Hello 2019

You know that one stock photo image of the beautiful, fit, young woman sitting on a couch cradling a steaming mug in her hands as she smiles contentedly into the middle distance? She's wearing impossibly flattering athleisure wear and a chunky sweater, and her hair is in that perfect "I don't care" messy bun that still looks great. The couch is overstuffed, but roomy, and her long legs are folded up under her in a way that looks comfortable, but never actually is when you try it in real life. The lighting is usually warm and soft, and the house is spotlessly neat and decorated with understated sophistication. The whole thing exudes coziness and contentment.

I recently finished listening to Brené Brown's I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn't) audiobook. At one point she talks about a particular advertising image that she has internalized and set up as a standard for herself and her life which she now struggles to let go of. It doesn't matter what it was exactly; the point is that as she was describing it I thought "that's kind of weird. I've definitely never done that."

Cut to this morning. I was sitting on my couch at 10am, holding my mug of steaming tea, and having a moment of intense gratitude as I luxuriated in the bright morning sunlight filling my living room. And suddenly I had the thought "this is it, Emily. This is that moment that you're always seeing in pictures and wondering why you never experience it in real life. You don't have the perfectly clean and decorated house, you don't look fresh-faced and effortlessly put together, and you don't have that beautiful lithe body, but this is exactly what you're always pining for. Those details don't negate what you're experiencing right now"

But no, Brené. I've definitely never internalized an advertising image and set it up as an unattainable ideal for my life...

I decided I wanted to post a status about what a great moment I was experiencing, but my brother called me and I had to block out the scarf I just knitted, and then my dog reminded me that I promised her we'd go on a walk an hour ago, so I didn't get to the facebook status.

I did, however, take Tess on her walk. We walked down around the cemetery, which is normal, and then crossed 9th and State streets to visit the little park behind the school, which is not. We crossed paths with a few humans and a couple dogs. We spent some time playing on the school's playground equipment (Tess adores playground equipment). We walked past the house I used to live in and looked at the other beautiful old homes on the same street. Crossing back over State street to finish circling the cemetery there was a woman stopped at the light who was watching us cross in front of her and smiling. It was sunny and breezy and there was snow on the lawns, but the sidewalks were almost all dry. It was a perfect walk in every way. When we were nearly home, I suddenly became aware of how much easier a walk like this was compared to when I first got Tess two years ago. I’ve long since given up on the idea that walking Tess was ever going to really improve my fitness, so this was an immensely gratifying realization.

As I walked I thought about my morning, what I really wanted to say about it, and what a beautiful day it was. I didn't even make the Brené Brown connection till I was halfway through. When I finally got home a little while ago and started writing, however, I realized I had more to say than would fit in a facebook update...though as it turns out, a lot of it is just context and narration.

I think that what most caught my attention was realizing that, at least for today, I’m ok with the places where I fell short of the ideal. I love my big, strong, soft body that is stubborn and slow to change, just like me...because it is me. I love my messy, eclectic home with dog hair in the corners. I am satisfied with my priorities, which don’t often include doing my hair and putting on makeup.

I guess what I really wanted to say is that today is a good day, and I am happy.

Several Peas in my Podcast

This week has been a headlong dive into the world of NPR podcasts.  Previously my engagement with the medium was limited to the occasional Wait Wait Don't Tell Me episode and Serial.  But since Monday they're almost all I have listened to all day at work.  I've listened to all of Invisibilia, and many hours of Radiolab, This American Life, 99% Invisible, and Theoretically Speaking (these last two are technically not NPR podcasts but definitely of the same genus).  I learned about the decline of the American automobile industry, filming on location in LA, infant organ donation (eyes in particular), the international American Visa lottery and consequent process of emigration from Kenya to the US, echolocation and the way it gives literal sight to the blind, the largest animals ever to walk, fly, and swim on earth (the blue whale, btw, is the overall winner of that game and amazingly still exists today), the Mau Mau uprising against British Empire, and the history and importance of the "Freudian couch" to the world of psychology.  These are a few of the things I have learned.  

this, by the way, is the answer to "what is the largest animal to ever fly?"
it is an azhdarchid pterosaur and they were comparable in size to giraffes
and I'm sorry that you won't be able to sleep tonight.

Traditionally I have helped myself pass the time at work with TV shows and movies.  I have been known to blast through entire seasons in one day if circumstances line up right, and I'm ok with this.  Y'all know I love stories.  And I'm sure I'll go back to watching all the different shows I'm working on (Buffy, Blue Bloods, ST:TNG, The Office, Ally McBeal, Boston Legal, Once Upon A Time, Bones, Supernatural, and Criminal Minds, among others) eventually.   

In my initial enthusiasm I tried out several additional programs that I quickly discarded.  I find that what I really enjoy are the shows that pick a specific idea, theme, or item and dig into it.  Though there are only 6 episodes thusfar, Invisibilia has become my favorite.  It focuses on "the invisible forces which influence human behavior".  Every episode was engrossing!

As I've steeped myself in them for the last couple of days, I have discovered that the podcasts I'm listening to are an entirely different experience than my usual TV marathons.  It must be admitted that I view TV passively.  I almost never break a show down and analyze it.  Rarely is my mind sparked by an interesting idea.  On the contrary, my brain has a tendency to simply shut off and I am mindlessly entertained.  In contrast, I have found myself invigorated by the shows I've listened to this week.  

It's a combination of several factors I think.  I have the initial enjoyment of learning something new, often on a topic I'd never have otherwise encountered.  My secondary enjoyment is in thinking further on the ideas I've just learned about--finding my own implications and possibilities not necessarily elaborated on the show.  And lastly, I am rediscovering my own love of information which has been dormant for kind of a long time I'm realizing.  I listen to these shows and I want to make my own.  Pick my own obscure topics to research and report on.  I'm remembering my interest in fairy tales and storytelling mechanics and wondering if I could put together a show about those things.  I'm writing this blog post after two months of blog neglect.

this has nothing to do with anything, but its funny and I couldn't find
a Heart and Brain about going to the gym.

Sometimes I see people on facebook posting statuses about how they've been slacking on their workouts, but they finally got back in the gym, and it feels so great!  I don't think I'm ever going to be one of those people.  Going to the gym will always suck.  But diving into hours of information for the love of information is reminding me that I do love working out my brain. 

And that I've been slacking on that for a while.  

And it feels really really great give my brain a little stretch.

The Objective Value of Strength or How I Discovered I Am Just Like Spock

So I had an interesting experience last week and I'm not entirely sure what to think of it so I'm going to post it here in the hopes that someone will have some sort of revelatory insight to offer me.

I don't know if I had mentioned that the reason I have been able to go see ye olde therapiste is because my ward was covering the cost.  But with the decision to officially emigrate out of the old ward it became necessary to broach the topic of continued subsidization with the new administration.  

So last Wednesday I stopped in to visit with my new bishop.  Aside from a brief handshake and hello my first Sunday, this was my first introduction to him.  After the obligatory "getting to know you" chitchat I broached the topic of Alan and my enigmatic therapy.  

It must here be noted that I have remained somewhat ambivalent about my therapy with Alan.  The man himself is perhaps the second sweetest and most earnest man I've ever met (the first being my Russian 101 professor Tony Brown).  But I have struggled to quite get a handle on his therapeutic style from the beginning.  And when I brought this up with him again during our last session we momentarily touched on the possibility that his laid-back style wasn't quite right for me.  But every time I've considered that idea I've left the thought with a vague feeling that I should give Alan's style a little more time.

Which brings us back to my meeting with the bishop.  When asked how I felt therapy was going for me I completely unsurprisingly struggled with my answer.  Which is why I was so surprised by the visceral reaction I had to my bishop's statement that he thought I should "give Alan the boot".  I immediately started feeling anxious and a little panicky.  When I finally made it out to my car I started crying.  Driving from church back home I proceeded to have a micro anxiety attack.

I must, however, again pause my narrative for another bit of background.  I had spent some time last Sunday considering my relationship with the divine and I had come to the conclusion that, while I have a somewhat unorthodox (for a Mormon) relationship with God, my personal system of applied belief rather skips over the idea of Christ.  When I pray I pray to God; in the idea of heavenly communication God is the one I am talking to and listening for.  It occurred to me, then, that perhaps I should look into cultivating some sort of direct relationship with Christ.  Mormon theology places him as the intermediary between God and man, after all.  

So, returning to last Wednesday night, as my anxiety persisted it seemed as good an opening as any to begin that cultivation.  So I sat down on my futon and said a quick prayer.  It consisted essentially of me telling him I was upset, I wasn't completely sure why, and I needed some help.  And in a true New Era moment, I can honestly say that I stopped crying almost instantly.  

I cannot say, however, that I necessarily felt comforted.

What I felt, for lack of any better way to explain it, was more like myself.  

See, the thing about me is that pretty much all of my adult life I've felt like I'm really two very different, almost opposite, people crammed together into one.  One half of me is the person who comes up with the topics for most of my blog posts--all about my insecurities and worries and struggles.  It is the part of me that is responsible for the infamous anxiety.  It is all sensitivity, passion, insecurity, and fear.  Fear of so very many things.  The other half of me is the one who takes all those whinging neurotic blog topics and writes them either with detached analysis, or makes them funny.  In simplest terms, it is the Vulcan part of me.  Because I just realized literally as I was writing that sentence that I'm basically Spock, divided between emotion and reason.  This second half of me is logical and reasonable and calm.  And most of all, it is strong, with a burdensome strength that never allows me a moment of cathartic emotional weakness because it sees no purpose in such indulgences.  At the end of our meeting the Bishop mentioned how surprised he was at the topic of our conversation; I was much too calm to suffer from anxiety.  He said this to me as I was in the initial stages of an anxiety attack.  

Which is what I mean when I say that, after I said my prayer, I felt more like myself.  I stopped crying.  I stopped panicking.  I stopped caring at all about what would happen if I stopped going to see Alan because I knew that I would be fine either way.  Because I'm always fine.  I felt, for a little while, like half of myself...wholly.  If that isn't too confusing.

It is important to note here that the motivation in many of my decisions lately has been a desire to better balance of these two halves of myself.  Not to be too dramatic about it, but I feel like the emotion and sensitivity of the one is being slowly smothered beneath the rigid stoicism of the other.  Only the most negative aspects of that part of me make it out at this point.  The insecurities, anxieties, and fears.  They are the only parts strong enough to break through.  So, as I said, I'm trying to find some way to relieve some of the pressure.  Because sensitivity and emotion aren't bad, are they?

And that is why I am confused.  Did I receive a true answer to my prayer?  To a person who can't say with surety that she's received an answer to her prayers since she was a teenager, that would be momentous.  But if I did, what does it mean that that answer was to be snapped back into my Vulcan self so hard the other self was practically gone (if just for a while)?  Have I been working toward the wrong goal?  Instead of trying to cultivate a balance between Vulcan and Human should I simply be striving to become pure Vulcan?  

I honestly don't know.  I'm hoping that one of you will have an idea that will help me to make some sense out of it all...

Therapeutical Musings

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. ~ Leo Tolstoy

I mentioned in an earlier post that I've started going to a therapist.   I've now been to see Alan 3 times. Each time has been unique, and at any given moment my mind might have changed about how I feel about the endeavor overall.  But if you all would indulge me, I’d like to share some of my thoughts about it.

My first visit I had no idea what to expect.  The Bishop told me to go so that we could determine whether or not I have anxiety and, if so, get me some medication to fix the problem.  I was pretty sure I didn't have clinical anxiety, but why not check.  I then proceeded to have one of the worst, most anxious and stressed out weeks of my entire life just a little while before going in for my appointment.  It was really superlatively awful, but it sort of primed me to think that maybe I DO have prescription-level anxiety issues.  So I went in incredibly nervous about so many things.  Alan was very nice, but nevertheless, I left feeling absolutely emotionally disheveled.  I felt as though I'd just spent an hour having someone poke and pick at me and try to break me down into my constituent bits and I absolutely hated it.  Full disclosure: I sat in my car and cried for several minutes afterward, and spent the entire drive down to work fighting to regain my composure.

I tried to figure out what made that first visit so stressful and unpleasant and I came up with a few ideas.  I kept fixating on this one moment as I was leaving when Alan patted me on the shoulder and said “you did great”.  The sort of thing you say to someone who is clearly on the verge of melting down (which, annoyingly, was basically what I did as soon as I left his office).  He had said it because he could tell I was barely holding it together.  But why was I barely holding it together?  Why had I been so nervous?  I decided that I shouldn’t be nervous.  I decided that I should take charge on my next visit.  I wasn’t a person who struggles to hold it together.  I’m not a person who cries in my car.  He hadn’t really seen the real me.  So next time I was going to go in there and make it very very clear who the real me is, and let him know that I’m really a normal, well-adjusted human.  And that is exactly what I did.  I told him I was fine, things were fine, the world was fine, and his time would probably be much better used helping people with actual real problems.  And at the end of the visit he basically told me “If you actually want to work on anything then I’m more than willing.  But if you don’t then why come in again?” 

That was a very good question and I thought about it for the two weeks till my next appointment.  And the more I thought the less I knew.  On the one hand, I am by no means so arrogant as to think that I am the one person on earth who wouldn’t benefit from going to therapy.  And I certainly do have my fair share of issues I’d like to figure out.  On the other hand, I was having a really hard time understanding how talking to a random guy I’d met twice before in my life was going to help me.  What was he going to tell me that I hadn’t already thought of?  In spite of these doubts, I decided to go back for my third visit.  And in deciding I also decided to commit to opening myself up more like my first visit.  I just saw an episode of Blue Bloods where Frank goes to see a therapist and after several attempts the therapist says “Frank, you’re a very intelligent man and I have no doubt you’d be able to successfully evade my questions all day.”  In my case, it proved nothing to sidestep questions, and refusing to be at all vulnerable would shut me out from any kind of growth.  So I committed to letting myself be at least a little vulnerable. 

And I did.  I went back for my third visit this week.  I talked through many of my concerns and doubts about continuing to come.  Alan was able to explain to me more clearly the format he adopts in his sessions.  He believes that there is value in simply experiencing emotions with someone, and then understanding the whys and hows of those emotions and growing from them.  Very very foreign approach to me.  But I figured that if I was going to try then I had to trust him.  And perhaps his style, so very very different from mine, will be good for me. 

Alan’s format is, rather than to ask specific questions or address “assignments” from before, to have me simply tell him about my life and my concerns and what has been bothering me.  I was kind of shocked by how hard that ended up being for me.  Some of my friends, like Matt or Kara or Caleb, know that I can definitely vent when someone or something is annoying.  But to simply start talking to a relative stranger about all the negative things that I had thought and felt for the previous two weeks?  It was unexpectedly formidable.  And even though I’m trying to trust Alan and his system, I am still having a hard time reconciling myself to the idea.  To me, it feels like I am indulging in the worst aspects of my nature.  The parts of me that I should be working to change.  If I give voice to them then that is giving them that much more legitimacy. 

When I brought this up to Alan he had some explanation, but he also said that I don’t have to worry because he knows I’m a good person and nothing I say is going to make him think differently.  When he said it I had one of those uncomfortable moments of realization that yes, in fact, I am exactly like every single other human out there.  Everyone worries about making themselves look bad.  You don’t share your secrets with strangers because you don’t trust that stranger to judge you rightly.  So Alan was giving me the assurance that I didn’t need to have that worry; that he was going to judge me rightly.

But on the other hand, that didn’t feel like the whole problem.  I understand that this is Alan’s job and that he knows how to listen to people without judgment. 

But what about me?

If I start telling someone else all my struggles and all my emotions then how can I continue believing that I am a good person?

You know that feeling that they say we all get, that we are pretending in a world full of people who actually have it together?  That voice, telling you that you are a pretender, it is the voice I am so afraid of.  It is the constant conscience who will not be silenced.  The one who evaluates everything you are and finds it wanting.  The one that hears other people praising you and whispers “but they don’t really know…” 

All of the things that Alan wants me to share, they are the fodder for that voice.  If I keep them locked up and never allow them the life of another person’s hearing then I can keep the voice quiet enough to ignore most of the time.  I can go on believing myself to be strong and intelligent and sensible and together.  Yes, I have this endless litany in my head of all the ways that is not true, but I never speak them, I never let them out.  I never dignify them with acknowledgement.  I am terrified that if I do I won’t be able to ignore them anymore. 

I’m not worried that Alan will think I’m a bad person, I’m worried that I’ll finally believe that I am. 

No one wants to think that there is something wrong with them.  We all want to be well-adjusted, fully functioning human adults.  But ultimately I don’t think there is any person so normal and so happy and so sensible that if you look closely enough you won’t find that they are a little bit broken somewhere.  I know this.  So I guess talking to a therapist is supposed to reconcile me to it in myself.  They say the first step is admitting you have a problem…

Therapy session: Residence Upheaval Edition

According to my therapist (cause I have one of those now) I need to work on forming connections with people that involve more trust so that I can go to those people when I'm having all the anxiety because that is how you're supposed to deal with anxiety.

I respectfully disagree with my therapist.

See, I agree that I don't really talk to people when I'm in the midst of an anxiety-induced meltdown.  But that is because there is no point.  I mean, sure, talking to people about issues is probably a good thing, but only if you're in a state to use their added perspective and insight.  And mid-panic?  I'm not in a state to do or use anything.  Hence, as I told ye olde therapist, I will talk to people before a freak out, and after a freak out, and even when there are no freakouts in sight fore or aft, but not during.  During I just lay facedown on the bedroom floor and breathe deeply.

But because there's no point going to see a therapist if you just dismiss what he tells you, I am writing this blog post as an initial foray into the sharing my feelings mid (or rather, on the tail end of) a major stress out.  That said, this is likely to be superlatively boring, so feel free to move along.

Today's stress is brought to you by the letter M, for Moving.

Tomorrow I sign a contract on a new apartment.  A faux studio apartment (technically there is a separate kitchen and bedroom/livingroom).

First, let us establish the advantages of this decision.  The apartment is very cool, located in a historic building, with oodles of personality.  And it would be mine exclusively.  I would, for the first time ever, have a home that belonged to no one besides me.  My own bathroom.  My own fridge.  My own sink with no dishes in it but the ones I put there.  And speaking of dishes, the only person to break or lose them would be me.  Indeed, there would be no one to break, ruin, or damage ANY of my stuff besides myself.  I literally cannot express to you how amazing that sounds...

But now for other side of things.

This place is small.  I mean, seriously tiny.  My current bedroom might very well be bigger than the main room.  And there is no other additional storage space.  When I try and think about condensing all of my stuff down into one very tiny room my brain just blanks out.  I have a few vague ideas but ultimately I'm not actually sure it will be possible.  And while I can probably get rid of a lot of stuff, there is a lot of stuff I can't get rid of.  Like the boxes of stuff from my grandma.  Like my books.  I don't know what I'll do...

The rent, while incredibly reasonable for a one-person place, is still a significant increase from what I'm paying now.  My disposable income is basically going to be decimated.  This includes my food budget.  I'm going to have to make a major adjustment in my lifestyle...though honestly that isn't necessarily a bad thing.  Just difficult.

The apartment will be available at the beginning of March, which means that I have less than a month to figure everything out and get all packed up and ready to go.  Which leads to to the final and most stressful of all the problems.  Thusfar, all my issues are things that ultimately I can figure out.  It might take some work, but I have the power to manage them.  The last problem is somewhat less under my control, and that is the problem of my current contract.  Just after I put in my application for the apartment I found out that my old roommate Callie was moving back to Provo through August and we both got really excited about her buying my contract.  But as it turns out, it probably will make a lot more sense for her not to buy it.  Which is awesome for her, but rather drops the floor out from under me.  I now have only 24 days to find someone to buy my contract and I am seriously stressed.

Everyone keeps telling me that it won't be a problem.  I'll be able to sell it so so easily.  But the fact is the one time I ever tried to sell a housing contract I ended up paying double rent for three or four months before I managed it.  I was fortunate to be able to manage it then, but there is literally no way I can do that this time.  And I have a lot less cushion before that becomes an issue this time, too.

In addition to all that general stress, I had the particular stress of trying to figure out how, by tomorrow, I was going to pay $360 of rent for my current place plus $450 of deposit for the new one, and I only had $273 in my checking account.  This problem swerved into a detour of hunting desperately for the checks I ordered last year that truly seem to have dissolved into their constituent atoms because I have literally searched every single place they could possibly exist.  Luckily, during my 2nd or 11th hour of searching, Blair informed me that I can go to the bank and pay them $1 per check to print them out for me right there.  I am not exaggerating when I say that this information brought tears to my eyes.  And with it, I am able to MacGyver my way through to Friday when, mercifully, I get paid.  Timing has not worked out for me this week...

And there you have it.  I am sharing my anxiety with others in the hope that doing so will somehow alleviate it.  And, score one for the therapist, I'll admit that on most of the points I do feel marginally better for laying them all out.  Selling my contract remains the aggressive gorrilla in the room, but the rest has diminished to conceivable proportions.

Or perhaps I've simply run out of energy to continue stressing tonight and will begin afresh tomorrow.  Only time will tell...

More gym issues...

I think I just have to accept that, rather than a steady pull that builds like a literal snowball from the really annoying awkward shuffling around just sort of patting a tiny ball in the snow to a giant cartoon pinwheel of snow thundering down the side of a mountain, my efforts at self-improvement will happen in broken fits and starts sort of like a manual car being driven by someone who doesn't know how to drive stick.  Momentum is not something I will ever have on my side.

In the end, I think, the best I can hope for is to cut the time between each new effort down more and more until it might seem, to an outside observer, that they are, in fact, all one consolidated effort.

Tonight was yet another of those renewed efforts.

A month or two ago Kara put me on a two week challenge to eat better and to work out regularly.  The requirements were: breakfast every day, followed by at least one other real meal a reasonable number of hours later, including one serving of fruit and one of vegetables every day; cardio three times a week; and some sort of strength building twice a week.  I think I came up short some cardio both weeks, and the eating fell apart on the weekends, but overall it was a good experience.  Then the two weeks were over and I entered into the two weeks of insanity at work.  My tender little habit seedlings didn't stand a chance and were crushed mercilessly under the boot-heels of 10-12 hour work days.  As is my custom, after the crazy work subsided I made no attempt to reinstate Kara's regimen.  I think since then I've been to the gym 2-3 times.

But what is life but a daily opportunity to improve today what you failed to do yesterday?

So tonight I went to the gym.  I did not want to.  But I went and was blessed in the form of Ever After playing in the cardio cinema.  With credits, I arrived an almost perfect 30 minutes before the end of the movie.  It was like Fate or Jesus metaphorically patting my head and rewarding me with a biscuit.

I ran my customary 15 seconds to crank my heart rate up to near-heart-attack rates as quickly as possible.  The great irony of my life these days is the fact that I actually could theoretically run longer--perhaps 30-45 seconds even.  And the struggle is not, as you might be thinking, the bosom issue.  I have acquired an impressive torture device sports bra that manages to lift and compress my chest into a sort of clavicle-level squshd boob battering ram that minimizes the bouncing from a full on coordinated beating and smothering to simply a muted pounding on my chest.  The side effects of this impressive piece of engineering have been winnowed down to a feeling that my lungs are slightly collapsed and basic arrhythmia as the pounding on my chest confuses my heart as to which rhythm it should actually be following.  Both of which are completely manageable.

No, in the end, it is a different jiggle problem that stops me running.  As it turns out, I am fat.  And my particular fat likes to hang out in two major places: boobs and waist.  The boob situation may be under control, but alas, the waist remains free to jiggle all it wants.  And jiggle it does, to the point that after only a few steps I am in danger of my shorts shimmying right off.  And while it may be dark in the cardio cinema room, I am confident that it is not yet dark enough that no one would notice the shining white legs of the girl whose pants fell off whilst she was running on the treadmill.  Thus, every few steps I have to jump off the belt and hitch my shorts up, then jump back on and run for a few more steps.  Why there are not people working on solving this problem I do not know, because I do know I'm not the only one suffering.  In the end, it is my frustration with this ritual which puts an end to my running, not my lungs, heart, or even legs.  Oh irony, truly thou art a bitch...

Sadly, tonight was not the night I conquered the bros and the machines.

Instead I came home and improvised some very technical body-weight and strength exercises.  One of the bonuses of being fat is that you come with weights built in and ready to go.  If, however, I feel that I need to augment my own natural heft I have managed to find a successful free weight alternative.  Because who wants to buy fancy rubber-gripped weights if you don't have to?  Owning  a 12" cast iron gnome means you don't have to.  Miles actually makes a really good free weight.  And somehow, lifting a gnome is just more fun than lifting a boring dumbell.

And so tonight I began again the endless battle.  Attempting to take control of my life and my body.  Fat jiggles and free weight gnomes and all.  Tomorrow I am hoping to make it to the grocery store after my hair appointment to restock on yogurt so I can make another attempt at being a person who eats breakfast.  Somehow telling the interwebs about the struggle helps, so I shall try to continue to update on my repeated attempts.  Wish me luck!

Gym Issues

I went to the gym today.  It was part of my ongoing struggle to fill my Saturdays with something...ANYthing worthwhile.  Filling my time successfully is a topic for another post, however.  My point today is that I went to the gym.  

Every time I go to the gym my "routine" consists of the exact same thing.  I head straight back into the comfortably dark "cardio cinema" room, where I walk (with the very occasional addition of 15 seconds of jogging) at varying speeds on the treadmill.  I do this for 20-30 minutes, 45 if I like the movie they're playing.  Then I stop the treadmill and walk right back out to my car.  I might stop at the water fountain on my way out.

About 60% of the time I have much more ambitious aspirations about my workout on my way in.  I'm going to do my 20 minutes of cardio, but then I'm going to use some of those fancy fancy machines that I pass every time going in and out of my friendly cocoon of darkness in the back.  I'm going to stretch.  I'm going to really get the kind of work out you're "supposed" to get when you go to the gym.

Do you know how many times that has actually happened?

none.  none times.

The first blow to my plan is all the bros.  As I walk into the cardio cinema room I will pass on average 5-8 swole dudes sauntering around.  These are the guys who you look at and cannot imagine anything else they do with their life besides work out.  Except maybe summer sales.  And the strange wandering they do around the gym when they're not actually working out in it.  I mean, where are they walking to?  Why don't they just go home if they are done working out? 

There is literally no human being on earth more incompatible with my personality than a bro.  I'm more than willing to admit that this is partially my fault, but the fact is, bros (and their attendant ladybros to a marginally lesser extent) don't really appreciate the things that make me me.  They tend not to appreciate my sense of humor, my interests, and they definitely don't appreciate my physique.  And the feeling is almost always mutual.

Which is fine, btw.  It is perfectly ok if the bros and I never really hit it off.  We don't exactly have anything to do with each other.

except at the gym.

Because the gym is their house.  Going to the gym and expecting not to find bros there is like going to the chapel on Sunday morning and expecting not to find Mormons.  It's stupid.  Unfortunately, like church, you're still expected to go to the gym.

The second problem is, of course, only a problem because of the first.  And that is my complete ignorance of how to actually use all of those aforementioned fancy machines.  Put me in a room by myself and I'll happily sit down and start pushing and pulling till I figure it out.  I'll quote Bryan Regan.  It will be fun.  

But as we've already established, you're not alone at the gym.  You're surrounded by an entire flock of the people you find yourself most uncomfortable with (to be fair, I'd probably find myself more uncomfortable with, like, a room full of neo-nazi militant ultraconservatives, or perhaps a room full of cracked out pimps).  That is not a situation conducive to me dropping my guard enough to look like an idiot as I figure out the machines.  

And lastly, there's always the problem of me being fat and out of shape.  After my 20-30 minutes of walking I'm tired.  When confronted with all those bros and all those crazy machines my tiredness says "eh....you can always use the machines some other day." and it turns out my tiredness, when united with my uncomfortables and judgies, is a super persuasive kind of feeling. 

Perhaps one day I'll conquer the weight machines.  Maybe I'll even do it in front of all the bros and conquer that issue too.  I'd like to think I will.  But definitely not today.  Nah, it can wait for another day for sure... 

Personal Progress...

I'm not gonna lie.  I kind of hated personal progress when I was a teenager.  It didn't seem important to me, the projects seemed like busy work, New Beginnings was an annoyance.  And yet, here I am at 26 struggling to take control of my life.....I'm trying to institute my own version of personal progress.  Howe humiliating.

I wrote a post a couple of weeks ago about a better way to motivate myself to improve the things that need improving.  I said at the time that it was likely to be the first in a series of, um, (for lack of a better/less cliche phrase) self-makeover posts.  At the time I was thinking my next post would be a continuation of the "I'm great right here, right now" theme.  However, the project I was thinking about at the time isn't happening just now (don't worry, I'll talk about it later).  Instead, I've been thinking today about the "where I want to be" side of things.

Last night I did 10 sit ups.  Just 10.  And then I stopped.  And I am not joking when I tell you that my abs didn't even wait till morning to let me know that they were not excited about that idea even a little bit.

this is how my guts felt.

I texted Kara after I finished: "I just did 10 sit ups and then stopped.  Clearly I am not good at exercise."  She texted back enthusiastically "that's excellent!"  Bless her heart.

But here's the thing.  Between none sit ups and 10 sit ups.......10 sit ups is excellent, if only because it isn't none.  Because even if I only did 10 yesterday, maybe today I'll do 15.  Or maybe I'll just do 11?  But the point is that I'm doing something, and if I start small, well then there's plenty of room for improvement.

the one place we all know will always have room for improvement
also, this is from xkcd.com, in case you live under a rock...

Part of the reason that I never work out is because I think about the prospect and I think about how much work it's going to be and it literally drains me of every ounce of....of anything!  Of desire and energy and good intentions.  (at this point I would like to post the clip of Jim Gaffigan talking about going to the gym, but alas it does not appear to exist on youtube.  so instead I'll tell you to go to netflix and watch both of his specials because they're ridiculously funny, and pay special attention to the part about the gym).  Anyway, I think this is because I assume that if I work out it is going to have to be super maximum hardcore and intense and I'll have to spend so much time on it and it will make me want to kill myself.  As I explained to Kara, the evening we spent making and gorging on poorly executed yet nonetheless delicious and fattening candy, I have never yet experienced the so-called "runner's high".  That is to say--I don't appear to have a body that releases endorphins when I work out.  I get exactly nothing from the experience except exhaustion and misery.  I'm not hyperbolizing for rhetorical effect.  I feel like shit after I exercise, and all I want to do is die.

ah grumpy cat...you never fail me

But I realized last night that when you're as out of shape as I am.....well, maybe starting with 10 sit ups is a perfectly good idea.  In my defense, I want you all to imagine not just that you're doing normal sit-ups, but that you're doing them with a 10 to 15 pound weight sitting on your chest.  Not to mention, you have the abdominal muscles of a 3 year old with stomach flu.  But the point is that I realized that...I could stop at 10.  It was something, but I didn't have to keep going till I hated life and wanted someone to punch me in the face to distract me from how much I hated it.  And more importantly, I stopped before I became overwhelmed at the impossibility of doing this insanity to myself more than one random night in my life.

And one last thing....even if I don't do 10 sit ups tonight, or 15, or 11, or whatever...I will do them tomorrow and that's ok.  Or if I do them tonight, but not tomorrow, that's ok too.  If you fail on any given day all it means is...well, nothing.  Tomorrow is, as Scarlet O'Hara says, another day upon which any previous days have no bearing.  I won't get overwhelmed and I won't get discouraged.  It's funny how cliches are cliche for a reason.

Sometimes a little self-love is not a bad thing...

One of the key aspects of Mormonism (and probably most other religions, but I don't have firsthand knowledge) is the idea of repetition.  That is--you can never hear those "plain and simple truths" too many times, you can never read the scriptures too often, you can never study the gospel so much that you no longer have anything to gain from it.  Endless relief society lessons on visiting teaching and motherhood aside, I have found this idea to be, more or less, true.  Not simply at church, either, but in many other facets of life.  In fact, there is one particular idea that comes to me, epiphany-like, every couple of years.  It's like seeing fireworks; even though you've seen them before and, really, one firework is pretty much exactly the same as the next firework, every time you see them again it's like the first time.  They're beautiful and thrilling and dazzling no matter how many times you see them.  That's like this idea of mine.  Every time it bursts inside my head it is illuminating and inspiring like the first time I ever thought of it.  Even though it's clichéd and recycled.  It is simply this:

The most effective changes in your life come from self-love, not self-hate.  

So many times I have taken stock of my life and and I have looked on the results with loathing.  I have been so disappointed in myself.  I've seen my failings and my faults and I have asked myself why I have not yet fixed them.  I can't understand it.  I know what is wrong, I know what needs to be done to fix it, and yet the problems remain.  How pathetic must I be that I can't just fix the damn things already?  Over and over again I come to the same conclusion:  I must not hate my problems--my sins--enough to excise them from my life.  I must secretly like all these faults.  I must not want it badly enough...

 I must not be unhappy enough.

That's consistently where my thoughts end up.  So many times.  So I just hate myself a little more.  And it's a beautiful system, really, because it's so self-sustaining.  Now, not only can I hate myself for my imperfections, but I can also hate myself for, apparently, deep down not hating them and for lacking the discipline to change all these things I hate, which means that I can hate myself for choosing to be miserable....you can see it just keeps going...

But amidst all that disappointment and dislike, do you know what doesn't happen?  Any of those changes I wanted way back in the beginning.  I get so distracted and weighed down with hating myself that either I don't have the time or attention for actually fixing the problems, or I simply give up and accept that it's not worth the effort for someone as pathetic as me (and even if it was, it wouldn't work anyway).  You can see the problem here, I think.

Do you know when I have had success changing myself and my life?  Clearly it is not when I am depressed and full of self-loathing.  The times when I have had the most success effecting the changes I want to see in my life are the times when I love myself, and am proud of myself, and tell myself that I'm doing ok.  

The way it works in my head is that the more I hate myself, the less I am worth the effort of trying to improve--why suffer through all the work I know it will take for something I actually dislike?  But the happier I am with the current me right here and right now, the greater the value in investing in this self.  If that makes sense...

Which finally leads us to the here and now.  I honestly have no idea why it is happening, but I find myself in a place where I am consciously trying to cultivate that positive attitude about myself .  Usually this sort of positivity requires the kick-start of an extended and extreme happiness.  But I can't really say I've been extremely happy all that much recently.  Regardless, I have started trying to invest in myself.  Those initially minute investments have been enough--not enough to inspire greater investment, but enough to remind me of that ever-recurring epiphany.  Enough to inspire me to start loving myself so that I will then want to continue investing even more in myself.  

There is a lot more I want to write on this theme.  There are some specific experiences and challenges that are looming on the horizon that I want to discuss.  But in the interest of length (this is already too long) and time (it's my bedtime now...) I shall leave those for another post.  This is enough to be going on with for the time being...

Cheaters never prosper, but sometimes procrastinators do

Thanks to Obamacare I have been granted a few extra years of "free" insurance from my parents.  As of Monday, when I turn 26 years old, that insurance shall be no more.  Suddenly struck with the imminence of this catastrophe, and the realization that the hole that appeared in my tooth a couple of weeks ago certainly wasn't going to fix itself, I made haste to call a dentist.

get it?  Bennetttttt!  D'you get it?

I actually had realized that I needed to to make this appointment a month or two ago but had spent the intervening weeks somewhere between ostrich-like denial and paralyzing indecision as to which dentist I should trust with my mouth.  

yes...very much like this man...

It was at about 1:30 am last Saturday night (or Sunday morning?) when I was struck with the revelatory answer to my problem: my friend Jarom's dad is a dentist!  If I was the sort of person who did things like sit bolt up in bed when I get an idea then I would have sat bolt up in bed.  Instead, I was just consumed with anxiety and obsession; I must call Jarom in the morning!  What if he doesn't answer his phone?  Don't think about that...just think about calling him.  I have to call him!  I cannot forget to call Jarom in the morning!  At 1:45 am it seemed like a legitimate fear that either I would forget to make this call or that Jarom would somehow refuse to answer his phone when I called him and my mouth would be doomed forever.  As luck would have it, I happened to see Jarom walking right in front of me out of the Marriott Center after Regional Conference the next day rendering all my anxiety the night before unnecessary.  

pretty sure this is what my face looked like laying there in my bed 

What were the chances that I was going to be able to get in to see the dentist to fix my shattered tooth in a week?  I didn't kid myself that they were very good.  I called with little hope of success.  A woman named Nan answered the phone and I explained to her my situation.  

"Well, we have an emergency appointment opening today at noon.  Would that be alright?"  Um, yes.  Yes, Nan, that would be the most amazing thing ever.  

From that moment everything went as smoothly as was possible for it to go.  I came in for my appointment that day and met Dr. Youngquist, whose knowledge of Target employees and possession of a miniature AT-AT put me completely at ease.  

behold the irresistibly adorable artwork of James Hance.
Buy some of his stuff!  Go on, do it!

Dr. Youngquist took a look at my x-rays (and totally gave me a printout of them! score!) and referred me to Dr. Jenson at Cascade Endodontics to get a root canal.  Nan called them up for me, explained my time constraint, and came back and asked me if the next day would work.  Then she explained that Dr. Youngquist would be coming in Thursday morning (I found out later that this is a special trip as he usually only works Mondays and Tuesdays) to put in my permanent filling and crown.  They explain that, though the crown will take a mold which won't be ready for a couple of weeks, they'll be sure to bill it out on Thursday.  

So yesterday I went to my appointment with Dr. Jenson and experienced the fastest, most efficient root canal ever.  I was, no joke, in and out of the entire building in an hour, give or take 5 minutes.  Like, paperwork, waiting for the dentist, waiting on the numbface, paying, every single thing.  And the dental assistant gave me Dr. Jenson's personal cell number so that, should I have any sort of problem after business hours, I could call him for help.   And...when I asked the receptionist if they could hold off cashing my check till next week when I'd have my next paycheck she was 100% cool with it.  I came home and discovered a message from Dr. Vogel's office about setting up an appointment for today (Wednesday) to get my teeth cleaned.  

Thank you Allie Brosh for giving this to the internet for all it's cleaning needs...

Teeth cleaning happened with Greg, a softspoken (seriously--I could barely hear anything he said) birdlike man, and as I was leaving Jarom's dad made a point of coming out and introducing himself, bless him.  And this evening I got a call from Dr. Jenson just to check on me and make sure that I was doing well.  Tomorrow I will go in and see Dr. Youngquist again to finish everything up and get my crown.  

probably not a crown like this...just a guess

I have to say, out of a lifetime of surprisingly good dental experiences, this has definitely been one of the best.    I've got dentists calling me after hours to make sure I'm ok.  I've got other dentists coming in to work specially to get me all fixed up.  I am on a first name basis with Nan at the front desk.  Three days ago I was stressing out that my mouth was falling apart and would never be ok again ever!  Tonight I'm going to sleep with no other worry than the fact that it's 1 am and I have to be at their office by 8.  Which means I should wrap this up.  

So to finish, I want to put a recommendation for Vogel Dental and Cascade Endodontics out there. If you're in the Provo/Salt Lake area and you're looking for someone trustworthy to work on your mouth they are your people.  They're not paying me to write this, by the way (though if you guys want to send a little money my way for this totally blatant endorsement I'm down with that... *winkwink*).  I just wanted to document my superlatively good experience because good people deserve to be complimented.