The Getting It Done

A few nights ago, I struggled to fall asleep. My body was tired, I had already read several chapters of my book, and JG was snoozing away, gently, at my side. But the gears in my mind were turning steadily and my stomach twisted and turned, enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to be sick. I swallowed hard. I just have to get through this week, I thought.

Suddenly, I was struck with the realization that I’m always trying to get through things: a work day, a meeting, a long drive, reluctant family time, chores. Anxiety washed over me like a wave, leaving me sputtering and gasping for air, as the thought crystallized in my mind: I can’t survive like this. I am overwhelmed. I tried to breathe evenly, but the panic from my flip-flopping stomach rose to my throat and I began to sob.

Between big sniffs and wiping my eyes, I remembered that, about a year ago, I had recurring episodes like this one. I’d sit up in bed, take a box of tissues off of my nightstand, and cry as softly as possible so that I didn’t wake JG. When the tears were spent, I would lie down again and hope that my body was tired enough to sleep. At the time, I felt trapped because I couldn’t figure out how to meld JG’s and my interests – sports and fine arts, respectively – into leisure time that we both enjoyed. I felt overextended and high-maintenance, so I couldn’t bring myself to draw JG into my nighttime sadness.

Not this time, I decided.

I nudged JG and whispered, “Kiddo?” It’s our mutual term of endearment. “I need to tell you something.”

The sheets rustled. “What?”

“I’m very sad right now.”

He turned over, toward me. “Why? What’s going on?”

I sobbed, “I was just saying to myself that I needed to just get through this week, but I feel like I say that all the time, with everything. How can a person live like this? I’m so tired.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“I know we can’t solve it tonight, but … I don’t know. It’s just very oppressive right now.”

“Yeah.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you. Like before, remember? But I didn’t think that was a good idea, so I had to wake you up.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Okay.”

I don’t remember how it happened, but after all of the nose-blowing and deep sighs, I fell asleep. Every so often, I woke up, startled, but reaching out and confirming that JG was beside me was enough to send me back to my dreams.

Soon after that night, I read an essay by Anna Quindlen that looked back to her time as a young mother taking care of three children, aged six and under. A particular passage hit me square in the forehead.

I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages six, four, and one. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

I paused and re-read the last bit.

I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

I don’t want to write that line in 20 years. I will not write that line.

So, this weekend is all about the doing. JG and I are both taking the day off from work on Monday, so we have a nice long weekend. Tonight, we’ll have something off the grill for dinner and then we’ll crash on the couch with our latest Netflix delivery. I’ll turn off my alarm and sleep in as long as I want tomorrow morning. I think we have a few things we want to do, like go climbing, go out for dinner and a movie, and read, but nothing is set in stone. Regardless, I’m going to try to shift my mind to the doing and away from the getting it done.

It Was a Good Run

Two weeks ago, I gave my notice at 451 Press. This morning, I published my final post at LongRelationships.com.

I view the handful of months writing for a blog network as a valuable learning experience. I appreciated the challenge of writing on a single topic with a deadline of 10am every morning. I enjoyed the camaraderie that came from the community of writers. I gained my first exposure to social networking sites and I was forced to view my writing from the perspective of what might draw readers. I feel better equipped to write on the fly, tie up a concise argument on a small scope, and use WordPress. I am absolutely grateful to everyone who stopped by the site, left comments, and e-mailed me articles to reference. As an exercise, writing for the network was a successful one for me.

However.

I didn’t enjoy writing on a topic about which I only have experiential expertise of a narrow set of circumstances. JG was my only really serious boyfriend and we’ve only been married for two years. Sure, my stories might have their own appeal, but did they give me inherent credibility? I shied away from posts of the “Ask RA” variety out of fear that a reader would pose a situation that might require serious intervention or therapy, neither of which I am able to diagnose nor provide. I felt uncomfortable wearing an unearned badge of knowledge because I wanted to be a reliable resource.

On top of that, I’m working to be a better writer, not a marketer. The double-duty position of both supplying content and getting the world to notice it was a detrimental combination for me. I’d write what I thought was useful or compelling with the grim knowledge that it would never float to the front pages of social networking sites. Then, I’d try to conjure articles that might draw votes on those sites, but I didn’t quite believe what I was writing. Ultimately, I felt like both my writing and my stats suffered, which was such a lose-lose situation. I know that some folks can write and market simultaneously, but I am an introvert in real life as well as online. Asking others to read what I’ve written is anxiety-producing and not because I don’t believe I’m a skilled writer. I want my words to speak for themselves; I don’t want to prop them up with a tag line.

At the end of the day, I felt like I lived with my fingers tapping on a keyboard. After a full day at work, the time spent writing, doing auxiliary research, voting, and responding to comments grew to be more than I wanted to handle. Some might turn down their noses at my inability to commit more time, but I am not a full-time writer who is able to sink deeply into a project. Trying to massage my ideas about relationships into a palatable format for the sake of votes was not the plan. Searching newspapers, columns, and blogs for anything relationship-centric that I could quickly summarize just to get to the point where I could close my laptop was not the plan. Going to bed hours after JG and saying good night to a slumbering body was not the plan.

All of this is not to say that I have hard feelings toward 451 Press. I’m actually really curious about how the network will progress over time. Simply put, writing for a network, even with ad revenue, was not the right fit for me. I’m proud of quite a few articles I wrote for the site, including my final one, so perhaps I’ll revisit them in the future. I’ll continue to plug away in these parts, but most importantly, on my own terms.

Finding the Right Words

I love to receive cards in the mail and I am incredibly picky about choosing them for others. For standard holidays or birthdays, I start hunting very early, in several stores, to make sure I find the best one for the person in mind. If I find one that’s perfect, but out of season, I stash it in a hiding place for a future appearance. There’s a sense of accomplishment that comes with finding the best card that fits my aesthetic demands and contains an appropriate greeting, with bonus points for color coordination with wrapping paper.

Sometimes, sniffing out the right card is really difficult. Purported humorous cards usually aren’t and I refuse to buy anything that blasts a song at me like a handheld MySpace page. My least favorite cards usually involve many layers to open up, piles of glitter, or a 20-line poem dripping with sap. I automatically reject cards on the basis of Too Many Words.

This week, I faced my biggest card-searching challenge: the sympathy card. The father of our college friend passed away very suddenly and unexpectedly, while at his son’s college graduation weekend. Our friend is getting married in two months and the whole situation is just indescribably sad. They don’t make cards with that much sympathy.

Instead, I have to choose from sanctimonious, preachy cardboard rectangles with watercolor images of lilies and butterflies, reassuring us that memories live on forever. Is my friend supposed to feel better by seeing curly script in the form of, “You’re not alone,” even if she feels like she’s alone? I need the card that says, “I’m so sorry and I know there’s nothing I can say that will be right, but I’m going to hope that saying something will help, even just a little bit.” Unfortunately, that one wouldn’t sell so well next to the card depicting a calming ocean scene.

Finally, I found a simple blue card that read, “Caring thoughts of sympathy are with you now.” Oh, relief. In times when words fall so short of the occasion, it’s not about the number of feel-good phrases or pretty packaging. I just wanted a place where I can write a line to let our friend know that we’re thinking about her. I’m glad that it’ll be on its way tomorrow morning.

Writing It Out

Last night, I was a lovely combination of pathetic and resigned. When I reflected on the letters and spaces that made up my tired mindset, I realized that writing it out had two effects. On the one hand, writing un-frazzled me. I was able to distill all of my frayed nerves into coherent thoughts. It was soothing.

On the other, unexpected hand, once I’d written everything out, I could see my discontent for what it was, which was pretty silly. I can only wallow for so long and last night was the limit. I saw my complaints out in the open, condensed into letters and spaces, and I had an overwhelming sense akin to “What the heck is the big deal?”

I sat back and realized that I didn’t want to miss a major portion of my life because I was so busy wishing that I was somewhere else. I didn’t want to look back at this period and wonder why I felt so occupied and stressed but not recall what I was actually doing. I may not remember my commute some mornings, but I really want to remember my actual life. If nothing else, my post was a big smack across the head with a ringing “Pay attention!” attached to it.

I can’t promise to be an ever-shining beacon of optimism; in fact, it’s a safe bet that I will hardly ever be that. But I can make a greater effort to be more present and aware of what I’m going through, not just dazing off into a dream world where things are automatically easier, more attractive, or faster. It’s the difference between being an active participant in my own life – as corny as that sounds – and being an observer. Simply observing isn’t fair to my friends, JG, or myself. If I’m tired, I don’t want the fatigue that comes from being beaten into submission by the daily grind. I want the tiredness that comes from having a full day behind me. A full life.

It's Only Tuesday

… and I feel like my brain is fried. I’m in the midst of a streak where I wake up tired in the mornings, wanting to succumb to the pull of gravity on my body and the lure of soft t-shirt sheets on my skin. I’m unable to resist dozing past my alarm. I dread the inevitable moment when I need to fling the covers off and trudge to the shower, where the water wakes me up, but not in a way that stops me from leaning against the acrylic, off-white wall with my eyes closed. It’s a temporary escape from the world of neon-green, digital numbers and the countdown to when I need to leave the house, but time doesn’t stand still, not even in the bathroom. I blink my contacts into place and try to settle on an outfit for the day before blasting my hair with the hair dryer and trying to hide my fatigue with makeup.

I drive to work and realize that after 25 minutes, I’ve arrived at the office and I don’t remember the ride at all. It bothers me a bit because I know I should be more aware. While my computer boots up, I hang up my coat, put my lunch in the fridge, peel an orange. My co-workers float in as the next half hour goes by and I offer them a cheerful face and a hi-how-are-you-how-was-your-night. I try not to seem tired, but my office mate can’t help but notice my frequent yawns and eagerness to eat lunch. Work keeps me busy, but not interested. I guess one out of two isn’t bad.

At the end of the day, I’m glad to push my chair back into place and tie a scarf around my neck. I notice that my shoulders relax as soon as I get into the car and pull out. My grip on the wheel is looser than in the morning. I’m much more energetic during my commute back home. I sing along to the radio and look forward to being home, a comforting haven where my husband and a good dinner are bound to show up; seeing JG is the first thing I’ve looked forward to all day. After giving my mind a break during an hour of primetime television, I head down to bed after JG – we operate on teacher time. I reverse my morning routine, donning pajamas and glasses to read a couple of chapters. JG turns in before I do and we exchange a good-night hug and kiss. When I can’t hold up the book any longer, I turn off my bedside lamp and burrow down into the covers. The morning comes far too soon.

I don’t know what it is. Maybe I need more sleep or less sleep. JG says I need to drink more water. I know I should do yoga in the mornings. Maybe that’s it. Common sense tells me that it’s too early to be yearning for the weekend, but my tired mind and body don’t agree.

French Fries for Lunch

Several weeks ago, a co-worker shared with us that she had resigned from her position. Unlike others in our office, I was not entirely surprised because I was listed a reference for her and I knew that it was a possibility. She’s moving on to a really great opportunity that is closer to her home and it makes sense in all sorts of ways, except in a way that makes me sigh. My small office is very tight-knit as a whole, but agreeing to be her reference made me realize that I would feel her absence more acutely than anyone else’s.

She mentioned at one time or another that her fantasy snack food would be “a whole bar of French fries, with all sorts of fixings to choose from”, so everyone helped to put together one last hurrah over the lunch hour. One of us went out to get ten side orders of fries while the rest of us assembled the condiment bar: ketchup, mayonnaise, honey mustard, Old Bay seasoning, apple cider vinegar, salt, pepper, chili, and cheese sauce.

Well, she loved it.

While reading through the thoughtful goodbye messages people had sent in, she drizzled cheese, swirled chili, and spattered vinegar over her stack of fries. I was pleased that she was enjoying the festivities, but it was bittersweet for me. I might otherwise have had a normal day, but a thought cloud hovered over me: She’s not coming in tomorrow. But I didn’t act differently, except to slip her a congratulations-and-good-luck card. I felt awkward, as though I inadvertently stumbled into a funeral. It’s an exciting opportunity for a new job and advancement, I reminded myself. It makes sense! It’s not personal, it’s business.

And yet, it is personal, at least a little bit. She was at this company when I started, so this workplace without her is colder, less forgiving, more severe. We partnered to cultivate new products and bring them to fruition; thought I manage them on my own now, I could always look to her if I need to bounce around new ideas. During a time when I seriously questioned what I was doing with my life, decided to take a leap, and then met disappointment, she was there with an understanding ear, practical advice, and radiant optimism. I will miss all of these things in her.

When we hugged goodbye after happy hour, I promised to come visit her so she could show me around her city. My stomach ached, deep in the pit. The French fries for lunch didn’t help at all.

Sunday Scribblings #45: Goodbyes

Jiggety Jig

It’s good to be back. I enjoyed my swanky hotel room and eating out all week, but there is a certain charm to lazing on a comfy couch in a big hoodie. I also enjoyed 10 hours of sleep in my native time zone, without a jangling wake-up call and someone mispronouncing my name.

Even though I love our little house in the suburban neighborhood, I really savor my occasional, short visits to cities, especially San Francisco. I loved walking from the office to whatever restaurant my friends had chosen that was so different from my normal fare by virtue of being on the west coast. The brisk air on my face and slapping sound of my flats on the sidewalk made me feel more engaged and aware of what I was doing, as opposed to the zoning out that usually occurs during my commutes. I delighted in the conversation over dinner, mostly because I hardly ever have the chance to spend leisure time with my west-coast cohorts. I snatch up whatever opportunity I have, which resulted in a happy hour, a lunch, and three dinners during my three-day stay. Thai, Italian, crepes, and comfort food – I happily ate it all. I enjoyed the feeling of being active and mobile, since it’s easy for me to fall into a rather sedentary mode in my normal life.

Because my hotel was a bit of a trek from my office (thank you, Macworld), I saw most of San Francisco from the passenger seat of a cab, my stomach flipping and flopping as we rolled over the hills. In one particular ride, I realized that I wasn’t craning my neck to see where we were headed; I realized that the driver had simply removed the headrest for the seat next to him. I told him that I appreciated it because I liked to take in the scenery and he chucked, saying, “It’s the open floor plan model.” Ha.

It was a good trip.

After my ride pulled up to the house and I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I breathed in the mushroomy air that defines my little town. Ah, yes. Home again, home again.

The First Hours

I had not seen the 2am hour in I couldn’t remember how long. But there’s something about a living room full of friends, a coffee table covered with food, and weeks or months of absence from one another that make 2am a reasonable time to fall, exhausted and full-bellied, into bed. The house is packed with sleeping people, overnight bags, and foil-covered plates of baked goods. Every couch and bed is occupied and it is strangely satisfying to me, whose house usually consists of empty, unheated spaces. I like it in its inhabited way. My ear is tuned to any sounds of movement, but the house is still at the moment.

JG and I woke up after only six hours of sleep (we’re kind of lame in our eight-hour habit), but we’re hoping it’ll tire us out to slot us into the right waking up hour for the abrupt re-entry into the working world tomorrow. I haven’t awakened to the jarring poke of an alarm clock since the Friday before Christmas and I dread its insistence. Let’s not think about that. For now, I will savor the peace of my last day off and share with you what I resolve for this year.

1. To read four books every month
Basically, I want to read more, and I work best with a timeline, so there we are. If this goal ends up being a homework assignment, I’ll probably decrease the quantity because the ultimate objective here is to make time for leisure reading rather than hit a certain number of books.

2. To try two new recipes every month
So, there’s that timeline thing again. My mom gave me a subscription to Cooking Light for Christmas and JG received the cookbook from America’s Test Kitchen for his birthday, so I will have a wellspring of recipes from which to glean. My idea is to try a recipe from baking and cooking because I prefer to bake but I aspire to improve my cooking skills. Hopefully, this balance will cater to my inclination and help me grow.

Guests are starting to stir and I hear the clank of mugs and glasses upstairs. It’s time to get a move on. I drag my pointer across the date in the taskbar just to see the pop-up – there it is. Monday, January 1, 2007.

The Night Before

I can hardly believe it, but everything is done. After I woke up at 6am and was unable to go back to sleep – very unlike me – I spent most of the day in the kitchen, wearing slippers and my new pajamas (thanks, JG’s mom!), while I measured ingredients and whipped mint icing and dipped finished products in chocolate. But I’m finished! Boxes of cookies are stacked up and a cheesecake is quivering in the fridge.

Tonight, per my request, JG and I will watch A Charlie Brown Christmas. It cracks me up to watch Lucy insist on being the Christmas Queen and that Schroeder should buy “pretty things for pretty girls.” I also laugh out loud when all of the kids sing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” and they tilt their heads backward and open their mouths really wide – in unison! The best part, though, is when Linus takes the stage and says, “Lights, please.” Oh, I can’t wait.

Aside from the excitement of hosting Christmas (like a real adult or something) I’m savoring the time alone with JG most of all. Christmas brings out the contemplative in me, what can I say? It all reminds me of a certain strip from Calvin and Hobbes, my favorite comic. In 1989, Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday, so cartoonist Bill Watterson wrote a poem for the occasion, framed by a single-panel, color illustration of Calvin leaning up against Hobbes in front of a toasty fire. I may not have a fireplace or a stuffed tiger, but I have a comfy couch and a wonderful husband, and the lines are pretty close to what I’m feeling now. From our quiet, cozy living room, I leave you this poem and the warmest wishes for a great Christmas.

On window panes, the icy frost
Leaves feathered patterns, crissed & crossed,
But in our house the Christmas tree
Is decorated festively
With tiny dots of colored light
That cozy up this winter night.
Christmas songs, familiar, slow,
Play softly on the radio.
Pops and hisses from the fire
Whistle with the bells and choir.
My tiger is now fast asleep
On his back and dreaming deep.
When the fire makes him hot,
He turns to warm whatever’s not.
Propped against him on the rug,
I give my friend a gentle hug.
Tomorrow’s what I'm waiting for,
But I can wait a little more.

An Unreliable Narrator

I realized this week that I was in the middle of a memoir streak – three in a row. In my running loop of a reading list, I usually try to alternate fiction and non-, but this trend caught me by surprise. In two weeks’ time, I’ve gone through Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris; ’Tis, by Frank McCourt; and Running with Scissors, by Augusten Burroughs, with varying levels of affection. That is, I liked them all except the last one, which I read in the past twelve hours with the compulsion that comes from watching a train wreck and wanting it to end. I’m interested in how others may have felt about these books, but that’s not this is about; I don’t pretend to be a literary critic.

As I read both Me Talk Pretty One Day and ’Tis, I thought, “This is what my professors meant by showing, rather than telling.” I could picture David Sedaris’s strange performance pieces and shuddered at the awkwardness when his parents attended. I was next to Frank McCourt when he swept floors at the Biltmore and shared his sadness when he returned to Ireland for a less-than-joyful family reunion. Their stories were captivating because they were true and, sometimes, that very fact made their sadness and pain much more acute. I wanted to absorb the authors’ fluidity of language that made the words actually convey what happened, instead of producing a dim shadow that leaves the storyteller muttering, “I guess you had to be there.”

I’ve been struck by the idea that perhaps this phase of reading has been spurred by my entrance into the blogosphere. What are bloggers doing, if not creating a memoir of sorts? I’m interested, even invested, in the blogs I read because I know there is a real person typing out that story with any bias, background information, and baggage that might come along. I know memoirs have gotten the shaft lately because they may or may not be true and that makes me a little bit sad. It might be naïve, but I would like to take memoirs for what they’re worth and believe that they’re true accounts. What can you do? Even with the best of intentions, we all write from a point of view and unfortunately, none of us can assume the third-person omniscient one. I’m one of countless unreliable narrators, like Nick from The Great Gatsby.

My recent reading has challenged me to think of this little blog as a modern memoir. I don’t have delusions of publication or even slightly widespread renown – it’s just a collection of memories where I try my hardest to show and not just tell.

Both Sides of the Coin

On a gray and rainy Thanksgiving morning, I offer two sets of things for which I am thankful this year.

The first list is a product of the Thanksgiving potluck at work, when I impulsively restricted our "what we're thankful for" exercise to exclude friends, family, and health. Upon further reflection, here are my top five in this silly category:

1. My KitchenAid mixer, which I will bust out as soon as possible after Thanksgiving to start making cookies for various events.
2. My almost-complete spreadsheet that shows my entire gifting list: what each person is receiving, where I'm getting it, how much it costs, and the date of purchase.
3. That the first season of one of my favorite shows ever is coming out on DVD!
4. That Penn State made it to the Outback Bowl and I have an excuse to make yet another batch of chili.
5. That I did not have to do anything for Thanksgiving. Seriously. I just showed up.

On a more traditional note, here are the top five things for which I am thankful when everything is fair game:

1. My husband, especially when I realize that we have more fun everyday. He is totally my BFF. We should get half-heart necklaces.
2. A relatively quiet year of settling in (in comparison to the previous year of crazy).
3. Our house, and that it actually feels like it's ours; we're not house-sitting indefinitely.
4. The comfort of old friends and the excitement of making new ones.
5. The luxury of taking time for myself this year.

I'm taking the first hour or so of wakefulness this morning to be on my own and quiet. It occurs to me this year, more than any other so far, that I'm thankful for so much more than can be summarized in one sentence in a circle of holding hands. I will simply go through it all in my mind as I'm curled up in a blanket, looking out into the thick November clouds.

It Has to Boil

I was not a patient child. I am not currently a patient, ah, young adult. When I was younger, I was told that “a watched pot never boils”, which never made sense to me. The literalist in me knew that water would eventually have to boil, given enough heat. Who cares if someone’s watching it? While I'm on it, the pot doesn't boil, the water does, so ha! I bring up this tired cliché because I find myself watching yet another pot, and I don’t know if it will boil, much to my dismay.

A few months ago, after a particularly trying week at work, I made a decision to start looking for another job. It wasn’t an aggressive job search, but I wanted to see what else might be available. Since then, I’ve started interviewing for a position at a company that has an amazing, if not the best, reputation in the area. The position is fairly similar to what I do now, and there are various opportunities and areas where I could grow; in my current company, my professional development is no one’s priority except mine, and that is a continuing frustration. One of my interviews was with a girl who has the job currently, and as corny as it sounds, I felt like we were kindred spirits in our love for spreadsheets. Each time I’ve come in for an interview, I’ve felt totally welcome and comfortable, and after three interviews in three weeks, I’m excited about the prospect of taking on this role.

Or as I might say outside of an interview setting, I reallyreallyreally want this job!

My second interview at the beginning of this month was supposed to be the final one so that the department could bring someone in by the end of the month. When I expected to have a decision by mid-October, I got a call for a “supplemental interview” instead. I took the afternoon off last week, had more good interactions, and was told that I'd hear something by last Friday.

When my cell phone vibrated, I jumped out of my skin, took a deep breath, grabbed a notepad, and answered it, trying to sound as cool and collected as possible. Agh – false alarm! It was my darn eye doctor, scheduling me for my annual appointment! It turned out to be my only call that day. The response to my cautiously inquisitive e-mail read, “Sorry, please give us until Monday.” Okay. As if I had a choice.

I didn’t stew too much over the weekend, but I slept terribly on Sunday, my mind gears turning all night long. I wasn’t nervous as much as anticipatory, and I’m not sure which is worse. The next day, I watched my cell phone as if it were about to escape and compulsively checked for voicemail when I got up to grab something off the printer. My day was hellish enough to make me yearn for a phone call and a job offer, so when I received neither, I was nothing but nerves, and frayed ones at that.

I sent yet another e-mail when I finally got home, skipping the previous polite niceties, and received a response this morning: “This is not typical for us, and I completely understand your need for an answer. With decision makers out of town, we will not be able to get back to you until later next week.”

Ugh. I hate waiting. If the water in this pot doesn’t boil, I will be really sad.

A New Regime

I bought a dress online more than two years ago from Ann Taylor for several reasons: 1) I had a gift card, 2) it was on sale, and 3) I didn’t have a little black dress in my closet. When I received the dress and put it on, it was clear that it was a size too big, but my mom said that it was easily altered, so I kept it, fully intending to seek out my local seamstress and get the job done.

Cut to almost three weeks ago.

I suddenly remembered that I had to be at a wedding soon, and I intended to wear this dress, but I had never gotten it altered. I went so far as to find a seamstress’s name and number, drive to her house, and try on the dress only to find out that it didn’t need to be altered. In other words, in two years’ time, I had gone up one dress size. In the short-term, it’s not a huge deal because the dress fits. Heaven help me if it had been too small. But if I extrapolate to ten years down the road, I do not want to have gone up five dress sizes. Something clearly had to change.

I’ve taken up what I hesitate to call a routine of working out, because it’s very modest. Three days a week, I walk about a mile and a half around my neighborhood, and the other two mornings feature about 40 minutes of yoga from a set of DVDs. I do a variety of crunches, push-ups, and wall-sits, too. I’m giving myself the weekends off for now, even though I’m sure that doesn’t jive with any known fitness plans. I’ve been eating a bowl of cereal and drinking a glass of orange juice everyday, which is probably the biggest adjustment for a longtime non-breakfaster. I’m trying to drink more water, eat more fruit, get consistent sleep, and refrain from snacking. Even though I miss it, I stopped putting root beer on the shopping list, and I haven’t had dessert in quite a while.

I should mention here that I don’t own a scale, so I have no idea if I’ve lost any weight. That’s not really the goal here; instead, I want to feel like I have some semblance of stamina and I’m doing something to stay in shape. I know there will come a time when my metabolism pulls the bus cord and says, “Well, this is my stop." If I don’t have good habits already, it'll be a very unpleasant surprise, and anyone who knows me knows that I do not like surprises. At all.

So far, I’m doing well with this set-up. The variation makes it interesting enough from day to day, and I enjoy the fresh air I get on my walks. I’ve found that it has helped me focus more at work because I’ve had about an hour to be awake and alone, and I’m confident that I’m doing something that’s good for me. As demoralizing as that moment was when my black dress unexpectedly fit me, it was the wake-up call I needed. I'm glad to report that I felt pretty okay about myself in that dress this past weekend, and I’m doing to do my darndest to keep up with this routine.

Standing Still

Friends of ours just got engaged this week, and that was nice news to receive. JG was pretty instrumental in helping the groom-to-be with the diamond selection, and I think we’ll have a wedding to attend next spring or summer. I picked up an engagement card along with my usual gift of thank you cards, and I’m happy for them.

Can’t you tell?

No, I really am happy for them, but I feel almost envious of all of the excitement and what they have to look ahead of them. It’s not that I don’t love being married, but it was so fun to be newly-engaged. I really enjoyed going to the parties, seeing older women at the supermarket smiling when they saw my ring, browsing wedding magazines, and creating my amazing Wedding Workbook – a collection of interconnected spreadsheets that tracked addresses, gifts, thank yous, RSVPs, expenses, and schedules. But I digress.

Now that I think about it, as momentous as it was, getting engaged was the first of many life changes that occurred over that year. Let’s see… I also graduated from college, found an apartment, landed a job (whew!), got married, bought a house, and moved in. I always had something to anticipate, something to push me forward. When I finished school, I was planning the wedding; when the wedding was over, we started house-hunting. Now that we’re sort of finished, I don’t know how to handle it. When people ask me what’s new, I’m at a loss for words. I’m at the same job, the house is still standing, and I don’t foresee any drastic changes in the near future. I feel motionless when I’m used to accelerating. Is this what they call a rut?

Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe I’m easing into a time of life where things are stable so that I can do… well, I don’t know what. That’s another part of this restless discontent. What am I doing with myself? I feel oddly guilty that I’m not striving for something, like I got married and checked my ambition at the door.

I’m sure I’ll look back on this period, thinking wistfully about how much leisure time I had, and scoff that I was too young to appreciate it. The trick is to savor the stillness and lack of urgency now, I suppose. And perhaps this is a time to count my many blessings, count them one by one.

Getting Back On

One of my favorite quotes from my favorite author, Madeleine L’Engle, reads:

I have more hope that someone who has shouted, 'Stop the world, I want to get off!' can get back on and enjoy the ride, than someone who wants more cushions.

Last week was rough for me. I so wanted the world to stop so that I could catch my breath, or sit back and watch for a little bit. I would be content with waiting at the stop and getting back on when the world came back around for me again. But you can’t do that.

The week was characterized by an unexpectedly heavy workload in an unusually unsupportive work environment, and I had to ask myself if this was really the job I wanted to pursue. I knew coming into this job that I would need to figure out what my plan was for The Future, in terms of graduate school or progression up the corporate ladder, but I was fine with camping out in a fortunate entry-level job that has afforded me with unique opportunities and usable skills, but… I didn’t know if I wanted to stay here. It took all I had to simply operate and get my work done, and even that wasn’t accomplished without bursting into tears periodically. I was so tired.

It felt like when I had inklings that maybe I didn’t want to be a chemistry lab rat for the rest of my life, as alluring as a Ph.D. may have been. I took two full semesters of only science and math, and I ached without reading and writing. I tried to fit in leisure reading, but my giant chemistry texts beckoned. So, in my sophomore year, I changed my major to English, amid noises of cautious support from my parents (who were sure that I’d end up living at home trying to be “artistic”) and looks of betrayal from my lab partners (who were sure that I was ditching them for a mere B.A.). I tried to laugh off my nervousness by calling it my “major identity crisis”, and I waded into the world of literature students, the majority of whom, to my surprise, did not enjoy either reading or writing. I loved most of my new professors and I felt myself growing in a way that chemistry did not allow, although I maintained a minor so that I could exercise that part of my brain.

So, that worked out okay.

But this is different; job decisions affect your income and commute and overall happiness scale. It’s half of your waking hours and, at least for me, a significant component of how you measure your life’s progress. I can’t think about leaving my current job without understanding what’s ahead of me, but there’s no way to do that without actually leaving my job and taking another one. Then there’s always the possibility that I wouldn’t like it more – what do I do then? Should I just figure out what I want my grad degree in and take a loss to be a student? Doesn’t it make more sense to have a company pay for at least some of that tuition?

Stop the world, I want to get off!

What do I know for sure?

• I have no idea what I want to do for graduate school. It’s not smart to start a program when I am uncertain.
• I don’t need to find a new job, like when I graduated. I still have this position to fall back on if necessary. This is not a search borne of desperation.
• It doesn’t hurt to apply for jobs, and I owe it to myself to try. If I am offered a position, I have the option to take it, but I don't have to.
• If I start this process, then I know that I am taking action, and not just spinning in what might feel like a hopeless situation.

I took a deep breath, revised my resume, and did preliminary job searches in my area. It’s amazing what some experience will do to your prospects. I asked people to be references, and last night, I applied to three positions at companies that I know to have good reputations.

I feel different this morning. Weariness and resignation have been replaced by tentative excitement, and I don’t know what’s going to happen. The things I know are still the same. I don’t need a new job, and I am not desperate. I got back on the world over the weekend, and it’s nice to be here.

Initial

This is my inaugural entry. I admit that I’m a little scared. I’m itching to write, but it’s kind of intimidating to take on The Internet as your primary audience. As opposed to, you know, your eyes only on your scribbled journal pages.

I’m curious to see where this whole thing will lead me. I have a weird ritual where, at the onset of a new experience (starting high school, college, a job), I ask myself questions that I look back on in the future. Usually, I find that the answers are way off from what I expected, or that I didn’t ask enough questions, but it’s interesting to see what was going through my mind. So, for nostalgia’s sake:

• Did I update as regularly as I wanted to? Maybe 3 times a week?
• Did anyone read this other than me and JG?
• How do I feel about writing in general?
• Have I met anyone new?
• How often did I get writer’s block?
• What’s my favorite part about blogging? Least favorite?
• What have I learned?
• Am I looking back at these questions and thinking, “I can’t believe I thought that was a good idea…”?
  

Here we go.

Deep breath.