You Have the Right to Remain Stupid

People are always telling me how smart I am, which demonstrates one thing quite clearly . . . people in general must be really stupid. I'm actually not particularly smart, motivated, or hard-working. I'm simply practical and I have more common sense than the average bear. A smart person wouldn't be perplexed childproof caps; sweaters without head holes (www.stitchfix.com – I'm still not over that incident); plungers; and lawn mowers, to name a few forms of personal kryptonite. For years, I believed that all cows slept standing up – until I moved to cow country and noticed many cows prefer to sleep in a seated position. Thus, I'm also still confused by cow tipping. These are not characteristics of the intellectual, folks.

What I do have in abundance is common sense, and I occasionally find myself indignant at the sheer lack of civilized manners that exist in our society. You need look no further than your local airport to witness this in action. In spite of the posters, television ads, and verbal warnings, there are always people dragging Big Gulps and giant cans of hairspray through security. These are the same people who "forget" to empty their pockets; leave their shoes and belts on; and generally need a minimum of three tries to get through airport security. Now, I'm confident these idiots are not terrorists or up to any nonsense, because a real criminal would be a lot sneakier. Of course, I accidentally tried to bring a corkscrew through airport security last year (I didn't realize it was in my bag) so I get it. Stuff happens.

In general, I try to summon up as much patience and graciousness for life's idiots as I can. It's unlikely, after all, that these people are waking up every morning with the sole objective of making me lose my shit. Thus, I typically take a deep breath, allow for a quick eye-roll, and deal with it. Most of the time, this tactic works. However, there are times, places, and behavior I find so egregious that I feel compelled to confront it. It's as if Boss Hogg descended from the heavens and deputized me in these moments, and I am obligated to do my civic duty. I have been known to pick up litter and chase after its bug to return it with the helpful phrase, "I think you dropped this." If my gym refuses to enforce their own rules of 20 minute limit on cardio machines while others are waiting, I shall police the elliptical machines on their behalf. I'm not going to wait while you clock an hour on that machine, Grandpa Tiny Running Shorts. Move along. My particular hot button, however, is uncivilized rudeness.

Newsflash: no one wants to wait in line. Lines suck. Waiting sucks. But if I have been waiting in line for 20 minutes and you suddenly show up in all your entitled glory and cut the line in front of me, don't think you're not going to hear about it. I observed a prospective line cutter at the airport the other day. When the thought bubble above her head started flashing in neon, I suggested that she rethink her plan. This suggestion was not well-received so I then encouraged her to obtain permission from each of the 50 people she was cutting off in line before making her choice. (Ps. The only way she was cutting in line on my watch is if she stepped behind me.) She did not care for my helpful suggestions but eventually went to the back of the line where she belonged. While waiting in line, she must have been stewing and coming up with some righteous comebacks, because about 10 minutes later, she and her horrific teenaged offspring returned like a recurring nightmare. Teen Spirit was quite disrespectful to her elder (me) but with such a lousy role model, I overlooked much of her sauciness. And honestly – if "bitch" is the best you can do, I'm hardly offended. I know I'm a bitch. I hear it all the time. Tell me something I don't know.

I wish this story had a better ending, but unfortunately, everyone else in line was a big pansy, and since I didn't think fisticuffs in the airport would get me to the front of the line any faster, I was left with nothing but my impotent rage when she returned and eventually cut in front of me in line. This would have been an excellent chance to embrace my anthem and give up or give in. I tried. I really did. But this asshole family was in my way everywhere at the airport. At one point, I wound up in front of them in yet another line, and neutered husband leaned in and said, "See? You beat us after all." Oh, sir. No. I want to beat you senseless with my shoe, but that will merely get me arrested and placed on a no-fly list. So, instead of giving him the beat down he deserved, I leaned in, patted his arm in a patronizing manner, and said in my most seething tone, "Oh, sir. You seem confused. We're not in a competition. It's not about who gets there first, it's about the rules of living in a civilized society and it's about having common decency and manners. It's a shame that you can't role model this for your children. They're going to grow up to be real assholes. Enjoy your flight."

That should have been the end of the story, but because I am karma's bitch, I ran into the Real Entitled Family of Philadelphia again at the gate, because of course we were on the same flight. At that point, neutered husband must have retrieved his testicles from his wife's purse, because the two of them sat near me, glared and me, and loudly talked about me in front of me. At this point, my rage had dissipated and I was more amused than anything else (although, given the chance, I would have gladly slapped the crap out of them) so I stared back with a smirk on my face and prayed to God that I wouldn't have to sit next to them on the flight. Spoiler alert: We were seated in opposite corners of the airplane and there were no further incidents.

So . . . anthem update.
Give Up: Yeah . . . I tried. But sometimes, giving up is harder than it looks. The only thing I gave up on recently was sleep. Between daylight savings time and a trip across time zones, hours were lost. I'm tired.

Wait, wait – no! I lied. I also am giving up on housecleaning. The palace needs a good deep cleaning. When the pets are constantly licking the floors, it's a sign that your filth has hit a new low. Rather than should all over myself and feel shame at my terrible domestic capabilities, I scheduled a housecleaning. Cleaner will be here on Monday and I assure you, it will be about the best $100 I'll spend this month.

Give In: I think the fact that I didn't leave the airport in handcuffs shows that I am capable of giving in when required. I also gave in and said goodbye to my favorite pair of Franco Sarto black ankle boots. These boots go with everything and were a fall and winter wardrobe staple for the past two years. Well-loved and oft worn, they've seen better days and are falling apart. We parted ways on Wednesday and now, I'm looking for a replacement. I also gave in and paid the IRS for my 2014 income taxes. This is only a partial victory as I owe the great state of MN significantly more money and I'm bitter about it, so I'm waiting until the last minute to pay them. Governor Dayton – I think I know where this budget surplus is coming from . . .

Giving It All I've Got: 81 day streak on MyFitnessPal. It's hard to log all your food when you're on the road, away from home, and eating in restaurants a lot. I did the best I could and clearly, overate this week. I'll be staying off the scale for now, thank you. I've also been reading Stop Eating Your Heart Out, which is an interesting look at binge-eating and emotional eating disorders, with an emphasis on developing skills to alleviate the shame, guilt, and fear associated with a dysfunctional relationship with food. Parts of this book resonate strongly and others, not so much. One thing the author recommends is (drumroll, please) keeping a food log/diary and she outlines the benefits of doing so. I guess MyFitnessPal and I are doing something right!

One of the excerpts that resonated most strongly with me is when the author addressed the concept of "shoulding" all over yourself. She recommends that we "change our shoulds to coulds." Instead of saying, "I should go to the gym" or "I have to eat more vegetables", she recommends that we reframe this by saying things like, "I choose to exercise" or "I choose to eat broccoli." She goes on to explain that "the word choose dissipates that poor-me voice and the feeling of being a victim and leads instead to feelings of self-empowerment." I'm still practicing this – unlearning a life of "shoulding" doesn't happen overnight. By the way, I could exercise more than I have been lately. Ahem.

I've gone 80 days without biting my fingernails and to celebrate, I had a manicure and went wild with dark red polish. I can't stop staring at my hands and I suspect that I am wildly gesturing while talking to others just so I can get a glimpse of my pretty digits. I'm hooked on nice nails!

Lastly, and while it may seem like the kind of thing Captain Obvious would share, I am giving all I've got to documenting my journey. Writing is cathartic and although I don't always have something interesting to say, the act of sitting down at my laptop and letting my words out helps create both a sense of peace and some joy in my life. And that is really what giving it all you've got is all about.

 
© 2015 Princess D

Beware the Ides (and the rest of) March

True confession: March has never been my favorite month. From Mother Nature's mood swings (Snow, rain, wind, ice, and melting all in one month? That's crazy!) to losing an hour of sleep due to daylight savings time to my seasonal allergy attacks which will kick in every single time we have a small thaw, leaving me snotty, breathless, and mainlining Claritin to cope with my sinus headaches to the way that March deposits a heaping helping of fresh grief and loss on my doorstep, March is the time of year when I feel less like a princess and more like pee. Lest you think that was either a Freudian slip or spell check error, let me be clear – I feel like actual urine. That was intentional.

On March 14, 2001, I learned the true meaning of grief. If you don't answer when grief calls, don't worry. Grief leaves a voicemail. And if you don't respond to that voicemail immediately, because you're busy being a very important corporate drone and you decide to return the call when it's more convenient for you, grief will join forces with her BFFs guilt and shame, and the three of them will wait for you and they will deliver an ass-kicking that will stick with you for the remainder of your days. Like most of the lessons I've learned, I learned this one the hard way and I have the invisible scars to prove it. When I finally got around to returning grief's phone call 14 years ago, I remember feeling annoyed and put out that I had to respond to this likely annoying voicemail – until I heard the words that would break my heart into a million pieces and change me forever. Nate was dead.

Nate was the embodiment of love, of laughter, of light, and of life – but where there is love and light, there can also be darkness lurking below the surface. Nate's struggle was epic – he fought the demons of bipolar disorder and depression quietly and alone for many years. He won many battles but ultimately, mental illness won the war when he took his own life on March 13, 2001. He was my best friend. Why didn't he confide in me? Why didn't he tell me how bad things had become? I couldn't reconcile the idea of a guy who was too gentle to kill a spider with this man who bought a gun and used it to end his life. How did this happen? Why didn't I know? Why didn't I stop it? Lather, rinse, repeat.

On St Patrick's Day 14 years ago, we said our goodbyes and buried Nate – and I said goodbye to my dear friend and hello to my three new companions; grief, shame, and guilt. The four of us spent a lot of time together in the ensuing days, months, and years – mostly late at night when the rest of the world was sleeping. My three new companions would gang up on me; tell me horrible things about myself; and they pushed me to make lousy life choices. So, no, March – I don't particularly care if you decide to go in like a lamb, a lion, or a loose cannon . . . I just plain don't like you.

Of course, time marches on (pun not intended but awesome nonetheless) and since it's not socially acceptable to take to your bed for an entire month just because it's not your best time of year, I continue my efforts to give up, give in, or give it all I've got. Here's the latest:

Give Up: I gave up an hour of sleep – but so did everyone because daylight savings time is here. I also gave up part of my weekend to take my niece (aka mini-me) on some college visits. There is nothing like spending 36 hours with a 16 year old to make you feel older than dirt. I remember the day Mini-me was born, and suddenly we're filling out college applications and looking at dorm rooms and talking about college majors and careers. She has a drivers' license, an opinion about everything, and such a bright future in front of her. I want her to take advantage of every opportunity and shine – and not make all the mistakes that my dumb ass made, but I also know that screwing up is part of growing up, so instead, I bite my tongue so hard that I taste blood and do my best to be a good role model, mentor, and champion for her while trying to remember to buy Geritol and Activia because I. AM. OLD. How the hell did this happen?

Give In: I love living in America, and I know that part of the deal of living in this great land is that I have to pay taxes. Yet the annual income tax routine makes me sweat, itch, and panic like nothing else on earth. I am terrified of the size of the check I will need to write my uncle, Sam. Occasionally, I get a small refund but more often than not, I'm writing a check with a lot of zeros. Last year, I sold a house and made a profit (on paper) so I feared the worst. After almost chewing off my nice-looking fingernails from anxiety, I decided to suck it up and the hubby and I called our tax dude. The short version of this story is that yes, I owe some money. It's a lot less than my worst nightmare and we'll be filing this week. Am I thrilled to write these checks? No. But it could be a lot worse, as I learned in previous years, so I'll write the checks, lick the stamps, and shut my pie hole. And that, my friends, is the very definition of giving in.

Giving It All I've Got: I have 69 days of mostly honest and complete food logging on MyFitnessPal, which is both a personal record and quite an achievement. I'm terrified to step on the scale to determine if I'm making any actual progress, so I am relying on the positive affirmations and proactive shaming I receive from MyFitnessPal on a regular basis to define my success. Thankfully, MyFitnessPal has not yet figured out that I occasionally replace entire meals with wine, so it has yet to provide me with the shaming I so richly deserve, "Wine is not one of the four food groups" or alternately, "This much wine consumption is only going to lead you down the road to inhaling a family size bag of Pirate's Booty before the day is done." I jest. I only had wine for dinner one time. I promise.

I'm finishing up my Thrive Eight-Week Experience. Have I lost weight? Only my scale knows for sure and I am certainly not going to hoist my fat ass onto that digital nightmare to find out. Do I have more energy? I think I do. Do I feel pretty good most of the time? Yes, actually – which is no small feat considering March is generally the time of year I go into a deep depression that no amount of sleep, chocolate, wine, or Lifetime movies can cure. One of these mornings – preferably not a morning after I've smashed an entire platter of onion rings (also known as last Thursday) or a large pizza (also known as the prior Saturday) or a gooey chocolate-peanut butter Rice Krispy treat (within the past 72 hours) – I will face my demons, step on the scale, and get an official progress report. Until then, I'll keep Thriving because it's probably not hurting and frankly, sometimes that's the best I can hope for.

Not only have I been religious about seeing Big Bad Trainer, but I think I might be getting stronger! I frequently flex my biceps at home in front of the mirror, the cat, the dog, and my husband. None of them seem too impressed. I huff and puff like the Big Bad Wolf's twin sister when Big Bad Trainer puts me through the paces, and the thought of lunging or squatting makes my hair hurt. And maybe Big Bad Trainer is playing head games with me, but even he has mentioned that I seem to be getting stronger. You've been warned.

I've been sporadic about my cardio workouts – but, I did pack my sneakers on my weekend road trip to Fargo, ND – and damn if I wasn't in the hotel gym at the Candlewood Suites getting my sweat on early Saturday morning. I'm not giving it all I've got here but I'm giving it something which is better than nothing, right?

I am pleased to report that I do not have to move out of my little community. My volunteer application to serve on the human services committee has been approved and I am supposed to be sworn in by the city council next week. I attended my first meeting tonight and I'm looking forward to being in a position to make a small difference in the community where I live. My husband is happy that I'm not going to move out, as I threatened to do if I was not selected to serve. What can I say? I'm a vengeful person.

It's been at least 65 days since I last chewed my fingernails. I do still occasionally pick a ragged cuticle but I'm not going to lie to you – my nails look pretty good. I have discovered the shellac manicure which has been basically life-changing, and I frequently admire my own lovely nails. Because I can.

Finally – in the spirit of giving it all I've got, I'll be remembering my dear Nate on Friday, March 13^th. While I remember him every day, on Friday, I'll be taking special care to "give it all I've got" to paying it forward and honoring his memory. Don't be alarmed if you get a phone call or a text from me. Will I be handing out hugs? Doubtful. But hey – stranger things have happened.

© 2015 Princess D