my happiness re: appearance, physical exertion, and food choices. At the end of my fitness experiment I came to the conclusion that the only good part about semi-intense exercise was how good stretching felt at the end, and that following a Very Healthy diet make me intensely unhappy.

I had mixed feelings about the few physical changes I had. My face was almost imperceptibly thinner, which I think made me look more my age than like the high schooler I occasionally get mistaken for. I was slightly less depressed about the number the scale was showing me. My ab muscles were actually getting used, therefore my squishy abdomen was lifted up, making me look "effortlessly" better in some of my clothes. My arms were gaining definition, which I felt made them look bigger rather than less-flabby. I was sleeping less (which, in the grand scheme of sleeping 10+ hours a day is an improvement).

In essence: after time had passed and effort was made, I was happier about my body when I looked in the mirror. I also took more showers by virtue of sweating profusely 5-6 times a week.

Once personal training was over and I no longer had to create food logs to show to a judgmental PT, I was immensely relieved. I didn't have to eat food I found bland. I didn't have to stress over whether I was getting 30 billion grams of protein a day. I didn't have to feel guilty about ordering buffalo wings or having peanut butter toast for breakfast. And so my rapid descent into PTSD (post-training sloth disorder) began. My last training session was just about a month ago, and I think I've made it to the gym about once a week since. Surprisingly, I'm feeling guilty about it, as well as feeling pangs of guilt when contemplating unhealthy food choices.

So while it turns out that TGiFriday's green chile sauce and brownie obsession, Spicy Sweet Chile Doritos, and really good bleu cheese dressing do, in fact, taste better than being skinny feels, losing that good-skinny feeling due to relaxing ab muscles and increasing scale numbers feels worse than a 100% tasty but erratic diet and the guilt that goes along with staying on the couch watching crime drama instead of going to the gym. So it seems some sort of compromise is in order, because seriously; life is not worth living if Applebee's french onion soup is off-limits, but I really don't want to sabotage all of the hard work I put in over the last few months.

Face!
Thrine

Two Thousand and Ten, Common Era

I like to make myself believe that planet Earth turns slowly

Well well well, if it isn't my old arch-nemesis: blogging in a timely manner.

I really, truly have no excuse. It's not like my life has been prohibitively busy or so filled with excitement and adventure that I simply cannot find the time. Mostly I've just lost inspiration, I think. Well, that, and sheer laziness. It's way easier just to click aimlessly around the Intertubes and occasionally use my scroll button than to hoist my keyboard onto my lap and wiggle my fingers in a meaningful way.

What this means is not only have I not written in almost 2 months, but I'm also 10 days late for my 2009 recap/2010 wish-list. I suppose in all fairness, I was in New York for the turn of the decade so an appropriately-dated entry was out of the question, but I could have been more prompt. Sorry.

I'm still at that stage in life where at the turn of every year I marvel at how long ago the last new year celebration seems. I've heard this vastly diminishes post-college, but I don't know, man. January 2009 feels very far away. It's no longer strange to say "President Obama", I paid off my student loans in full, I bought my car off mom (also in full), both The Boy and Seester finished college, I'm already halfway done being in a LDR, I moved, and took what seems to now be an annual winter road trip, this time to New York City (though I suppose both "last year's" winter road trip to D.C. for the inauguration was also in 2009).

But for now, let's review 2009.

2009 "Wish List" Recap

-Find a "real job" that will allow me to simply bartend as a supplement, not staple
Failure, though largely to a lack of trying. I sent out my resume a few times but I'll be honest--I've been too content with my current lot in life to try too hard.
-Get my own place
Success! 3 boys and I have a house together, which we take adequate care of.
-Keep the boyfriend (a task far less whimsical and much, much scarier this year)
Success! It seems that The Boy and I are doing so well together that everyone except for the two of us were convinced I'd come back from NYC with an engagement ring.
-Work on developing a healthier routine (improved diet, any exercise, better habits, etc...)
Believe it or not, success! Hiring a personal trainer was a good idea. I lost a little bit of weight, and learned how to eat well and developed an exercise ethic.
-Never carry a balance on my AmEx card
Success! Though I'm notoriously fiscally responsible, so this was more of a reminder to keep it up, rather than some sort of difficult quest.
-Dress more adult-like
Debatable success. I own more dresses and nice tops and jewelry, though my attire today would indicate nothing of the sort.
-Write almost every day, in some form
Faaaaaaiiiiiiillure. Big time. Unless writing down people's food orders counts (it doesn't).
-Listen to newer, better music
Also a debatable success. I definitely started listening to newer music. The jury's split on whether Lady Gaga and Jay Sean qualify as "better".

2010 is perturbing me on a number of levels. It's an unattractive number. There, I said it. It doesn't flow well when writing, and is especially difficult to type when using the top-row number keys (though almost delightful to type on the number pad). You can't make eyes out of the middle numbers anymore (and we can't wear those fun glasses for NYE anymore), and it marks the beginning of people commonly stating the date as "twenty-something" rather than "two-thousand-something", which my ears find irritating (ear-itating? Har har).

Additionally this year is really feeling like the year I have to Figure It Out. In April The Boy will be finished with his long-term volunteering. I'm sick and tired from being away from him for the majority of our relationship, so organizing our lives in some fashion where we can actually like, be together, is at the top of my priority list. This means, you know, living in the same town or nearly the same town which means we're going to have to Talk and we all know how much I hate Talking About Stuff. I'm also sick and tired of feeling like a professional/academic failure, brought about by doing nothing re: my BA for almost 2 years now. This means knuckling down and finding a "real job", which is scary, ya'll.

Things I Hope Come to Pass in '10

-Get out to Oregon to visit SB
-Move to Chicago with Seester
-Get a Real Job (I'd love NPR or Q101, but I'm not picky) Caveat: acceptable alternative--go to grad school
-Stick with The Boy
-Keep up the healthy habits
-Grow my hair all long(er) and sexy-like
-Go to at least one wedding. Everyone keeps getting married and no one ever invites me!
-Write more

So here's to a new decade, Interested Party. I'm feeling motivated and optimistic, albeit scared shitless, and I hope all your Two-thousand-and-Ten dreams come true.

IKEA Bed Set,
Catherine

Down With the Sickness

bwuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh

Wee Martin and I are often accused of being the same person; and in all honesty it's not an unfair one. We share mannerisms, turns of phrase, vocal cadence, love of coffee and Gilmore Girls (simultaneously or individually), and have perfected the Death Glare.

Sometimes though, we work backwards. I used to be the wildly successful one while she had problems learning how to read and making her own friends, whereas now she's objectively the more successful sister. She used to be a huge worrywart--to the point where she was prescribed ulcer medicine as an 8 year-old, and I was fairly carefree.

As I've grown, I've developed into a deceptively calm nervous wreck. Worst Case Scenarios are my specialty, and always my first conclusion. Because this has manifested itself as I've been maturing, I've also figured out ways to cope with it.

You see: by reassuring myself that I've never, not once, been confronted with a WCS, good ol' left brain can show me a venn diagram that looks something like this:

Therefore: by panicking I am guaranteeing a benign result. Case in point:

I woke up this morning with an annoying tickle in the back of my throat. "Great" I thought, "I hope I'm not catching Durbin's cold". Although I must admit, in my now-feverish state it's almost nice to be able to share this experience with him, far away though he may be. I went to work and the tickle turned into post-nasal drip soreness. I ran some very successful errands, and by 4pm I started to suspect that I wasn't going to be able to vitamin-C this away. I started realizing I was cold despite continuing to wear my jacket indoors, and by 7pm I was a shivering, vomiting mess. My stomach hurts, my back hurts, every hair on my body hurts. I took a bath to try to futilely try to warm up, and took the effort in what felt like an ice bath to shave my legs so at least they wouldn't have the painful hairs.

I'm convinced I have H1N1, and I'm convinced that, with my luck, I have some undiagnosed heart condition and that I'm going to die in my sleep tonight. I'm thinking I should call Alex and leave him a voicemail to tell him that I love him one last time, that I should call Linda and have her tell me how stupid I am, that I should write some epic blog entry that will bring meaning to my life.

Fortunately, we have the above venn diagram. So, while at the moment my state of nausea is being exacerbated by a clenching worry of impending mortal expiration, statistically I will be alive, if only marginally well tomorrow when I wake up to go judge Richard's debate class.

Wish me luck!
CMart