When I worked at my fathers bicycle shop as a mechanic there was one story we would hear consistently. Man or woman, old or young, all nationalities and income levels, the story of why your bike is creaking, groaning, screeching, broken, twisted, shredded, clicking, stuck or just plain not working always starts with the words “I was just riding along.” This phrase is so over used by those who neglect and torment their bicycles that it has become quite the joke at the shop. 90% of the time, after fixing the bike, a good mechanic can tell what caused the problem and it is almost always the rider’s fault. Through neglect, malice, or ignorance people do terrible things to their bicycles and after wrenching for many years I have vowed never to be one of them. I pay loving attention to the state of my bicycles; cars however, are a different story.
My abuse of cars is a matter of historical and public record. From the time I “stole” my car with Aarwenn while we both still only had permits and ran it in to a pole at a Starbucks only to lie to my parents about how it became scratched latter, to the more neglectful habit I have of never (and I do me not even once since I have owned it) washing the outside of my current vehicle. From the 2 cars I have run out of oil, seizing the engines and totaling both cars, to the fact that I am so used to driving a stick that I slam on the break while looking for the clutch in automatics. I am like the anti-car. I have no mercy and even worse, no sense. Since getting married I actually clean out the inside of my car on occasion and pester my husband to change the oil on a semi regular basis but this minor change in behavior hardly makes up for all the years of abuse. What does make up for it is this. Today, as I was driving back to the office from lunch, my car began to wail and screech at such a high pitch and intensity that dogs from other counties and perhaps other states were howling. That alone would not make up for my behavior but the noise did not start out small and quiet, it simply turned on at full force, accosting me with its embarrassing, attention grabbing, cacophony of sound and causing me to swerve as a looked for its source and become very red in the face as a realized it was my own car. But even that would not make a dent in the grievances against me. What humbles me to the core is that when I got back to the office I had to call my dad and say “Papa, I was just driving along . . .”
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
2 inches
It will be no news to some of you that my height has been called into question as of late. At a holiday party this December I compared my height to some of my friends who have always been sorter than me and realized that we are the same height.
This is disturbing for many reasons. The first and most obvious reason is that I am shrinking. You would be upset if you were shrinking too. In fact, you might be even more upset than I am since I know that it is happening because of my scoliosis. Which brings us to the second reason it is upsetting; it means my scoliosis is getting worse. One might think that that is the extent of my reasons to be upset. That person would be wrong.
I am actually most upset because I am now not a tall girl.
There was a time in my life, when I was 5’7 ¾”. I was almost as tall as my “little” sister. In fact, my massage therapist said I would be taller than her if my back were completely normal. That time was early 2004, I was 22 and I will now refer to that period of my life as the “height” of it even though that will confuse people.
Some months latter, when I came home from Europe I had lost that ¾” and I reluctantly put 5’7” on my driver’s license when I renewed it. Since massage therapy had given me almost an inch, I figured that my compressed spine left me at this height. Sad, but that was that.
Fast forward a few years to last month when I realized for the first time that my back has compressed even further. So now I am going to the chiropractor and having them measure my height at the doctor’s office. Yesterday the nurse pushed me up against the wall and said “we will call it 5’6”. I was going to protest because I had recently be told at another office that I was 5’6 ¼” and, damn it I want that extra ¼ but before I could even protest she continued with “you are almost there so we will just give it to you.” Almost there!?!
Honestly the biggest issue for me is feeling small. It permeates into other areas of my life. My husband has noticed I have begun talking even louder than normal and normally I am a loud talker. I have quit wearing high heals because I don’t want people to think I am trying to look taller. I don’t want people to know that my newly discovered shortness bothers me so much. This discovery has bloomed into an identity crisis as if those 2 inches I lost held all the confidence and individuality of me.
This is disturbing for many reasons. The first and most obvious reason is that I am shrinking. You would be upset if you were shrinking too. In fact, you might be even more upset than I am since I know that it is happening because of my scoliosis. Which brings us to the second reason it is upsetting; it means my scoliosis is getting worse. One might think that that is the extent of my reasons to be upset. That person would be wrong.
I am actually most upset because I am now not a tall girl.
There was a time in my life, when I was 5’7 ¾”. I was almost as tall as my “little” sister. In fact, my massage therapist said I would be taller than her if my back were completely normal. That time was early 2004, I was 22 and I will now refer to that period of my life as the “height” of it even though that will confuse people.
Some months latter, when I came home from Europe I had lost that ¾” and I reluctantly put 5’7” on my driver’s license when I renewed it. Since massage therapy had given me almost an inch, I figured that my compressed spine left me at this height. Sad, but that was that.
Fast forward a few years to last month when I realized for the first time that my back has compressed even further. So now I am going to the chiropractor and having them measure my height at the doctor’s office. Yesterday the nurse pushed me up against the wall and said “we will call it 5’6”. I was going to protest because I had recently be told at another office that I was 5’6 ¼” and, damn it I want that extra ¼ but before I could even protest she continued with “you are almost there so we will just give it to you.” Almost there!?!
Honestly the biggest issue for me is feeling small. It permeates into other areas of my life. My husband has noticed I have begun talking even louder than normal and normally I am a loud talker. I have quit wearing high heals because I don’t want people to think I am trying to look taller. I don’t want people to know that my newly discovered shortness bothers me so much. This discovery has bloomed into an identity crisis as if those 2 inches I lost held all the confidence and individuality of me.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Evil Elves: In which I reveal (in real numbers) my weight loss goals.
I have this tendency to take some tiny tidbit of information and latch on to it, repeating it out of context and distorting its message and requiring myself to adhere to its now ridiculous ramifications whatever those may be.
Case in point: I read once that women who have larger weight loss goals are more successful in their weight loss endeavors, where success is measured in pounds lost.
The logical explanation for this is that women who are trying to lose 100 or even just 50 lbs generally have more weight to lose and everyone knows that the more weight you have to lose, the faster it comes off in the beginning so even if you did give up at the 3 month mark (which is usually where I lose it and order a double cheeseburger with a side of everything else to go) you will still have lost more weight than a person trying to lose 10 lbs who sticks to it and meets their goal.
However, my twisted mind has decided that this statement actually means I will lose weight much better and faster if I set some pie in the sky “I used to weight this in high school” type goal. So now my ticker on SparkPeople says 118. It says 118 not because I think I should weigh 118. It says 118 not because I can really even plan on or conceive of weighing 118. In fact my real goal in my heart and soul and mind is 127. But somehow, my superstitious, overly optimistic and blindly emotional side INSISTS that having changed the number on my very public ticker will somehow shift the favor of the fates in my direction and pounds will melt off my frame. Why? Because I now have an unattainable goal and the evil little elves of hell that sit around making it their business to ensure that I never. ever. ever. get anything I want will think that I won’t be happy until I get to 118. Therefore they will let me get to 127 without even worrying their evil little heads about it and I will win and that, my friends, is how the universe works. Yes it is.
Disclaimer: Reaching my real goal of 127 requires me to lose less than 10 lbs and my doctor has advised me at a healthy weight range for me would be 116-140. So yes, this is a vanity diet and no, I am not going to starve myself and end up a crak-head-esque waif. Besides, we recently established at a holiday party that I am much shorter than we previously believed and if I have to be short at least I can be skinny.
Case in point: I read once that women who have larger weight loss goals are more successful in their weight loss endeavors, where success is measured in pounds lost.
The logical explanation for this is that women who are trying to lose 100 or even just 50 lbs generally have more weight to lose and everyone knows that the more weight you have to lose, the faster it comes off in the beginning so even if you did give up at the 3 month mark (which is usually where I lose it and order a double cheeseburger with a side of everything else to go) you will still have lost more weight than a person trying to lose 10 lbs who sticks to it and meets their goal.
However, my twisted mind has decided that this statement actually means I will lose weight much better and faster if I set some pie in the sky “I used to weight this in high school” type goal. So now my ticker on SparkPeople says 118. It says 118 not because I think I should weigh 118. It says 118 not because I can really even plan on or conceive of weighing 118. In fact my real goal in my heart and soul and mind is 127. But somehow, my superstitious, overly optimistic and blindly emotional side INSISTS that having changed the number on my very public ticker will somehow shift the favor of the fates in my direction and pounds will melt off my frame. Why? Because I now have an unattainable goal and the evil little elves of hell that sit around making it their business to ensure that I never. ever. ever. get anything I want will think that I won’t be happy until I get to 118. Therefore they will let me get to 127 without even worrying their evil little heads about it and I will win and that, my friends, is how the universe works. Yes it is.
Disclaimer: Reaching my real goal of 127 requires me to lose less than 10 lbs and my doctor has advised me at a healthy weight range for me would be 116-140. So yes, this is a vanity diet and no, I am not going to starve myself and end up a crak-head-esque waif. Besides, we recently established at a holiday party that I am much shorter than we previously believed and if I have to be short at least I can be skinny.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
My Best Self
2008 is going to be the year I become “My Best Self.” This statement means many things. It means that I am going to work on my eating habits and my exercise habits. It means I am going to start shaving my legs regularly and stop glowering at strangers on the street. It means that I will stop trying to kill the snooze button with overuse and start trying to get some yoga in before work.
It does not mean that I am going to become a morning person or regularly wash my car or begin to enjoy to company of children. I mean there are some elemental facets of my personality. But becoming “My Best Self” (Yes I am aware that every time I type that you all want to sing the “My Buddy/Kid Sister" Song. That is actually ½ the reason I keep writing it.) does mean that I need to go to the chiropractor.
You see, I have a bad back. This was discovered at some pivotal moment in my pre-pubescent years at Jason Lee Middle School. They lined us up in two rows with our backs to one another in the nurses office and we all had to pull our shirts up and bend over. (inset inappropriate joke here) While I was feeling ashamed that all he other girls needed bras and I did not yet (come to think of it I still don’t but I wear one anyway. Go figure) the mentally challenged, lazy eyed nurse was simply noticing that I had scoliosis. Of course she did not tell ME this. She let everyone else go and made me sit with her while she filled out some paperwork and asked me questions. Then she called my mother.
Now, 13 years latter, I have decided to start going to the chiropractor. The guy I went to see on Tuesday is a large, jovial man. He is so cheery in fact that I initially relaxed quite a bit about the whole process. We chatted about my pain. He offered me some coffee. He had me change into a hospital gown. He explained the areas he would target. He positioned me on a massage table. He told me to breathe deep.
Then. He. Body-slammed. Me.
If I had known this would happen, I would have maybe chosen a slimmer chiropractor.
It does not mean that I am going to become a morning person or regularly wash my car or begin to enjoy to company of children. I mean there are some elemental facets of my personality. But becoming “My Best Self” (Yes I am aware that every time I type that you all want to sing the “My Buddy/Kid Sister" Song. That is actually ½ the reason I keep writing it.) does mean that I need to go to the chiropractor.
You see, I have a bad back. This was discovered at some pivotal moment in my pre-pubescent years at Jason Lee Middle School. They lined us up in two rows with our backs to one another in the nurses office and we all had to pull our shirts up and bend over. (inset inappropriate joke here) While I was feeling ashamed that all he other girls needed bras and I did not yet (come to think of it I still don’t but I wear one anyway. Go figure) the mentally challenged, lazy eyed nurse was simply noticing that I had scoliosis. Of course she did not tell ME this. She let everyone else go and made me sit with her while she filled out some paperwork and asked me questions. Then she called my mother.
Now, 13 years latter, I have decided to start going to the chiropractor. The guy I went to see on Tuesday is a large, jovial man. He is so cheery in fact that I initially relaxed quite a bit about the whole process. We chatted about my pain. He offered me some coffee. He had me change into a hospital gown. He explained the areas he would target. He positioned me on a massage table. He told me to breathe deep.
Then. He. Body-slammed. Me.
If I had known this would happen, I would have maybe chosen a slimmer chiropractor.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
I'm Back! This time with a bettery powered iron in my backpak.
I am resurrecting my blog for 2008. As usual, I have no good reason for doing the things that I do. One not so good reason for starting to post for this blog again is that 8 is my favorite number and therefore, 2008 is going to be the best year in the history of my life ever. I figure people should know about it. Another not so good reason is that I re-read my old posts and I realized that I used to be funny and have semi-meaningful things to say. I am pretty sure that this is no longer the case. While assuming there is a casual connection between my current lack of whit and my current lack of bloging might be less than well founded, I really don't care much. Just like when DH (my Dear Husband for those of you unfamiliar with the abbreviation) tells me that my vitamin supplements are worthless placebos, or when medical research disproves the effectiveness of anything sold by Susan Somers; I plan to forge ahead unscathed by the disbelievers. So there you have it, like it or not I am back. And this time I am pumped up on calcium supplements and digging out my Thigh-Master.
Now I would like to make another announcement. I am considering joining the Extreme Ironing association. Yes, there is really such a thing and yes I am really interested in it, as everyone with a pulse should be. First of all I love the outdoors. I live climbing mountains and rocks and other such things. I also love skiing or sliding or rappelling down once I have reached the top. I love the feeling that is gives me; mainly the (often blatantly erroneous) impression that I am the master of myself, physics, the universe, and everything.
Another thing that I enjoy immensely is a well ordered house. I love things to be organized and pretty. I like stacks of folded laundry, neatly made beds, systematically arranged bookshelves and well pressed clothing. The problem with loving order is that the onerous of KEEPING order will inevitably fall on our shoulders. And there are some tasks that must be done that I simply cannot stand doing. Dishes, as anyone who has ever lived with me knows, are not something that I do; at least not without a fight. Ironing, however, is one of those enchanting things that exist so rarely in our world, which both needs to be done and brings me great joy to do. It is not that I simply take satisfaction at the sight of a well done crease or nicely starched collar. It is not that I am relieved and overwhelmed with a sense of accomplishment once the ironing pile is no more. All of those things are nice, but it is the actual act, the anal-retentive attention to detail required, the warmth, the smells of clean linen and lemon starch, the simplicity, the precision; all this together makes ironing nothing short of glorious.
That being said, you can imagine that I went numb with shock and disbelief that I had not had the idea to combine these two activities earlier. I am, however, ecstatic to find that I am not alone in my seemingly paradoxical tastes. That being said, you can look forward to pictures of my extreme ironing attempts just as soon as I save up enough of a lightweight board and a battery powered iron.
Now I would like to make another announcement. I am considering joining the Extreme Ironing association. Yes, there is really such a thing and yes I am really interested in it, as everyone with a pulse should be. First of all I love the outdoors. I live climbing mountains and rocks and other such things. I also love skiing or sliding or rappelling down once I have reached the top. I love the feeling that is gives me; mainly the (often blatantly erroneous) impression that I am the master of myself, physics, the universe, and everything.
Another thing that I enjoy immensely is a well ordered house. I love things to be organized and pretty. I like stacks of folded laundry, neatly made beds, systematically arranged bookshelves and well pressed clothing. The problem with loving order is that the onerous of KEEPING order will inevitably fall on our shoulders. And there are some tasks that must be done that I simply cannot stand doing. Dishes, as anyone who has ever lived with me knows, are not something that I do; at least not without a fight. Ironing, however, is one of those enchanting things that exist so rarely in our world, which both needs to be done and brings me great joy to do. It is not that I simply take satisfaction at the sight of a well done crease or nicely starched collar. It is not that I am relieved and overwhelmed with a sense of accomplishment once the ironing pile is no more. All of those things are nice, but it is the actual act, the anal-retentive attention to detail required, the warmth, the smells of clean linen and lemon starch, the simplicity, the precision; all this together makes ironing nothing short of glorious.
That being said, you can imagine that I went numb with shock and disbelief that I had not had the idea to combine these two activities earlier. I am, however, ecstatic to find that I am not alone in my seemingly paradoxical tastes. That being said, you can look forward to pictures of my extreme ironing attempts just as soon as I save up enough of a lightweight board and a battery powered iron.
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