I saw them last night at a concert. They were cheesily, unashamedly, can't-look-away, why-don't-they-get-a-room, in love and they were quite possibly the ugliest couple on the planet. Her nose was so big it seemed to pull her upper lip away from her teeth. He hair was shocking and curly. Not that sexy, Andie MacDowell-from-the-80s curly either. This was finger in a light socket curly and pulled back in a tight pony tail behind her head so it formed a sort of frizzy fallen halo around her like byzantine art. When she spoke she had an obvious speech impediment. Maybe it was her nose.
He was no catch either. His afro-like reddish blonde hair seemed dirty and sweaty like the rest of him. His fat seemed to hang to somewhere around his thighs. He was wearing a generic rock groupie T-shirt from a group I didn't recognize. His oily face was peppered with light freckles that just didn't seem to go with his joke of a "bad boy" image from the neck down. He had a slouch and a smile that creeped me out. Like if I had a daughter, I'd never let her out of the house because of his smile. But these two were in love.
They couldn't have been more than 17.
There was an equally unattractive parent gushing about a "promise ring" that had been presented the night before. These two had found each other. What were the odds? These two equally ugly people finding each other in this crazy mixed up world fixated on appearance. Putting aside the idea that they were most likely minors, there was no way these two young people weren't doin' it and doin' it with regularity. Mom seemed to think it was awesome. These two "finding" each other. I was kind of grossed out.
So we walked back to our car. Me in my high-heels, matching purse, dress pants and dressy top. I thought about my sun-kissed blond hair that curled so nice in the night's humidity. I looked at the profile of my husband. His temples beginning to gray and the confidence it must take to accept that receding hairline.
I think we are a nice looking couple. We were handsome in our 20s and 30s. Now we have a luxurious maturity and comortableness about us that might make other young people want to be like us "some day". But I don't know what it feels like to love "in spite of".
To love in spite of body flaws or odor. A nose that makes people point or hair that encourages pity. To love someone with a concert t-shirt wardrobe and a short attention span. I decided on the way home, that to love in spite of these things would surely mean you were undeniably in love.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Mental Messages: Private Schools and Home Schools
A few things in this world I get a little confused about. Private School fundraisers and homeschoolers attending public school proms and classes.
There is a nice little private school around the school from me. As far as I know the students are well trained, well educated and well rounded. Many of the graduates continue on in medical professions as well as professional occupations. However, they are forever holding one fundraiser or another. Selling fruit, hosting garage sales, etc.
Also, the homeschool phenom just baffles me. These kids and their families stick their flags in the sand about how they can learn at home and home is best, "We don't need your classrooms", and blah, blah, blah. However, I am hearing about more and more of them picking and choosing certain classes to attend in a public school and also attending a public school prom.
Here are two sects of people that have separated themselves from mainstream society because of society's uglinesses. The whole idea that their students can learn and absorb and be all they can be outside the walls of a tradtional setting is forgotten when the public school has something they need like a prom, an elective or a difficult academic course. It also seems strange to me that a private school would hold a fundraiser. Students pay a tuition to attend a school and yet at the same time, there is not enough money to fund programs offered for free at most, if not all public schools. Now, I do know that some programs like the arts programs are hurting for funds and often carry out fundraisers for major purchases, but over all, it just doesn't make sense.
So I am baffled when I hear homeschool kids discuss attending a public school's prom and activites and private schools holding fundraisers. Call me hard headed. Until I understand it better, I don't think I agree with either one.
There is a nice little private school around the school from me. As far as I know the students are well trained, well educated and well rounded. Many of the graduates continue on in medical professions as well as professional occupations. However, they are forever holding one fundraiser or another. Selling fruit, hosting garage sales, etc.
Also, the homeschool phenom just baffles me. These kids and their families stick their flags in the sand about how they can learn at home and home is best, "We don't need your classrooms", and blah, blah, blah. However, I am hearing about more and more of them picking and choosing certain classes to attend in a public school and also attending a public school prom.
Here are two sects of people that have separated themselves from mainstream society because of society's uglinesses. The whole idea that their students can learn and absorb and be all they can be outside the walls of a tradtional setting is forgotten when the public school has something they need like a prom, an elective or a difficult academic course. It also seems strange to me that a private school would hold a fundraiser. Students pay a tuition to attend a school and yet at the same time, there is not enough money to fund programs offered for free at most, if not all public schools. Now, I do know that some programs like the arts programs are hurting for funds and often carry out fundraisers for major purchases, but over all, it just doesn't make sense.
So I am baffled when I hear homeschool kids discuss attending a public school's prom and activites and private schools holding fundraisers. Call me hard headed. Until I understand it better, I don't think I agree with either one.
I Need a "Go To" Outfit
Yesterday I was invited to have lunch today with some people that could help my career. Sounds a little cliche, I know. However, it's the truth. It was a "friend of a friend" situation. The invitation was thrown out there. "Why don't you meet us for lunch? I'll introduce you around."
It sounded so exciting when I accepted and then I realized I have some very nice clothes for performing and for stage, but I've got nothing for casual network lunches. I went to a few outlet type stores yesterday afternoon and found nothing. I didn't want to drop $150 bucks on something that may or may not pan out, so I curbed my desire to go to the mall. It did teach me I need a GO TO outfit or two for casual. My casual wardrobe consists of some extremely unflattering Bermuda shorts and some shirts that only match because they are the same color.
I've got some casual sandals that are really beginning to show wear. I'm thinking a skirt, some longer shorts and some shirts. Some nicer than "for the beach" sandals would be great. So for today, I'm going to wear jeans and a little pink pull over shirt with some nice details and pink sandals. I don't like the idea of wearing jeans, but it's really all I have.
I wish I looked better in jeans, even more, I wish I felt more comfortable wearing jeans. I guess I wore so many skirts and dresses as a youngster I feel more comfortable in them.
It sounded so exciting when I accepted and then I realized I have some very nice clothes for performing and for stage, but I've got nothing for casual network lunches. I went to a few outlet type stores yesterday afternoon and found nothing. I didn't want to drop $150 bucks on something that may or may not pan out, so I curbed my desire to go to the mall. It did teach me I need a GO TO outfit or two for casual. My casual wardrobe consists of some extremely unflattering Bermuda shorts and some shirts that only match because they are the same color.
I've got some casual sandals that are really beginning to show wear. I'm thinking a skirt, some longer shorts and some shirts. Some nicer than "for the beach" sandals would be great. So for today, I'm going to wear jeans and a little pink pull over shirt with some nice details and pink sandals. I don't like the idea of wearing jeans, but it's really all I have.
I wish I looked better in jeans, even more, I wish I felt more comfortable wearing jeans. I guess I wore so many skirts and dresses as a youngster I feel more comfortable in them.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Petty World #3: Putting the Brakes on Slippery Slopes
Today's Moral Dillemma is replaced by Petty World #3
I felt it coming on when I thought I had found the washing machine of my dreams. Seems like a small feat, the "washing machine of my dreams". It was in an appliance store and was a mere $499. With an IRS refund in hand, we had the money. We needed it--ours broke a week ago. I called my husband at work gave him the model number to look up while I waited.
Long story short, he put on the brakes. He said let's read the reviews. I was immediately ticked. How many times had he pushed me and pushed me relentlessly over something he wanted until I was a heap of twitching jerking nerves? I wanted this washing machine.
I knew we would not read the reviews. I knew another day would go by in our search for a washing machine. It's been broken almost a week now. I came home to my husband and son watching TV. They'd already eaten. They thought I knew they were going out for dinner while I was at a rehearsal. I made myself something to eat and asked if he'd thought anymore about the washing machine?
He told me we needed to "read the reviews". I asked him when we were going to do that. He told me we could when we went to bed. At about 10:00 our usual go-to-sleep time of the evening I took my laptop and went to bed. My husband followed his evening ritual and joined me while I perused e-bay and facebook. Soon he was looking and breathing over my shoulder at what I was doing.
"I suppose we better start looking at reviews." I said.
"That would be the prudent thing to do." He said.
"Oh, it would, wouldn't it." I said with heavy sarcasm. The word prudent stuck in my craw. He'd bought a 47" TV for himself and football season, just seven short months ago and nary a review was read. He looked at three TVs and made his choice.
I copy pasted the model number I'd given him over the phone to the search window and a washing machine came up but it wasn't the one I'd looked at. I felt a funny kind of sickening rage tickling my brain. This one was the same brand, but was definitely not the same washer. I reentered the model number and tried to remember what I'd said:
"V like Victor, C like Carl, M like Mary, 400--"
I couldn't remember if it was XCM or VXC or what. For a moment I was convinced the store had mislabeled the machine, then I was even more convinced he'd gotten the number wrong. Then I felt sick. I could not get my dream washer.
My dream washer was no more my dream washer than the next one, (I don't have a dream washer) it was the principle of the thing. I wanted a washing machine and I wanted a new one. We'd had wonderful luck buying used ones. Our last purchase, a simple Kenmore that was barely used in a vacation home by a widow. Perfect. $150. Lasted barely a few years. While a GE we spent $50 dollars on lasted more than 10 years. That stung a little. I'm the one that washes the sheets, towels and kitchen linens. I want a new washing machine. I want the one I pick, not the one that looks best from the groupings of classified ads.
I wanted something new FOR ONCE.
I could feel myself driftng in and out of the unthinkable rage that often overcomes me on the inside. The one that makes me want to throw up, and in the end makes my hair hurt. It was a slippery slope and so much easier to just go with it. It was getting more and more difficult to differentiate between reality and the idea that some higher being or power was plotting against me.
I closed the laptop and told my husband I'd lost my desire to spend $500 dollars on a new machine. I was calling "our guy" in the morning. The one that repairs things. The one that always helps me decide whether we should put another "penny" into it--whatever "it" happened to be at the moment, or we should just junk it. God bless him.
I felt it coming on when I thought I had found the washing machine of my dreams. Seems like a small feat, the "washing machine of my dreams". It was in an appliance store and was a mere $499. With an IRS refund in hand, we had the money. We needed it--ours broke a week ago. I called my husband at work gave him the model number to look up while I waited.
Long story short, he put on the brakes. He said let's read the reviews. I was immediately ticked. How many times had he pushed me and pushed me relentlessly over something he wanted until I was a heap of twitching jerking nerves? I wanted this washing machine.
I knew we would not read the reviews. I knew another day would go by in our search for a washing machine. It's been broken almost a week now. I came home to my husband and son watching TV. They'd already eaten. They thought I knew they were going out for dinner while I was at a rehearsal. I made myself something to eat and asked if he'd thought anymore about the washing machine?
He told me we needed to "read the reviews". I asked him when we were going to do that. He told me we could when we went to bed. At about 10:00 our usual go-to-sleep time of the evening I took my laptop and went to bed. My husband followed his evening ritual and joined me while I perused e-bay and facebook. Soon he was looking and breathing over my shoulder at what I was doing.
"I suppose we better start looking at reviews." I said.
"That would be the prudent thing to do." He said.
"Oh, it would, wouldn't it." I said with heavy sarcasm. The word prudent stuck in my craw. He'd bought a 47" TV for himself and football season, just seven short months ago and nary a review was read. He looked at three TVs and made his choice.
I copy pasted the model number I'd given him over the phone to the search window and a washing machine came up but it wasn't the one I'd looked at. I felt a funny kind of sickening rage tickling my brain. This one was the same brand, but was definitely not the same washer. I reentered the model number and tried to remember what I'd said:
"V like Victor, C like Carl, M like Mary, 400--"
I couldn't remember if it was XCM or VXC or what. For a moment I was convinced the store had mislabeled the machine, then I was even more convinced he'd gotten the number wrong. Then I felt sick. I could not get my dream washer.
My dream washer was no more my dream washer than the next one, (I don't have a dream washer) it was the principle of the thing. I wanted a washing machine and I wanted a new one. We'd had wonderful luck buying used ones. Our last purchase, a simple Kenmore that was barely used in a vacation home by a widow. Perfect. $150. Lasted barely a few years. While a GE we spent $50 dollars on lasted more than 10 years. That stung a little. I'm the one that washes the sheets, towels and kitchen linens. I want a new washing machine. I want the one I pick, not the one that looks best from the groupings of classified ads.
I wanted something new FOR ONCE.
I could feel myself driftng in and out of the unthinkable rage that often overcomes me on the inside. The one that makes me want to throw up, and in the end makes my hair hurt. It was a slippery slope and so much easier to just go with it. It was getting more and more difficult to differentiate between reality and the idea that some higher being or power was plotting against me.
I closed the laptop and told my husband I'd lost my desire to spend $500 dollars on a new machine. I was calling "our guy" in the morning. The one that repairs things. The one that always helps me decide whether we should put another "penny" into it--whatever "it" happened to be at the moment, or we should just junk it. God bless him.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Fitness: Avia Avi-Quest and the Mile Quest
I ordered some new shoes yesterday from Zappos With the free shipping, they were $130 pair of running shoes marked down to $79.99. I read some of the reviews. Their biggest fail is too much support and they might be too stiff for a lighter weight runner. Someone heavy like me may find them just right. Zappos also has the 365 day return policy that I couldn't resist. I'll let you know how they are when they come in.
On a "I'm so frustrated" note, I walked/ran everyday this week except for last night and have gained almost three pounds. 204.5. I can feel it and see it especially in my gut and when I take breaths to play. I wore my favorite pair of jeans and belt to a rehearsal last night. The waist was cutting me in two by the time the night was over.
Well, that makes a preposterous 7 1/2 pounds gained this month or so. Seems my idea of losing 15 pounds has been counter offered with a weight gain. I hoped that the extra weight was from my period or an extra salty meal over the weekend, but it's Tuesday and I weighed more this morning than I did two mornings ago. Something has to be happening. No one can tell me 3 miles a day--uphill--is not doing something. At any rate, I'm angry.
I did finish the 3 miles in 63minutes 54 seconds on Sunday night. I need to shave four more minutes off my time in order to be where I was three months ago without the incline. Plus, making time to do the obstacles.
Tuesday, may just become Accept My Fat Day.
Well, that makes a preposterous 7 1/2 pounds gained this month or so. Seems my idea of losing 15 pounds has been counter offered with a weight gain. I hoped that the extra weight was from my period or an extra salty meal over the weekend, but it's Tuesday and I weighed more this morning than I did two mornings ago. Something has to be happening. No one can tell me 3 miles a day--uphill--is not doing something. At any rate, I'm angry.
I did finish the 3 miles in 63minutes 54 seconds on Sunday night. I need to shave four more minutes off my time in order to be where I was three months ago without the incline. Plus, making time to do the obstacles.
Tuesday, may just become Accept My Fat Day.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Never On Sunday: Whose Holiday is it Anyway?
It's Easter. My on again, off again relationship with the church is muddied by this particular holiday. This time a few years ago I was working for the church and blind sided by a well-meaning parishioner that didn't like the content of my children's newsletter. Apparently, it contained the truth about Easter. Not the part the Christians swiped from whatever civilization preceeded them, the truth that Easter is about renewal, refreshment, and rebirth. I shared stories of the ways different countries celebrate Easter and how our Easter came to be.
I used the Charater Sketches book to pick an animal and biblical character as I always did. Each month since I started the newsletter there was always an inclusion of the rules of the department concerning trips and activities, various FAQs. It was pretty much the same newsletter it had always been, except this time, I guess someone actually read it because I got cornered after a meeting and by the time it was over, I was assured my little newsletter that I made a total of 20 copies of and stuck in the pocket near the children's section of the education buildling was going to cause the downfall of civilization as we know it.
On her way to me, she gathered support from the pastor's wife. A passive aggressive woman with a jealous streak a mile wide. The pastor's wife, not the woman. The woman, was a worrier and a control queen. If it could go wrong it would, because we didn't do it the way she'd wanted it done.
The whole confrontation didn't sit well with me. I was left feeling ashamed and angry. As an employee of the church, they had entrusted me with the care of their most precious commodity--their children. I was on the brink of sending them all straight to hell in Moses's basket.
I wish I'd kept the newsletter. I told her I would destroy them. All 20 of them, for no one had taken one. No one ever did. I'd been asked to do a children's newsletter and there it was for six months, never read or ever looked at until this fateful holiday. A time of year that can be claimed by just about every religion on the planet.
I guess I just don't get it. At the same time, this woman and the pastor's wife insist on doing an Easter Egg Hunt every year. There are games, toys, surprises, food and sandwiched in there is a vain attempt at sharing the "real" Easter story. The pastor groups everyone willing together in the church and tells the "real" Easter story in his shorts and golf shirt never looking anyone particular in the eye.
So I wonder whose holiday it is anyway? Somehow the picture has been muddied for me along with everything else about the church that just doesn't make sense to me any more.
I used the Charater Sketches book to pick an animal and biblical character as I always did. Each month since I started the newsletter there was always an inclusion of the rules of the department concerning trips and activities, various FAQs. It was pretty much the same newsletter it had always been, except this time, I guess someone actually read it because I got cornered after a meeting and by the time it was over, I was assured my little newsletter that I made a total of 20 copies of and stuck in the pocket near the children's section of the education buildling was going to cause the downfall of civilization as we know it.
On her way to me, she gathered support from the pastor's wife. A passive aggressive woman with a jealous streak a mile wide. The pastor's wife, not the woman. The woman, was a worrier and a control queen. If it could go wrong it would, because we didn't do it the way she'd wanted it done.
The whole confrontation didn't sit well with me. I was left feeling ashamed and angry. As an employee of the church, they had entrusted me with the care of their most precious commodity--their children. I was on the brink of sending them all straight to hell in Moses's basket.
I wish I'd kept the newsletter. I told her I would destroy them. All 20 of them, for no one had taken one. No one ever did. I'd been asked to do a children's newsletter and there it was for six months, never read or ever looked at until this fateful holiday. A time of year that can be claimed by just about every religion on the planet.
I guess I just don't get it. At the same time, this woman and the pastor's wife insist on doing an Easter Egg Hunt every year. There are games, toys, surprises, food and sandwiched in there is a vain attempt at sharing the "real" Easter story. The pastor groups everyone willing together in the church and tells the "real" Easter story in his shorts and golf shirt never looking anyone particular in the eye.
So I wonder whose holiday it is anyway? Somehow the picture has been muddied for me along with everything else about the church that just doesn't make sense to me any more.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Mental Messages: Just Don't Cross Me
I was once told by a new friend. "I'm nice until you cross me."
I found that interesting at the time and approximately 25 years later, I still think about what that means to both the person who said it and to the person that hears it. Perhaps in a backward way, she was letting me--and whoever else she'd ever said that to--know that she was not to be trifled with-that she was one bad you-know-what. In my late teens and early 20s--for some reason--it was OK that she'd said that. I could catalog this information and just not cross her. Besides, at that tender age, I'd never had opportunity to cross anyone.
However, always in the back of my mind was the thought:
But what if I did?
Would she hurt me? Kill me? Embarass me? Over the years, I've heard this phrase many times. Maybe it was worded a little different, but in the end, I was told the same thing:
Just don't make me angry.
It has become less and less OK and more and more a sign that there is something waiting in this person to eat me alive if I do something to wrong them. In my later years, I avoid people that act like they might turn on me if I make them unhappy or worse yet, angry. I don't know the right words, but the feeling I get from someone who is convinced that no one should ever displease them--no matter what--is not comforting, it's unsettling--it's crazy, if you will. It means that if in some way even by accident I make this person uncomfortable or bring them unhappiness, I might become a victim of any varying degree of backlash.
I remember a few years ago, I accidently--what I will categorize as--upset someone. I'd befriended one of the four women where I worked. I was new at the time. The lines of authority ran more along a line of gender than a line of administration or even seniority. Women, regardless of their jobs were grouped together in an embarassing type of man-worshipping modern-day harem doing everything the men didn't like to do and the men, well, they just kind of did whatever there wasn't enough women to appoint the job to. She and I managed adjoining offices. She did all the bookkeeping/payroll/melting pot crap jobs. I was the first woman hired there that actually brought a experience and somewhat of an education. I brought five years of experience in the auto industry, some college and a sharp mind to the table. She, well, she was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but she was a "nice" person and she'd carved a niche in this place and preceeded me by five years.
Don't get me wrong, we stayed busy, but during those down times we talked. I was probably too truthful and I later found she was not truthful enough because somewhere along the way, she decided that she was higher up the female food chain because she'd been there longer than me and whatever reason she could think of. Mix in a little jealousy because I worked with the men more than the others and it finally reared its nasty head when she informed me--in passing--that she had the right to tell me what to do. Then made sure that one of the men let me know as well. She also made sure all the men knew.
I told her it was "OK, I thought we could still be friends."
Well, that "hurt her feelings" because she let me know in a short, but very angry lecture. I could not understand how a catch-all secretary/bookkeeper/payroll person could decide or even arrive at the conclusion she could tell me what to do, but it felt like elementary school all over again when I just wanted to let her know that regardless of what the she or the men decided, I'd still like to be friends.
She somehow took offense at that. I thought to myself: Even though she was appointing herself in authority over me and even going to lengths to have a man tell me, I still wanted to try to be friends. I enjoyed our moments of communication so I let her lecture me with her eyes all ablaze with anger and I felt sorry for her--so sorry for her. She flew into my office and let me have it. Now when I see her three years after leaving the company I am nice, I listen to her talk about her kids that are now less kids than they were three years ago, but still struggling with the same problems, and I still feel sorry for her because she really is a nice person--just don't cross her. I'd hate it if someone felt that way about me.
I found that interesting at the time and approximately 25 years later, I still think about what that means to both the person who said it and to the person that hears it. Perhaps in a backward way, she was letting me--and whoever else she'd ever said that to--know that she was not to be trifled with-that she was one bad you-know-what. In my late teens and early 20s--for some reason--it was OK that she'd said that. I could catalog this information and just not cross her. Besides, at that tender age, I'd never had opportunity to cross anyone.
However, always in the back of my mind was the thought:
But what if I did?
Would she hurt me? Kill me? Embarass me? Over the years, I've heard this phrase many times. Maybe it was worded a little different, but in the end, I was told the same thing:
Just don't make me angry.
It has become less and less OK and more and more a sign that there is something waiting in this person to eat me alive if I do something to wrong them. In my later years, I avoid people that act like they might turn on me if I make them unhappy or worse yet, angry. I don't know the right words, but the feeling I get from someone who is convinced that no one should ever displease them--no matter what--is not comforting, it's unsettling--it's crazy, if you will. It means that if in some way even by accident I make this person uncomfortable or bring them unhappiness, I might become a victim of any varying degree of backlash.
I remember a few years ago, I accidently--what I will categorize as--upset someone. I'd befriended one of the four women where I worked. I was new at the time. The lines of authority ran more along a line of gender than a line of administration or even seniority. Women, regardless of their jobs were grouped together in an embarassing type of man-worshipping modern-day harem doing everything the men didn't like to do and the men, well, they just kind of did whatever there wasn't enough women to appoint the job to. She and I managed adjoining offices. She did all the bookkeeping/payroll/melting pot crap jobs. I was the first woman hired there that actually brought a experience and somewhat of an education. I brought five years of experience in the auto industry, some college and a sharp mind to the table. She, well, she was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but she was a "nice" person and she'd carved a niche in this place and preceeded me by five years.
Don't get me wrong, we stayed busy, but during those down times we talked. I was probably too truthful and I later found she was not truthful enough because somewhere along the way, she decided that she was higher up the female food chain because she'd been there longer than me and whatever reason she could think of. Mix in a little jealousy because I worked with the men more than the others and it finally reared its nasty head when she informed me--in passing--that she had the right to tell me what to do. Then made sure that one of the men let me know as well. She also made sure all the men knew.
I told her it was "OK, I thought we could still be friends."
Well, that "hurt her feelings" because she let me know in a short, but very angry lecture. I could not understand how a catch-all secretary/bookkeeper/payroll person could decide or even arrive at the conclusion she could tell me what to do, but it felt like elementary school all over again when I just wanted to let her know that regardless of what the she or the men decided, I'd still like to be friends.
She somehow took offense at that. I thought to myself: Even though she was appointing herself in authority over me and even going to lengths to have a man tell me, I still wanted to try to be friends. I enjoyed our moments of communication so I let her lecture me with her eyes all ablaze with anger and I felt sorry for her--so sorry for her. She flew into my office and let me have it. Now when I see her three years after leaving the company I am nice, I listen to her talk about her kids that are now less kids than they were three years ago, but still struggling with the same problems, and I still feel sorry for her because she really is a nice person--just don't cross her. I'd hate it if someone felt that way about me.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Fitness: Third Time's a Charm
This morning I stepped on the scale and was greeted by a very disturbing 202.2 lbs on the readout. What's going on here? I'll tell you. I had a week of binging on cookies, pie, soda, sweet tea and stress. My wonderful dream of being 15 pounds lighter by the end of the month seems to be slipping through my hands with every fault being mine.
I have been walking and using the plan, but there is no way a measly 2+ miles at 2 mph. is going to combat what I ate last week. I've recommitted to the plan and hope the last two weeks of the month will be good ones. I did walk up hill for an hour last night so in truth I could add 50% to my calories burned. It was challenging and satisfying enough without killing myself that I will probably stick to the uphill climb from here on out.
I need to get back out on my bike riding of thirty miles a week. It's just so time consuming and gas is so expensive for me to drive to what feels like a safe place to ride. I'm positively phobic about being attached, raped, mugged or abducted while I am riding or running. I make mental note of cars that pass me and if they keep on driving. If I pass someone walking/running I will give them a very wide berth, look for nearby verhicles, speak to them, and make sure to look them directly in the eye. (This is supposed to intimidate a perpetrator. I don't know if it works.) Finding some place nearby would be so much better, but I live in a portion of my subdivision that is divided by several groves and a very busy highway. I'll figure it out if I want to succeed.
I have been walking and using the plan, but there is no way a measly 2+ miles at 2 mph. is going to combat what I ate last week. I've recommitted to the plan and hope the last two weeks of the month will be good ones. I did walk up hill for an hour last night so in truth I could add 50% to my calories burned. It was challenging and satisfying enough without killing myself that I will probably stick to the uphill climb from here on out.
I need to get back out on my bike riding of thirty miles a week. It's just so time consuming and gas is so expensive for me to drive to what feels like a safe place to ride. I'm positively phobic about being attached, raped, mugged or abducted while I am riding or running. I make mental note of cars that pass me and if they keep on driving. If I pass someone walking/running I will give them a very wide berth, look for nearby verhicles, speak to them, and make sure to look them directly in the eye. (This is supposed to intimidate a perpetrator. I don't know if it works.) Finding some place nearby would be so much better, but I live in a portion of my subdivision that is divided by several groves and a very busy highway. I'll figure it out if I want to succeed.
Monday, April 18, 2011
I Got Hit With It
Wow, this morning is not a morning to be feeling poopy. I've got so much to do. I woke up feeling something was amiss but sluffed it off. Now I'm feeling it pretty hard. I'm exhausted. I had hoped I'd turned the corner on all that nonsense. Apparently, I haven't. I don't think men understand how much our cycles really take out of us. I have so much I wanted to do only 30 minutes ago and now I am looking forward to going back to bed. I can feel the rising ache in my back and legs and the mental fatigue that began at the same time. When I feel like this everything takes so much more effort than it really should and there's nothing I can do about it. What I would like to know is how much of it is mental. If I could just have unequivocal proof that this tired, achy miserable feeling was in my head, I could just try to work through it, but it's all so strong, so real.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Never On Sunday 2: What If God Was One Of Us?
My husband was Jesus. For about an hour and a half he was the Son of God. The One everybody talks about at Christmas and Easter. I couldn't go, I had a rehearsal, then the rehearsal was cancelled and I just had one of my almost meltdowns where everything I put on was just a little tight, just a little uncomfortable or just plain dirty. I felt bad for not going, but from what I hear from him and from other folks it wasn't that big of a deal.
The event was a cantata. If you don't know what a cantata is, it's like a musical, but it's a church choir and nobody moves. At worst, it's hours of singing and singing from an ill-trained choir of retired warblers and men who have wives in the choir. At best a cantata can be refreshing and thought provoking. I've sang in enough cantatas in my lifetime I came up with an excuse not to participate. It was lame, but after one rehearsal, I just decided it was not what I wanted to do.
Back to Jesus--a.k.a. my husband--I don't mean that in a blasphemous way, it's just the truth. The one chosen to portray Jesus was younger, fitter and seemed the better choice. Turned out, he had to work at the last minute. My guy went from being Moses to Jesus. They called it a "promotion". I disagreed--but kept my mouth shut. As the scenes of the "true" Easter story were sung, my husband pantomimed the the events with as much accuracy as one can wearing a wig and fake beard. (My husband is almost completely bald) His mother was duly proud as I'm sure she never dreamed in his early years that he'd ever play Jesus or even willingly attend church.
The irony doesn't end there. My husband is also director of Youth Ministries. It was youth night, so the youth were sitting on the front two rows. When he came out, there were smiles and a little snickering from his constituents. Other than that, they seemed to appreciate the magnitude of the moment and kept whatever else they might have had in mind to themselves.
The last thing he had to do for the evening was hold his arms out during an entire song. He was concerned about whether he could hold them up for that long. I was certain that the adrenline of the moment would keep his arms up. He said that while the song was going on, he wondered at what point he should leave for there was to be a healing service in the very spot he stood--playing Jesus. He decided that as the song ended, he would walk down the aisle and out of the church.
So for a little over an hour God was one of us, or one of us was God. How ever you want to look at it.
The event was a cantata. If you don't know what a cantata is, it's like a musical, but it's a church choir and nobody moves. At worst, it's hours of singing and singing from an ill-trained choir of retired warblers and men who have wives in the choir. At best a cantata can be refreshing and thought provoking. I've sang in enough cantatas in my lifetime I came up with an excuse not to participate. It was lame, but after one rehearsal, I just decided it was not what I wanted to do.
Back to Jesus--a.k.a. my husband--I don't mean that in a blasphemous way, it's just the truth. The one chosen to portray Jesus was younger, fitter and seemed the better choice. Turned out, he had to work at the last minute. My guy went from being Moses to Jesus. They called it a "promotion". I disagreed--but kept my mouth shut. As the scenes of the "true" Easter story were sung, my husband pantomimed the the events with as much accuracy as one can wearing a wig and fake beard. (My husband is almost completely bald) His mother was duly proud as I'm sure she never dreamed in his early years that he'd ever play Jesus or even willingly attend church.
The irony doesn't end there. My husband is also director of Youth Ministries. It was youth night, so the youth were sitting on the front two rows. When he came out, there were smiles and a little snickering from his constituents. Other than that, they seemed to appreciate the magnitude of the moment and kept whatever else they might have had in mind to themselves.
The last thing he had to do for the evening was hold his arms out during an entire song. He was concerned about whether he could hold them up for that long. I was certain that the adrenline of the moment would keep his arms up. He said that while the song was going on, he wondered at what point he should leave for there was to be a healing service in the very spot he stood--playing Jesus. He decided that as the song ended, he would walk down the aisle and out of the church.
So for a little over an hour God was one of us, or one of us was God. How ever you want to look at it.
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent: Overdrawn Accounts and Burger King Whoppers
I haven't had opportunity to look at the account closely, but we somehow managed to overdraw our account by $287. I remember when that happened to us the first time. I thought I was going to die. I was so embarassed, I cried and cried. Then I was angry and blamed it on everything and everyone. My husband got an advance on his paycheck which meant the company he worked for knew what we'd done. I was truly mortified.
The truth is, money is a tough thing. I can watch it like a hawk for weeks and months at a time and even though I know I shouldn't, as soon as I let my guard down and decide to breath a little, this happens--every time. I imagine some time today, I'll have to toughen up and look at the account to see where we went wrong. We'll have to tighten up again. I don't know how. We haven't been out in I don't know how long. The most deviant thing we've done is Burger King. We have a school booster card that we can get a free Whopper with the purchase of a Whopper. We buy a triple Whopper, get the second whopper free and share the spare patty. We share a drink and a fry. Pretty ingenious, I'd say.
Well, before I get into my day, I better go see why we are overdrawn. I quickly peeked to be sure it wasn't a crime being committed, it wasn't. It was just us, thinking we could actually live like regular human beings. I just don't know where else to cut back.
The truth is, money is a tough thing. I can watch it like a hawk for weeks and months at a time and even though I know I shouldn't, as soon as I let my guard down and decide to breath a little, this happens--every time. I imagine some time today, I'll have to toughen up and look at the account to see where we went wrong. We'll have to tighten up again. I don't know how. We haven't been out in I don't know how long. The most deviant thing we've done is Burger King. We have a school booster card that we can get a free Whopper with the purchase of a Whopper. We buy a triple Whopper, get the second whopper free and share the spare patty. We share a drink and a fry. Pretty ingenious, I'd say.
Well, before I get into my day, I better go see why we are overdrawn. I quickly peeked to be sure it wasn't a crime being committed, it wasn't. It was just us, thinking we could actually live like regular human beings. I just don't know where else to cut back.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Movie Review - Resident Evil: Afterlife 3D
Starring: Milla Jovovich, Ali Carter and Wentworth Miller
I saw this movie last night via Netflix DVD. I've seen the previous ones and found each one to be a little more silly each time. The first one, maybe even two, were great. I've watched them more than once. Afterlife is just goofy. A zombie movie is still a zombie movie. No one expects to believe it, but it should still have that certain ability to make you forget that you're not supposed to believe. A few moments spattered in there that make you gasp or jump a little in your chair. They did get me a few times. Like the first time the zombies make their obligatory suprise appearance. However, there is just an edge of "I don't think so" that won't be denied about 1/2 way into the movie. Milla still does an awesome job as the action hero. This is a sequel movie based on a video game that I've never played, so perhaps that is where the breakdown of communication occurs.
I watched this movie with my son, a Resident Evil movie fan, and my cat. My son gave it two thumbs down and my cat fell asleep in the first 10 minutes, but that's what cats do. I give it one thumb down for the imagination and possible appeal to little boys that should be too young to be watching movies like this anyway.
I saw this movie last night via Netflix DVD. I've seen the previous ones and found each one to be a little more silly each time. The first one, maybe even two, were great. I've watched them more than once. Afterlife is just goofy. A zombie movie is still a zombie movie. No one expects to believe it, but it should still have that certain ability to make you forget that you're not supposed to believe. A few moments spattered in there that make you gasp or jump a little in your chair. They did get me a few times. Like the first time the zombies make their obligatory suprise appearance. However, there is just an edge of "I don't think so" that won't be denied about 1/2 way into the movie. Milla still does an awesome job as the action hero. This is a sequel movie based on a video game that I've never played, so perhaps that is where the breakdown of communication occurs.
I watched this movie with my son, a Resident Evil movie fan, and my cat. My son gave it two thumbs down and my cat fell asleep in the first 10 minutes, but that's what cats do. I give it one thumb down for the imagination and possible appeal to little boys that should be too young to be watching movies like this anyway.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Moral Dilemma 5: Agree to Agree
Co-workers and bosses that either don't carry their weight or are unaware of day to day protocol, can be difficult to tolerate--if not downright maddening. Sometimes it's just easier if they aren't around. When a coworker or boss returns from a day out or a vacation and makes the comment that things seem to run smoother or "more work gets done" when they are not present, what do you do? Agree, disagree or bite your tongue?
That's all you get, so have fun and feel free to comment.
That's all you get, so have fun and feel free to comment.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Fitness: Slow and Steady
Finished out the week last week with 1.5 miles walks and 195 calories.
I've added the first click to my walk. Seems like a nice increase. Breaking a sweat now at about a 1/3 of the way into the hour.
My weight dipped to 197 again last week, but only for a day. That's disappointing because I am really cutting back on the calories.
The added click is going to be about 1.9 miles and 245 calories.
I haven't felt well. Achiness seems to be the theme this week. Starting with my feet and ending with my headache returning on Thursday of last week. The weather has been beautiful. I imagine when I get a new pair of shoes, I'll be able to walk on the asphalt again, just not going to risk it right now with my feet giving me so much trouble. I've been looking at Mizuno brand running shoes for the overpronation problem I have.
My friend that encouraged me to enter the race back in January as over yesterday in her little running pants and t-shirt. I don't think I ever had a figure that cute. Even when I was a teenager, I had the frumpy body of a 50 year old woman. Ah well, it is what it is.
I've added the first click to my walk. Seems like a nice increase. Breaking a sweat now at about a 1/3 of the way into the hour.
My weight dipped to 197 again last week, but only for a day. That's disappointing because I am really cutting back on the calories.
The added click is going to be about 1.9 miles and 245 calories.
I haven't felt well. Achiness seems to be the theme this week. Starting with my feet and ending with my headache returning on Thursday of last week. The weather has been beautiful. I imagine when I get a new pair of shoes, I'll be able to walk on the asphalt again, just not going to risk it right now with my feet giving me so much trouble. I've been looking at Mizuno brand running shoes for the overpronation problem I have.
My friend that encouraged me to enter the race back in January as over yesterday in her little running pants and t-shirt. I don't think I ever had a figure that cute. Even when I was a teenager, I had the frumpy body of a 50 year old woman. Ah well, it is what it is.
Friday, April 8, 2011
The Winter of Our Discontent #7: Clean Sweep
Yesterday, I believe I closed the door on leaving my husband. It feels like crap. It feels like giving up. You had to guess I'd tell you about it . . .
I decided to clean the TV/Rec room. It had developed an odor that is not funny at all. When I went in there it just smelled like body funk. My husband had been sleeping in there since December 2009 which isn't as bad as it sounds. Means something like 15 months. But that's another story.
I started one of my semi-annual (I think that means sometimes more than once a year) cleaning efforts where I go through the whole house top to bottom, cleaning windows, closets, under beds, you name it. Many times it's centered around the coming of winter and the coming of spring. I only do it once or twice a year, so it felt like a good time with school over. Anyway, back to the point. The room was a disaster. There was stuff piled everywhere. Clothes, shoes, dishes, magazines, receipts, papers and just stuff all over the place piled elbow high and hanging off of things. A suitcase from a trip in November still packed with winter clothes up against a leaning tower of crap. A basket of clean, folded sheets ready to be put in the closet that he couldn't manage to do. A pile of board games, including several card games and a metal tin of 15 dot dominoes was just spilled out onto the floor. I could have written my name in the cat hair and dust on everything.
I grabbed a small bin for the little stuff and started in on the room and then I got sad. Sad because this is the man I married. My husband. The one I decided 24 years ago I just couldn't live without. This is the man I married, left to himself for a year. The man I married on the verge of losing his wife and the life that he knows, living like a college student, or worse, like a rat, in a room with a gigantic TV and he was doing nothing to change it.
I cleaned the room about six months ago and it was the same story. Piles and piles of stuff he's too lazy to put away, wash, or throw out. Why does he have a problem walking from one end of the house to the other? Why?! Back then, I was just angry. I didn't care. Now I'm beat down, I'm tired and want it to be over, so I told him he could move back in the bedroom. I didn't tell him it was because I didn't want him wrecking another part of the house. I didn't tell him anything. I told him he was moving back into the bedroom. I'm sure he thinks he won. I'm sure he thinks he waited me out.
He didn't.
The truth is, I'm done. I'm going back to caring for the house and whatever else needs attention when it needs it, but the damage has been done here. A piece of me broke off when this mess began and I can't find it. I don't feel the same anymore. I can't overlook it anymore, I can't act like someday he will grow up and he will act like a man who owns a home and has a family. He has not tried to figure out what's going on. He says he's "trying". I don't understand how he could be trying when he hasn't asked me what to do. What I want. He has never asked me what was wrong. He's never come right out and asked me, in 24 years:
"What's wrong?"
I just blow up on him once every five years or so, and it's over. I wish it didn't have to be this way. I wish I could go on pretending I'm not married to a child, but I am. I'm married to a boy in a man's body. A selfish, lazy, immature boy. It's just a shame, but it is what it is.
I decided to clean the TV/Rec room. It had developed an odor that is not funny at all. When I went in there it just smelled like body funk. My husband had been sleeping in there since December 2009 which isn't as bad as it sounds. Means something like 15 months. But that's another story.
I started one of my semi-annual (I think that means sometimes more than once a year) cleaning efforts where I go through the whole house top to bottom, cleaning windows, closets, under beds, you name it. Many times it's centered around the coming of winter and the coming of spring. I only do it once or twice a year, so it felt like a good time with school over. Anyway, back to the point. The room was a disaster. There was stuff piled everywhere. Clothes, shoes, dishes, magazines, receipts, papers and just stuff all over the place piled elbow high and hanging off of things. A suitcase from a trip in November still packed with winter clothes up against a leaning tower of crap. A basket of clean, folded sheets ready to be put in the closet that he couldn't manage to do. A pile of board games, including several card games and a metal tin of 15 dot dominoes was just spilled out onto the floor. I could have written my name in the cat hair and dust on everything.
I grabbed a small bin for the little stuff and started in on the room and then I got sad. Sad because this is the man I married. My husband. The one I decided 24 years ago I just couldn't live without. This is the man I married, left to himself for a year. The man I married on the verge of losing his wife and the life that he knows, living like a college student, or worse, like a rat, in a room with a gigantic TV and he was doing nothing to change it.
I cleaned the room about six months ago and it was the same story. Piles and piles of stuff he's too lazy to put away, wash, or throw out. Why does he have a problem walking from one end of the house to the other? Why?! Back then, I was just angry. I didn't care. Now I'm beat down, I'm tired and want it to be over, so I told him he could move back in the bedroom. I didn't tell him it was because I didn't want him wrecking another part of the house. I didn't tell him anything. I told him he was moving back into the bedroom. I'm sure he thinks he won. I'm sure he thinks he waited me out.
He didn't.
The truth is, I'm done. I'm going back to caring for the house and whatever else needs attention when it needs it, but the damage has been done here. A piece of me broke off when this mess began and I can't find it. I don't feel the same anymore. I can't overlook it anymore, I can't act like someday he will grow up and he will act like a man who owns a home and has a family. He has not tried to figure out what's going on. He says he's "trying". I don't understand how he could be trying when he hasn't asked me what to do. What I want. He has never asked me what was wrong. He's never come right out and asked me, in 24 years:
"What's wrong?"
I just blow up on him once every five years or so, and it's over. I wish it didn't have to be this way. I wish I could go on pretending I'm not married to a child, but I am. I'm married to a boy in a man's body. A selfish, lazy, immature boy. It's just a shame, but it is what it is.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Mental Messages: Inner Most Me
I was thinking the other day.
Those are the words that will most often get me in trouble. You see, I think too much. I analyze too much. I pay too much attention to what is going on rather than what is being said. Right or wrong, I was thinking.
What if my friends knew the inner me? I don't know if it's because I don't watch as much TV, so it may still be true, but it seemed like for a while there was a great deal of soul bearing. Confessional books, talk shows and radio interviews. I was getting tired of learning everyone else's secrets when I had some secrets of my own.
Secret distastes, annoyances, bothersome thoughts and unrealized dreams. Some of them hidden so deep I forget they are even mine. Things, that if exposed might make me seem a little off, a little strange a little not a part of status quo.
A good-sized portion of my secrets involve relationships. Feelings I can't seem to have for family--no matter how hard I've tried. Friendships I should just end, but don't have the heart to, so they drag on and on, sputtering and flopping around like a stinky dying fish. Times when I should really have a little compassion and I secretly gloat at my own good luck and fortune.
These are not the things that make their way to talk shows and book shelves. This is the truly ugly inner most me and maybe even you. Aah, well, but it's who we are and no amount of sould baring will change that.
Those are the words that will most often get me in trouble. You see, I think too much. I analyze too much. I pay too much attention to what is going on rather than what is being said. Right or wrong, I was thinking.
What if my friends knew the inner me? I don't know if it's because I don't watch as much TV, so it may still be true, but it seemed like for a while there was a great deal of soul bearing. Confessional books, talk shows and radio interviews. I was getting tired of learning everyone else's secrets when I had some secrets of my own.
Secret distastes, annoyances, bothersome thoughts and unrealized dreams. Some of them hidden so deep I forget they are even mine. Things, that if exposed might make me seem a little off, a little strange a little not a part of status quo.
A good-sized portion of my secrets involve relationships. Feelings I can't seem to have for family--no matter how hard I've tried. Friendships I should just end, but don't have the heart to, so they drag on and on, sputtering and flopping around like a stinky dying fish. Times when I should really have a little compassion and I secretly gloat at my own good luck and fortune.
These are not the things that make their way to talk shows and book shelves. This is the truly ugly inner most me and maybe even you. Aah, well, but it's who we are and no amount of sould baring will change that.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Walking Uphill
I did design a new workout. Since I don't have the world's smartest treadmill, I have to do a lot of the thinking for it. However, I may have found a schedule I can live with. I went back to a walking. This is the change:
I have set my treadmill at the lowest setting which is a little more than a leisurely walk. (1.5) 20 minutes at greatest incline, 20 minutes flat, and then 13 minutes at incline. Then, in the last seven minutes of the walk I increase the intensity one click each minute until I am walking at a pretty quick pace (2.9) the last minute. I plan on doing that for a week.
Every seven days I will increase my speed by one click for the 53 minute walk, which in turn will increase my "sprint" at the end of the walk.
I want to remember that changes in my body are going to come and most likely go, but that feeling of being able to actually run 3, 4 and hopefully someday 5 miles in an hour will be awesome.
I have set my treadmill at the lowest setting which is a little more than a leisurely walk. (1.5) 20 minutes at greatest incline, 20 minutes flat, and then 13 minutes at incline. Then, in the last seven minutes of the walk I increase the intensity one click each minute until I am walking at a pretty quick pace (2.9) the last minute. I plan on doing that for a week.
Every seven days I will increase my speed by one click for the 53 minute walk, which in turn will increase my "sprint" at the end of the walk.
I want to remember that changes in my body are going to come and most likely go, but that feeling of being able to actually run 3, 4 and hopefully someday 5 miles in an hour will be awesome.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Never On Sunday: The Preacher Likes to Talk
This begins a new Sunday series: Never On Sunday. With a lifetime of faith and church going on, I imagine I have a few annecdotes and lessons learned in life in the pew. So here is number one. Prepare to be deeply offended if you've never taken the time to get to know your pastor.
Barring a few individuals who are near and dear to my heart, I'll put this out there:
I think preachers are the most irritating people on the planet.
Think about that girl or guy back in high school or middle school that just never would shut up. I've had some pretty sour experiences with men--and women--of the so-called "cloth". I always thought pastoring was about servanthood. I'm beginning to think that a great deal of pastors just want to be heard, think they're not being heard, or just like to hear themselves talk. As I said above, it's not the case with all pastors, some have really got it going on. They serve their parish and parishioners with a strong leader's heart and servant's spirit. To find one is a true rare gift to be cherished.
Other than that, the whole lot of them need to find new jobs.
As a professional musician, I do have opportunity to "go behind the scenes" in many churches. I've listened while others talked and I've learned that our churches are being led by arrogant slackers that punch time clocks and keep inventory of their own good deeds and malign anyone else's. Puff up their importance and overlook who really is the keeper of the keys. Umm, excuse me, you are getting paid to do that, so how about you just shut up and do it. By "that", I mean all those things you "do" during the week when we're all at work doing what we get paid to do. A pastor pastors his church, an office manager manages an office and a doctor see patients.
I recently listened to a pastor talk (from the pulpit) about how difficult the life of a pastor must be for his family. For this reason, they cherish vacations and send the kids to camp with other preacher's kids that aren't "coping" with the life of a PK. What about children of fathers that are in public service? Doctors, military, law enforcement? Especially military and law enforcement. Those kids have to know their parent could be killed in the line of duty. I dont' know too many preacher's kids that have lost their dad to a gun shot wound at the pulpit. Doctor's kids who have to spend yet another Christmas with a parent working in the E.R. taking care of strangers. Just about every occupation has its tragedies. I just say, you chose it. If you don't like torturing your kids with hugs from little old ladies, church and summer camp, find a new profession.
I'm just thinkin'.
Barring a few individuals who are near and dear to my heart, I'll put this out there:
I think preachers are the most irritating people on the planet.
Think about that girl or guy back in high school or middle school that just never would shut up. I've had some pretty sour experiences with men--and women--of the so-called "cloth". I always thought pastoring was about servanthood. I'm beginning to think that a great deal of pastors just want to be heard, think they're not being heard, or just like to hear themselves talk. As I said above, it's not the case with all pastors, some have really got it going on. They serve their parish and parishioners with a strong leader's heart and servant's spirit. To find one is a true rare gift to be cherished.
Other than that, the whole lot of them need to find new jobs.
As a professional musician, I do have opportunity to "go behind the scenes" in many churches. I've listened while others talked and I've learned that our churches are being led by arrogant slackers that punch time clocks and keep inventory of their own good deeds and malign anyone else's. Puff up their importance and overlook who really is the keeper of the keys. Umm, excuse me, you are getting paid to do that, so how about you just shut up and do it. By "that", I mean all those things you "do" during the week when we're all at work doing what we get paid to do. A pastor pastors his church, an office manager manages an office and a doctor see patients.
I recently listened to a pastor talk (from the pulpit) about how difficult the life of a pastor must be for his family. For this reason, they cherish vacations and send the kids to camp with other preacher's kids that aren't "coping" with the life of a PK. What about children of fathers that are in public service? Doctors, military, law enforcement? Especially military and law enforcement. Those kids have to know their parent could be killed in the line of duty. I dont' know too many preacher's kids that have lost their dad to a gun shot wound at the pulpit. Doctor's kids who have to spend yet another Christmas with a parent working in the E.R. taking care of strangers. Just about every occupation has its tragedies. I just say, you chose it. If you don't like torturing your kids with hugs from little old ladies, church and summer camp, find a new profession.
I'm just thinkin'.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Winter of Our Discontent: 6, It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over
Something happened yesterday that made me want to talk to him. Phone him, text him, go over there. I was scared to because of how I'd left it with him. At the same time, the feelings for him, that attraction to him, that powerful draw, beginning to weaken makes me so sad.
I felt silly later on last night. I'll figure it out. I also had a moment to think while I was in the icky moment of wanting to grab my phone and just hear his voice. Why him? Why not any of the other men that have openly found me attractive? Why was I attracted to this guy? There's nothing to look at about him. He's not even physically attractive in the slightest. I don't know. I really don't know. Maybe that is what I need to be dwelling on. What was it about him, or maybe even the timing that made me give in to what I was feeling? I remember while it was going on, thinking that he is only person I spend as much time with as I do. I remember being a little sad that I spent more time with him than I did my husband.
I don't think that's a very good excuse. It may be part of the reason, I just don't think it's the reason. He had confidence. An offensive amount of confidence. One might think it was ego or arrogance, but when I realized he could back it all up, I knew it was confidence and that was sexy. Oh crap, was that sexy. At this moment, I am surrounded by men that just never come through for me. I'm really, really, really--did I say really?-- disappointed in the men around me. Men I know personally, husbands of women I know, men I work for and with. What a disappointment. So maybe this is the beginning of a sad little list:
1. Time/Attention
2. True confidence
Ah, well, It ain't over. Might as well learn something from it.
I felt silly later on last night. I'll figure it out. I also had a moment to think while I was in the icky moment of wanting to grab my phone and just hear his voice. Why him? Why not any of the other men that have openly found me attractive? Why was I attracted to this guy? There's nothing to look at about him. He's not even physically attractive in the slightest. I don't know. I really don't know. Maybe that is what I need to be dwelling on. What was it about him, or maybe even the timing that made me give in to what I was feeling? I remember while it was going on, thinking that he is only person I spend as much time with as I do. I remember being a little sad that I spent more time with him than I did my husband.
I don't think that's a very good excuse. It may be part of the reason, I just don't think it's the reason. He had confidence. An offensive amount of confidence. One might think it was ego or arrogance, but when I realized he could back it all up, I knew it was confidence and that was sexy. Oh crap, was that sexy. At this moment, I am surrounded by men that just never come through for me. I'm really, really, really--did I say really?-- disappointed in the men around me. Men I know personally, husbands of women I know, men I work for and with. What a disappointment. So maybe this is the beginning of a sad little list:
1. Time/Attention
2. True confidence
Ah, well, It ain't over. Might as well learn something from it.
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