Yes, I *WOULD* like fries with that!

If you were to Google “control freak”, you’d likely stumble upon a picture of me. And because I am a control freak, I assure you that it would be a sanctioned, approved photo where my hair looks good and my outfit doesn’t make me look fat. My insane need for control makes me an obnoxious automobile passenger (unless you enjoy gasping, foot stomping, and having the person in the seat next to you grip your arm so hard it bruises). I am incapable of enjoying amusement parks because rollercoasters and other thrill-seeking rides spit in the face of my need to control my environment (and make me vomit and urinate on myself, if you must know). I have a pathological fear of falling, which is weird because as the least graceful person on the planet, I trip and fall a lot. My entire life is managed via an Outlook calendar, and I’m known to proclaim, “If it’s not on the calendar, it doesn’t exist!” There is nary a spontaneous bone in this aging body of mine, so if it’s a good time you’re looking for, I’d suggest you look elsewhere. However, if it’s order, drive, and determination you seek, look no further! And if you’d like that served up with a good, old-fashioned side of guilt and shame . . . . Well, you’re in luck. That’s the house specialty.

In a different chapter of my life, my control freak tendencies extended to all aspects of my life, and I was very thin. And then I wasn’t. And then I was a little chubby. And then I was thin again. And now I’m hovering right around what the medical profession and insurance companies call a “normal” BMI, which means my weight is none of your business. I was born with ovaries and estrogen and in the 1970’s – so I’ve been on a diet since 1987 and I’ve been trained to hate the way I look, bar none. This is a phenomenon that only chicks and gay dudes can really understand.

After I kissed enough frogs for a marine biology workshop and found a prince, I bought a real pretty dress and a tiara so I could get hitched. Since I had a fairytale wedding, complete with horse, carriage, and castle, it was only appropriate that I slimmed down and toned up so I could look like the princess I am on my wedding day. No one wants to look like a chubbette on her wedding day, right? On the advice of my favorite author / memoirist (is that a real word?), Jen Lancaster, I decided to hire a professional to whip my butt into shape, and Trainers Jared, Dan, Eric, and Aaron entered my life. In that order.

Fast forward three years and I’m still working with Trainer Aaron. I’m 10 pounds heavier than I was on my wedding day. I’d love to say it is muscle but unless muscle jiggles when poked and unless there is a “spare tire” muscle I was previously unware of, I’m pretty sure this 10 pounds is comprised of wine, pizza, burgers, and beer. And maybe nachos. I have the eating habits of a medium sized fraternity house.

Since I’m married – which means I can get away with being as fat and hairy as I want to be and there is absolutely nothing my husband can do about it – my weight isn’t the major concern it used to be. I mean, I don’t want to be a morbidly obese, walking cardiac arrest but I’m also not trying to be a hot single gal either. Sorry, honey but you’re stuck with me for better or for worse, and I’m pretty sure I warned you that it wasn’t going to get much better than it was on our wedding day. My current fitness goals are simple - I’m just trying to fit into my pants all day long. (Side note: Just about a year ago, I had the worst fat girl wardrobe malfunction ever when I burst out of my pants at the office. Those seams were no match for all that my thighs had to offer. A less dedicated employee might have gone home. Me? I stapled my pants back together and continued to kick ass until 6 PM because that’s what I do).

There are days when no pants fit and I’m forced to consider whether or not my “dressy” sweats will meet office dress code. Worse, I’m forced to face the fact that I need to shut my pizza-hole and get my big ass on a treadmill. If those days happen to be on a Monday or a Wednesday, I leave work a little early and I let Trainer Aaron force me to lift heavy objects and put them down over and over and over again.  Side note: spending two hours a week in the gym will not undo the 300 burgers and 600 pounds of French fries you consumed when you weren’t in the gym.

You’d think that as a control freak, I’d have this whole weight and fitness thing figured out. It’s about the easiest equation I’ve ever encountered – eat less, move more and your pants will fit. It’s not matter of lacking the knowledge to be successful. No, I know what I need to do. It’s a matter of lacking the discipline and as a control freak, there is no small amount of shame in my total lack of self-discipline where my health is concerned.

So the shame spiral continues. While I cognitively understand that I’m fortunate to have a body that is able to get out of bed every day and while I appreciate that health is a fragile and fleeting gift, I continue to poison my body with salt, fat, grease, sugar, and wine. (Not necessarily in that order.) I spend an inordinate amount of time sitting on my ass, completely immobile. I’ve been known to take an elevator up one flight – and found myself stuck in it when the power went out. I don’t celebrate what makes my body amazing but rather, spend my time body shaming myself. I’m fat. I’m lumpy. I’m pale. I’m hairy. My eyebrows are growing together. I’m covered in bumpy moles like a raised relief map. I’m sweaty. My fingernails are chewed down to the stubs as if termites have been snacking on my fingertips. My skin is dry and oily at the same time. I’m wrinkled like a baked potato. I’m so disgusted and ashamed of my own body, I don’t even want to be naked in the shower. (Side note: this may be why I have such an aversion to showering.)

I try to exercise. I show up at the gym. If you don’t see me, you’ll hear me. I’m the one whining, complaining, and huffing and puffing as if I am in the midst of blowing some poor little pig’s house down. If you do happen to see me, you’ll notice I look a little different than everyone else at the gym. I’m not wearing cute, color coordinated leggings and tank tops. No one wants to see these upper arms or my ample and sagging bosom unrestrained by multiple sports bras. (Yes, I wear at least two at a time to keep everything where it belongs. Elastic and wire are no match for what I’ve got going on here.) Instead of cute active wear, I’m in giant baggy sweats and an XXXL t-shirt that has enough room to hide a family of refugees inside. I’m keeping it all covered up so neither of us have to look at this mess. You’re welcome. Of course, when I leave the gym, a sweaty and quivering mess, I immediately fling open the refrigerator and consume everything inside.

Am I undisciplined? Maybe. Am I a terrible control freak? Possibly. Am I incredibly ashamed by my ability to get out of my own way? Definitely. But I think you know that I’m not a girl who gives up or gives in when she needs to give it all she’s got. While I may take down an entire large pizza by myself on occasion, while I may eat Cheetos for dinner on a regular basis, and while I suffer more than the average number of wardrobe malfunctions due to bursting out of my seams – I’m not giving up the fight. Sure, I beat myself up both literally and figuratively – but I shroud my fat, hairy body in multiple sports bras and baggy clothes and I get back to the gym. I log my shameful eating. And while I may not be making the progress I could or should be, I haven’t thrown in the towel . . . because I need it to mop up all this damn sweat.

© 2016 Princess D.

Confessions of a Secret People Pleaser

Shameful confession number 674: I am a secret people pleaser. Now, before you go getting all judgey-judgey on me, I’m confessing to being a secret people pleaser, not being any good at it. My competence and proficiency in the people pleasing arts are an entirely different topic for an entirely different blog. I think the operative word here is secret, since I like to pretend I’m kind of a badass, and I certainly don’t mind going toe to toe with anyone who deserves a thorough verbal lashing. (I have occasionally been known to lash out at those who may not entirely deserve it, a fact I’m compelled to share here because there have been witnesses. Applebee’s waitress, I’m talking to and about you. Little jerk-off in the Chevy Malibu who cut me off in the parking lot at SDSU, you were asking for it and I refuse to apologize. May you never, ever need to come to me for a job) Nonetheless, at my unengaged and chubby core, I am nothing more than a middle-aged people pleaser with codependent tendencies. Thank you, therapy, for providing me an entirely new vocabulary to use as I berate myself for my shortcomings.

Beyond the therapy-inspired lexicon, my time on the couch has also provided me ample opportunities to climb into the Delorean time machine to revisit the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of five year old me and ten year old me and 14 year old me, not to mention the me’s at all the ages in between. As you might imagine, I have limited tolerance for these activities and walks down memory lane because I’m trying to build a better future, not rehash a past that I may not entirely remember. Since I have entrusted my mental health to an actual professional, while I may be resistant to his techniques, I’ve challenged myself to at least give the process a whirl under the heading of, “What doesn’t kill me could make me stronger.” Since I can’t let bygones be bygones, I’m spending more time than any normal and functional adult should revisiting my sordid past.

My earliest memory of people pleasing has nothing to do with actual people. Because why would it? No – my people pleasing actually started out with Muppets, or more specifically, characters on Sesame Street. Back in the 1970’s, things were different on Sesame Street. Mr. Hooper was still alive and serving as the proprietor of Hooper’s Store. And for the first 16 seasons of Sesame Street, only Big Bird could see Aloysius Snuffleupagus, his tusk-less wooly mammoth best friend. In spite of Big Bird’s insistence that Snuffy was real, the grown-ups on Sesame Street refused to believe poor Big Bird and often teased him about his imaginary friend. Even worse, the adults accused Big Bird of using Snuffy as a scapegoat (or would it be a scape-mammoth?) whenever something went wrong out of their immediate line of sight. This injustice was simply more than my four year old self could handle. What the hell was the matter with these grown-ups? Are you blind? Can’t you see the giant teddy bear Snuffy left behind? And why are you being so mean and cruel to Big Bird? He’s just a nice yellow bird with a friendly demeanor and a wooly mammoth BFF. While I looked forward to watching Sesame Street every day, the anxiety and the emotional turmoil of Snuffy-gate was more than I could bear, and if four year old me could have jumped into the television to help Big Bird out, I most certainly would have.

I eventually graduated from Muppets to actual humans, and there are plenty of people-pleasing (or not) examples from ages five to 13 I could and probably will share in the safety and comfort of my therapist’s office, where there is ambient lighting and an ample supply of generic facial tissue. (You’re welcome.) But if we fast-forward to age 14, indulge me for a moment while I tell you yet another people-pleasing doozy.

The year was 1987. The jeans were acid-washed; the jackets were denim; and the hair was big and so full of chemicals that it probably violated every OSHA pollution statute. My style icon was one part Molly Ringwald, circa Pretty in Pink and two parts fat girl who shops at Target. To describe me as uncool would be an understatement. See also, “people pleaser” which included but was not limited to my parents; neighbors; and teachers. I was a good student, I did my homework, I made the honor roll, and I didn’t get into any trouble. I also had precious few friends and was a giant dork, but hey – no one’s perfect, right? I was a freshman at a co-educational and very Catholic high school and with the exception of an incident where I was caught kissing a Jewish boy, I was a complete angel. There is no need for you to consult my mom for input on this. Trust me. I was a damn angel.

In 1987, we didn’t know much about homosexuality. For most of us, our only real education about what it meant to be gay came from Three's Company, which introduced us to gay jokes and living in the closet. We learned that landlords are intolerant of co-educational cohabitation and often exhibit homophobic tendencies, especially if their name is Roper or Furley. My parents didn’t have gay friends and although in hindsight, I think a lesbian couple lived across the alley from us, we didn’t acknowledge it back then. As a kid in a very Catholic high school, the only thing I knew about homosexuality is that it had the word “sex” in it which obviously meant it would send you directly to hell, without passing go and without collecting $200. If you were a homosexual male attending a very Catholic high school in Minneapolis in 1987, you were considered weird – nothing more, nothing less. And you probably kept your gayness to yourself.

1987 was the first time I unwittingly dated a gay guy. It wasn’t the last time and I remained very popular with closeted gay males for the next decade. For most, I was the last girl they dated before deciding to come out already . . . a fact that likely had nothing to do with me but took a toll on my fragile self-esteem nonetheless. I met a lot of parents; attended a lot of family functions; and ultimately learned the importance of a well-defined brow arch. (The secret is waxing and tweezing.) The difference between 1987’s date and those that followed was what motivated my date in the first place.

The homecoming dance was kind of a big deal. As a gigantic nerd, I assumed I would spend the evening at home with my nose in a book and a giant bag of Reese’s pieces at my side. It never even occurred to me that some boy would ask me to the dance. But that’s what happened. His name was Chad and he was what we called weird back in the 80’s. He was that kid with the thick glasses and the high-pitched voice who made everyone roll their eyes when he spoke in class . . . and for reasons unknown to me to this day, he asked me to be his date to the dance. I really, really didn’t want to go with him. If I’m honest, I really didn’t want to go to the dance, period. With my two left feet and Elaine Benes moves, I’m best served in the audience, not on the floor.

Of course, I’d never been asked on a real date before, unless we count riding my bike to meet the forbidden Jewish boy in the park for braces-encumbered kissing sessions. My desire to not spend one-on-one time with Chad was overcome by my desire to not disappoint – and so I said yes to a date I didn’t want to go on, with a boy I could barely tolerate because I’m a people pleaser. I bought a formal dress – but as a gal of a certain size and on a budget, my choices were limited and I ultimately selected what I can only describe as a shimmery, peach-hued bridesmaid dress reject that I paired with clip-on earrings (I eschew extra holes in one’s head) and very, very flat shoes. Think Drew Barrymore as “Josie Grossey” in Never Been Kissed to get a visual.

Because we were 14 years old and also a pair of losers, our parents drove us on our ill-fated date. He took me to dinner at a place that was way, way too hip for me in a neighborhood that was overrun with hipster doofuses even in 1987. I’m sure we talked. I know we ate but all I can remember is feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Eventually, dinner was over and someone’s parents picked us up and deposited us to the dance.

It was a typical high school dance . . . a decorated cafeteria, George Michael, Whitney Houston, and Roxette songs in the background, and gender-segregated gaggles of teenagers in every corner. I can’t speak for what the boys were doing, but in the girls’ corner, we giggled, gossiped and waited for the boys to ask us to dance – because apparently, in 1987, we couldn’t ask a boy ourselves. Eventually, Chad wandered over and asked me to slow dance. Had I not been a people pleaser, I would have given him a hearty “no thanks” and continued on with my evening. Alas, that was not the case.

The song was Atlantic Starr’s, Always, and the dancing was poor. Very poor. It was a lot of shuffle-footed swaying. I tried desperately not to make eye contact with my weird date, and I prayed to every Catholic saint I knew that this night would end quickly and painlessly. They were obviously otherwise occupied because before the song came to an end, I found myself being groped and slobbered on by Chad. Bad touch! Bad touch! I wanted to break his arms, smash his face in, and run as far away as I could as fast as my feet in impractical shoes could take me. But instead of doing any of those things, I merely stood there in all my people-pleasing glory, and waited for it to be over.

I don’t remember much else about that dance – or if I ever even spoke to Chad again. I left our very Catholic high school after freshman year only to return with my tail between my legs as a junior, but by then, Chad was gone and no one ever spoke of him again. It wasn’t until several years later that I realized Chad wasn’t merely a creepy weirdo but rather, a misunderstood gay kid in a very Catholic high school just trying to get by – and he inadvertently chose a girl who didn’t have the word “no” in her vocabulary as his partner in crime.

From Big Bird and Snuffy to the closeted gay boys in a very Catholic high school in the 1980’s to everyone I encounter who is suffering since . . . I’m a secret people pleaser. Worse, I cannot stand to see another human being hurting. A friend once told me that I collected the walking wounded the way little boys collect baseball cards. As I unpack this truth about myself – both inside and outside my therapist’s office – I can’t help but wonder if this is such a bad thing. If I stop being a secret people pleaser, will I still be me?  

© 2016 Princess D.

A Prescription for Change

I’ve been fascinated with caterpillars and butterflies since someone read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to five-year-old me. (And this is the only time that a reference to five year old me doesn’t result in an immediate and brutal beating, so if you’re my therapist reading this, you should take note.) I’m sure I’m not the only kid who stalked furry caterpillars to rehome them in a “mayonnaise jar, with a stick and a leaf, to recreate what they’re used to.” In spite of my loving attempts to provide a warm habitat and a welcoming environment, my caterpillars never magically transformed into anything other than dead caterpillars – but I never, ever gave up hope. I guess I’ve been a closet optimist most of my life.

I’ve been in the midst of my own metamorphosis lo these past few months, which is why you’re enduring the world’s most obvious and heavy-handed metaphor. No, I didn’t relocate to a mostly empty Miracle Whip jar. I haven’t redecorated the palace in a twig motif. (There is still a kitty condo in the living room. Because I’m nothing if not classy as hell.) And after a recent visit to the Minnesota Zoo’s butterfly exhibit with my energetic, musical, adorable four year old nephew, I dusted off my grade school science books and refreshed my memory about how caterpillars become butterflies.

In spite of my diverse liberal arts background, my grasp on basic biology is tenuous at best. I mean, I understand where babies come from, with absolutely no thanks to the archdiocese of Minneapolis and St. Paul, whose idea of sex education consisted of having a celibate Christian Brother show us a series of videos that illustrated the sinfulness of the flesh. (Hell looked really hot and miserable so I decided to stay as far away from any activities that might land me there. I think most of you know how much I hate to sweat.)  Thankfully, my parents armed five year old me (there she is again!) with a copy of Where Did I Come From which is where most of my basic biology knowledge comes from. In more recent years, the hubby and I have become amateur pumpkin growers – a hobby that involves science, plant anatomy, and assisted pumpkin procreation. I did not, however, have a real appreciation of the biology of how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly until recently. Better late than never, I guess.

The very hungry caterpillar failed to prepare me for the incredibly violent and traumatic process of metamorphosis. I won’t jump the shark but if you want to learn more, may I suggest a little light internet research? While I didn’t digest myself or release any cool enzymes in my own transformation, there were moments when it felt just as painful and violent, and with the benefit of hindsight, I can tell you that the fundamental difference between a caterpillar and me is that the caterpillar has the self-awareness to know when it’s time to make a change. I was less of a caterpillar and more like the frog who doesn’t realize she’s being slowly boiled alive. Ribbit.

It’s no secret that I’ve been living with depression for several years. My word choice is intentional. I’m not suffering from or struggling with depression. I live with it, the same way I live with my 34 inch inseam, my freckles, and my cat and dog. There are days when I don’t mind living with it and there are days when it’s a giant pain in the ass, but I’m not a victim of my brain chemistry. I am, however, most certainly guilty of hubris.

I’m not entirely sure how long I’ve been living with depression – partially because I have the superpower of selective memory but mostly because I spent most of my adult life pretending that I was a-okay. I deluded myself into thinking I’d fake it until I made it. If I just worked hard enough and wanted it bad enough, I’d be happy. Depression was something that other people dealt with – not me. I was stronger than that. And my strength would see me through anything.

What no one knew, what no one could see, and what I refused to admit even to myself (except in those exceptionally dark and honest moments that occur at 3 AM) is that I’m no superwoman. I’m not nearly as strong as I pretend to be – not physically (although I can lift the 50 lb. bags of dog chow by myself now), not spiritually, and not emotionally. To admit that it was a daily struggle to get out of bed and face the world would be to admit to a weakness I simply could not face . . . but it was real. And as it turns out, there is a difference between living with depression and pretending you’re just fine. When you’re ignoring your depression, it wraps itself around you like a weighted blanket that you carry everywhere you go. There is a heaviness to your soul that makes weariness your de facto mode. Fatigue doesn’t adequately describe your levels of exhaustion and yet you can’t sleep. You trudge through each day in slow motion, fantasizing about returning home to the safety of your jammies and your bed, thinking that maybe tonight is the night you’ll sleep like a baby. And at 3 AM, you’ll find yourself once again staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell is wrong with you.

That’s depression. Of course, strong women like me don’t have to worry about things like living with depression, right? Smart women don’t get depressed. Depression is problem for other people, not for people like me. And I believed that, wholeheartedly, until about six years ago when I got my ovaries in a twist (figuratively) and a routine doctor’s appointment changed everything.

If you happen to have “girl parts”, you’re well aware that girl parts are a lot like owning a BMW or a fancy car. Upkeep is a full-time job and there is a lot of opportunity for things to go wrong. I’m not really using my girl parts for anything but in spite of that, I recognize the need for routine maintenance. I was about 15 years overdue for the girl parts version of an oil change so in a rare moment of adulting, I scheduled an appointment with the OB/GYN. As we reviewed my health history, my physician told me she was concerned that my ovaries were conspiring against me . . . at least, that’s my interpretation of events. She talked about something called PMDD which is the overachiever’s version of PMS. It’s like premenstrual syndrome on steroids, and no amount of Midol will make it better. I left the doctor’s office with a diagnosis of PMDD and a prescription for Prozac, which was supposed to tame the mental health side effects of my rotten ovaries.

I incorporated this little pill into my daily routine and you know what? I started to feel different. Better. Normal. And that should be where this little story ends but of course it’s not. Can you imagine if a diabetic stopped taking their insulin because they felt better? Or if an epileptic stopped taking anti-seizure pills because they haven’t had a seizure in a while? That doesn’t happen because the epileptic and the diabetic are blessed with common sense and do not possess the shocking levels of arrogance that I have.

Sometime last year, my prescription ran out. I was out of refills and the only way to get more Prozac was to visit the doctor again . . . something I really wanted to avoid at all costs. If I’m being honest, the real reason I didn’t want to visit the doctor was because I didn’t want to stand on that big scale of shame in the office while a chunky nurse in rubber-soled clogs loudly told me what I already knew . . . I’ve gained a significant amount of weight in the past 18 months. You don’t burst out of a pair of pants at work – and then staple them back together – when you’re at goal weight. Because I didn’t want to face the scale, I convinced myself that I didn’t need the Prozac anymore.

Now, I’m the first to tell you that Prozac isn’t a miracle pill. I still have low days when I’m properly medicated. But I tend to shower more regularly and spend more time out of my pajamas when I’m taking my meds – and I have fewer highs and lows. I like to say that the Prozac moderates my moods and takes the edges off. And without it, I am left to experience all my moods in their full, Technicolor glory. When combined with my self-proclaimed hall monitor of the world proclivities, an unmedicated Denise means that a lot of unsuspecting people are subject to my wrath. This includes but is not limited to litterbugs; people who don’t recycle; arm rest hogs; that sweaty asshole at the gym who can’t be bothered to wipe down his machine when he’s done; everyone at the damn grocery store; and more.

I had a good unmedicated run over the past nine months – but it was harder than it needed to be. I hit a speedbump that left me very, very low recently and I had to face facts. I’m not stronger than my brain or my ovaries. I can’t outsmart or outrun or “out-strong” depression. I was humbled, and I had a tough choice to make. Do I keep fighting this thing or do I admit that I need help and take the pills again?

Four weeks ago, I renewed my prescription. It felt like a personal failing, but I took the pills anyway. Slowly, I’m beginning to feel like myself again – the version of myself who does get out of bed; who can face the world; and who washes her hair periodically. In fact, just this morning, I looked in the mirror and realized instead of a caterpillar staring back at me, I saw a butterfly, wings and all. Maybe Prozac is more miraculous than I thought . . . .

© 2016 Princess D.

We've All Got Bruises

When I was younger, thinner, and before life had its way with me (multiple times), I bought into the fairy tale that said we should all live happy ever after. The goal was to have the perfect life – straight, white teeth (the bane of my existence); a 2000+ square foot home with impeccable landscaping; a luxury car; and the right shoes and handbag for every situation. Of course, the reality is that I have terrible yet expensive teeth; hooves instead of feet, and a black thumb. How I got from my illusions of happily ever after to a place where a cat condo is considered appropriate interior décor for my living room is perhaps not a real shocker to anyone but me.  

I’m getting uncomfortably close to another birthday, which can only mean that I’m that much closer to the senior discount at Denny’s – and of course, these little life milestones provide ample opportunity for self-reflection. As I consider my past 30 – 70 turns around the sun, I can’t help but pay attention to those who’ve played a role in this sitcom I call my life. I’ve collected a fascinating cast of characters over the years. Some are on the payroll like my kick-ass personal trainer or my elfin therapist while others are just the people that I meet when I’m walking down the street. Maybe it’s the wisdom of middle age, maybe it’s my inability to establish and respect interpersonal boundaries, or maybe it’s just a coincidence but I notice that lately, most of my conversations are focused on bruises. I’m not talking about actual contusions of the flesh but rather, those bruises on our souls. I’m talking about those moments where life knocked us down hard and we had to decide whether to give up, give in, or give it our all.

Lately, the people who I find the most inspiring are those whose bruises have healed but still lurk beneath the surface. I’m talking about the guy at work who took out a second mortgage on his house to pay for IVF so his wife could have the family she always dreamed of. Or the woman on the city council who’s battled cancer three times while running a company and giving back to her community. Or the guy who served two tours of duty in Iraq, lost his hearing and some of his sanity, and can’t quite reintegrate into real life the way he wants to. Or the single mom of three down the street who works three jobs to put a roof over her kids’ heads and who wants nothing more than to see them all graduate from high school. The nurse at the clinic who just had her own son arrested after he stole her car but who manages to take your blood without leaving a single mark or bruise on your skin. A woman who lost her fiancé to accidental overdose who channeled her grief into starting an overdose prevention charity. Your dear friend who stays married for the sake of the kids. That colleague who dotes on his ungrateful wife and kids. Your coworker who has a demanding job, an adult child with significant special needs, and an aging father who is showing signs of dementia but who shows up every day with a smile on his face regardless. And of course, my very own husband who overcame addiction and incarceration and stigma to become a force to be reckoned with.

When they share their stories with me in the matter of fact way that one might deliver a weather report, it breaks my heart. I want to take their hands and look into their eyes and weep. These are their bruises and in some cases, their scars. Of course, they are more than the sum of their bruises. They are complex, resilient, strong and determined human beings. They are my friends, my coworkers, and my posse. And just like the song, their bruises make for better conversation. They’re not alone in how they’ve been . . . we’ve all got bruises.

I have my own bruises and scars, but I do my damnedest to keep them covered up – not because I’m ashamed of them but because I don’t think they’re anything special. We all have bruises and mine aren’t any more or less interesting or colorful than yours or anyone else’s. I don’t want anyone’s pity or even their empathy for the bruises I’ve endured along the way. In fact, I almost never show all my bruises to anyone. If you ask, I’ll tell you my story, but I might omit a few chapters – mostly unintentionally. Even my therapist is still learning new details about me and let’s be honest . . . I’ve let that asshole see my cry a whole bunch of times lo these last eight years. Here’s the deal. Yeah, I’ve got bruises – but I am more than that. Every single time life has knocked me on my ass, I’ve gotten back up, arms swinging, ready for a fight.

I may not live in a McMansion. I may (okay, I do) have a cat condo in my living room. (You're welcome, Carl.)  I may not be wearing a diamond ring the size of a compact car. I may buy my clothes at Target and I may forget to wear makeup to work more often than not. Do I work hard? You bet I do. But so do a lot of people. I happen to be lucky enough to get a big paycheck for the fruits of my labor. There are people who do much more important work than I do – teachers, police officers, addiction counselors, and nurses to name a few – who deserve much bigger paychecks than mine. But I’m happy with my humble little existence. I get up every day with one goal. I want to make my part of the world a little bit better than it was yesterday. I want to be a daymaker. And I want to believe that the reason this old gal has survived all these bruises and scars is because she’s here to quietly make a difference.

I guess that’s what give up, give in, or give it all you’ve got is all about. Of course, my husband just ordered a megaphone from amazon.com, so any ambitions of quietly doing anything are probably off the table.

© 2016 Princess D.

Expectations & Acceptance

As I was hosting yet another Princess-themed pity party, I caught myself lamenting, “When will it ever get easier?” Then I realized the fallacy inherent in my line of thinking. I never received a save-the-date informing me that the amorphous it would suddenly be simple and easy at a predefined date and time somewhere in the future. But without the hope and promise that someday, somehow this will get easier, life becomes pretty bleak, doesn’t it?

Maybe easy isn’t the right adjective anyway. It’s just that I’ve been banking on the notion that I’d eventually get my shit together. Does having my proverbial poop in order equate to easy? Maybe, maybe not – but one thing is certain. Life would certainly be a lot less complicated. Some of the chaos I bring on myself – things like keeping my grey roots at bay with frequent hair coloring; like the ritual pore popping I do in the name of young(er) looking skin; and like the occasional mani/pedi to keep my hooves looking polished. I recently read an article that’s become the fodder of my most terrifying nightmares. Let me share a few nuggets with you. “Women 55 and older who lose a job have more trouble than men getting another one . . . ‘older displaced women are less likely than displaced men of the same ages to be re-employed and more likely to have left the labor force.”  I might not be 50 yet, but I know a few things to be true. One, this household doesn’t operate without me in the workforce – and if someone kicks my aging ass to the curb, we’re screwed. Two, in the event that I do wind up “over 50, female, and jobless,” I'm sure as hell not going to advertise my age on my resume; on my hair color; or on my skin. I’d like to leave you guessing, thank you very much.

Why I’m worried about being unemployed ten years from now is part of my irrational charm. I’ve been in my current job for just under six months. No one has stabbed me yet, and it’s entirely possible that I’ve fooled a whole bunch of people into thinking I know what I’m doing. (Poor bastards.) The truth is, I just show up, apply as much common sense as I can muster up, and hope for the best. Lucky for me, common sense is as rare in corporate America – especially in HR circles – as the dodo bird, so as long as I can keep the f-bombs to a minimum and feign interest in what’s going on around me while using copious amounts of moisturizer and hair dye, I might survive the next ten years.

Let’s keep it real. I come from a long line of anxious people. You’ve probably met some of them. You might be one of them. My dad, a million mile frequent flier, still insists on arriving at the airport half a day before his scheduled flight. My mom is incapable of being a passenger in anyone’s car because she wants to control your driving. Never mind that she’s the one who gets pulled over all the time . . .   My brother is probably the least anxious one of all of us and that’s only because he’s too damn tired raising three tiny humans to have anxiety. Plus I think he had it all stabbed out of him in acupuncture a couple of years ago. The anxiety apple didn’t fall far from the tree where I’m concerned. Without chronicling all my anxieties A-Z, just know I am absolutely that person who assumes the worst. A blemish on my arm? Skin cancer. A headache that won’t go away? Brain tumor. Bad meeting at work? Everyone hates me and I’ll be fired any second now. Half a pound weight gain on the scale? I’m on an expressway to morbid obesity and eventually, they’ll need the Jaws of Life to get me out of my own home.

Of course, I do have therapy to help me deal with my anxiety and all the other weirdness in my head. I’d like to say it’s helping but frankly, even therapy has taken a turn for the worse lately. I was tasked to focus on ‘self-care’, which is fancy psychobabble talk for unfucking yourself. I had worksheets to complete and lists to make and the whole idea of focusing on self-care when I can’t even remember to put the toothpaste cap back on made me itch. So – while I knew the elf-therapist would be profoundly disappointed in my lackadaisical attitude toward self-improvement, I simply couldn’t force myself to do it. (And – in full disclosure, when looking up the phone number to his office, my Googling led me to this YouTube video and frankly, I can no longer take my mental healthcare professional seriously. Somethings cannot be unseen, dude.)

YouTube videos aside, therapy went south when I realized that I was not only insubordinate in completing my homework assignment, but I was also running late for my appointment. Really, really late. I sent a quick, “be there in 10 minutes” email and then hauled my ass across town as fast as traffic and my Volkswagen could take me. Naturally, I missed every light and I swear to you, I sat at one red light for approximately four minutes in impotent rage. After finally arriving, I burst into the building Kramer-style and sprinted up the stairs as fast as an out of shape, middle-aged woman in impractical shoes could maneuver. I grabbed the door handle to let myself in to his office and . . . it was locked. Flummoxed, I stood there, huffing and puffing as if I’d never encountered a locked door in my life. Do I knock? Wait? Call him? Take this as a sign from the universe and leave? I knocked. I waited. I called. I thought about leaving. I finally sent an email, all the while wondering if this locked door was some kind of psychology experiment.

Being locked out was the highlight of my therapy experience. I left with more homework – a book to read this time – and a mantra I’m supposed to repeat as many times a day as possible. On the plus side, the elf kindly informed me that I don’t have to believe the mantra, but I do have to repeat it. I’ve been trying but talking to myself makes me feel stupid, and the mantra itself makes me feel like a fraud. Do I fake it until I make it? Or do I do what comes naturally which is to avoid this homework assignment altogether?

Of course, my anxiety and fears are first world problems. I get that. And I’m more than a little ashamed of the fact that I can’t get out of my own way when there are real people dealing with real problems every single day. My body images issues; subterranean self-esteem; and the wagon of guilt and shame I drag around behind me everywhere I go are not matters of life and death. They’re boring. They’re trite. And yet . . . they are the things that hold me back.

I recently had the opportunity to see Michael J. Fox speak at a conference. Here is a guy who has been handed a whole bunch of lemons – and who has made lemonade, lemon meringue pie, and lemon bars. He spoke of optimism, of gratitude, and of hope. He didn’t wonder if it’s every going to get easier. He didn’t blather on about self-care or mantras. Instead, he talked of choice and circumstance. He spoke of gratitude, saying, “Just be grateful. Everyday. And – if there are things you don’t like about someone, just be grateful that you’re not them.” Not once did he speak of what he “should” do – and I’m confident that Marty McFly isn’t wasting his precious time shoulding all over himself. No way, sir.

The real question isn’t “when will it ever get easier?” The real question is – how do I face each day with acceptance and gratitude for the opportunity to make my tiny mark on this great big world.

© 2016 Princess D

Soundtrack to My Life: The B Side

If my life had a soundtrack, every lousy, rotten, craptacular moment I’ve endured would be foreshadowed by Bonnie Tyler’s 1983 power ballad, Total Eclipse of the Heart. It all started November 15, 1983 when, as a buck-toothed, painfully awkward and nearly six foot tall ten year old kid, my dad wrote the first of many big fat checks for my orthodontia and I became the very first kid in Mrs. Hengler’s 5^th grade class to have a full set of shiny, metal braces. What on earth does Bonnie Tyler have to do with any of this and why am I such an ungrateful brat, you ask? Excellent questions. Allow me to explain.

With the benefit of hindsight and my own Korean-car sized investment in my teeth, I’m incredibly grateful that my parents scrimped and saved to straighten my jacked-up teeth. But in 1983, I didn’t want to stand out. I wanted to blend in and ideally, disappear. I didn’t want to be the smart kid or the tall kid or the clumsy kid (although I was all those things) – I desperately wanted to be average. More than anything, I wanted to be invisible. You know what makes you visible as heck? Becoming the first metal mouth in your 5^th grade class. I endured orthodontia for four and a half long years. I had three different orthodontic headgears and I singlehandedly kept the tiny rubber band companies in business. Before I could participate in my first real “boy-girl” kiss, I had to deftly remove something like a billion rubber bands that were cleverly serving as some kind of orthodontic chastity shield. (Side note: I wasn’t real popular with the boys until college. Coincidence?)

November 15, 1983 is the day I had my braces affixed. My orthodontist’s office had zero privacy. Instead, there were two large rooms filled with dental chairs in every color of the rainbow. They summoned their snaggle-toothed patients to their kaleidoscopic torture chamber by bellowing your name and directing you to the “red chair on the left” or the “blue chair on the right.” On this fateful day, I was summoned to the orange chair on the right, where I would spent a nearly five hour shift having things stuck to my mouth.  Back in 1983, we didn’t have iPods or Pandora or Spotify or whatever you cool kids are using to listen to the tunes now. We had cassette tapes, we had vinyl records, and we had FM radio. Many businesses relied on the soothing, muffled doo doo di doo doopidy doo of elevator music as ambient noise, but not my orthodontist. Instead, he had his FM station tuned to WLTE, the “light rock, less talk” station favored by our parents. No one was going to turn their FM dial to WLTE and blow the knob off. But if you wanted to hear some Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack; Linda Ronstadt, or Pointer Sisters – this was your station. And on November 15, 1983, as I laid upside down in the orange chair on the right becoming the most visible mouth in the 5^th grade, I heard Total Eclipse of the Heart played six times. Six.

Fast forward a few years. I’m a sophomore in high school, and I’m getting ready to start my first day at a new high school – the third school I’ve attended in three years.  Total Eclipse of the Heart plays on the school bus radio and tees me up for the worst school year I can remember. When I find out that my pimply boyfriend is cheating on me with a younger girl with greasy hair and a huge nose who puts out - Total Eclipse of the Heart is playing in the background. The short version of this story is that every single disappointment in my life felt like it was set to a Bonnie Tyler soundtrack. Jobs I didn’t get; promotions I was denied; car accidents; flat tires; you name it. And sometimes Bonnie Tyler predicted some really dark shit too. On my 26^th birthday, I woke up to Bonnie Tyler on the radio and although I turned the station as quickly as my chubby fingers allowed, it didn’t stop my neighbor from roughing me up and robbing me three hours later. The day my grandfather died? Total Eclipse of the Heart. I think you get my drift.

It might be a musical masterpiece. It might be a beautiful song. I’m a little biased. What I can tell you is that it’s a l-o-n-g song and I can name that tune in about four notes – and my cat-like reflexes will have me pouncing to change the channel, the station, the song to avoid whatever doom lurks around the corner. Bonnie and her seven minute song about vampire love or whatever the hell she’s carrying on about enjoyed a lot of popularity in the 1980’s. I enjoyed a temporary separation from her doomsday predictions during the grunge era but like any damn iconic song, I’ve never been able to fully avoid it – but here in 2016, things have gotten out of hand. Bonnie Tyler is being used to peddle Fiber One bars. Her music is the cure for constipation. And yet, if you’re someone like me, it may cause metaphoric explosive diarrhea.

I popped into my local coffee shop a few days ago to pick up some motivation in cup before a marathon day at the office. Because I’m not always a total dick, I’d taken coffee orders from my colleagues and purchased four designer drinks to go. The moment I finished placing my order, Bonnie Tyler began blaring from the sound system. The tweenaged baristas squealed and said inane things like, “Ohhh! I just love this oldie! What a great song!” while I made the sign of the cross and wondered what horrific joyride the universe had planned for me next. Would I spill coffee on my cute suit? Would I be late to work? Would I break my leg? Or would I get fired? The possibilities are endless.

I’m a little bit older than I was when I sat in the orange chair on the right. I’m not necessarily any wiser but I have grown more comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am and while I still occasionally fight the urge to fade into the background, I’m not afraid to be center stage anymore. I do my best work from the wings, though. I’ll be your biggest and loudest cheering section; your toughest coach; and your confidante. There is no greater joy for me than to see those around me achieve their goals and reach their amazing potential. While I will still go into epileptic-type seizures to silence Bonnie Tyler, just know it’s so I can fulfill my real mission – which is to be the wind beneath your wings.  

© 2016 Princess D 

You Are Here . . . For Now.

One of the craziest things about middle age is that you often have as many chapters behind you as you do in front of you. On your life’s map, “you are here” appears right smack in the middle – and for many of us, the more colorful chapters are behind us as we continue in our quest to “make it” in this strange adult world. Sure, you might crank your car stereo and blast a little Paradise City in your mid-priced imported automobile as you make your way to your middle management job at some behemoth conglomerate – but you’re not cutting class and driving across the state at 80 miles an hour to catch a Jayhawks or Babes in Toyland show at First Avenue. You’re not existing on a diet comprised solely of coffee, diet Mountain Dew, macaroni noodles, Raisin Bran, jello, and Busch Light beer.  You’re not writing checks for $3.02 at McDonalds when the urge for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese becomes overwhelming and then praying that it will clear the bank. You earn more than minimum wage now, after all. You probably have a mortgage and a 401(k) and health insurance – and it’s probably been at least ten years since you’ve run out of toilet paper. You take vitamins now. You exercise – not for fun but because you’re trying to stave off old age and death. If you still have hair, congratulations. It’s probably grey. And these days, you color it not because you thought blue hair would be a fun change of pace but because you’re too embarrassed to face the millennials at work with your old lady hair.

Welcome to middle age, where we eat our vegetables and floss. The high-high and low-lows of yesteryear have been replaced with a steadfast predictability. Maybe you’ve accepted your fate. You’re not getting any younger, smarter, or more attractive. Your bucket list likely contains a few completed items and may even have a post-script of “don’t kick the bucket” scribbled on the bottom. If you’re like me, you may be on version three or four of your bucket list – as you’ve come to accept that you’ll never be America’s Next Top Model; you won’t win the Amazing Race; and you probably won’t be discovered and cast as the leading lady in any blockbuster movies. I’ve come to see the world through middle-aged eyes; eyes that require corrective lenses while driving, according to the Department of Motor Vehicles. I sometimes forget that not everyone in my age demographic shares my perspective. Just the other day – a day when I was admittedly fired up and feeling particularly angst-ridden about life, the universe, and everything else – I was conversing with some dude at work about middle-age and ended whatever epiphany I was waxing on about with, “Well, I’ll be dead in 25 years anyway.” This dude happens to be a mere 361 days older than I am and I fear he hasn’t spent nearly enough time pondering his inevitable mortality because he cocked his head to the side and said, “Really? I figure I have at least another 40 years in me.” I wisely abstained from bursting into an a cappella version of Only the Good Die Young, muttered something about adult diapers, and let him continue on in his blissful ignorance.  I should get an award for that kind of restraint.

Since my emotional age is hovering somewhere around 13 and my physical age (if my cardiovascular endurance is any indication) is somewhere around 136, I find middle-age fascinating. I occasionally pause, look around and wonder, “How in the hell did I get here?” I was a weird kid with an active imagination, paralyzing shyness, enormous teeth, and a terrible haircut. I was taller than my teachers by 4^th grade but my height did not make me graceful. I tripped, fell, and blundered my way through gym class, praying for the power to become invisible. I escaped into books and my favorite place was the library or the bookstore. I loved books so much that I wanted to own all of them so I could read them over and over and over again – and that paved the way for a minor crime spree where I “relocated” about 100 books from my school classroom to my own personal library. I was eventually caught and brought to justice and the books were returned, but I sure did miss them.

When you reach middle age, people assume you have an interesting story to tell. I don’t know if mine is all that interesting, but it’s mine – and I certainly never imagined that somewhere between 30-70 years on earth would have brought me to this place. What do you remember most when you look back on your life? Do you remember the first time you fell in love? With a troubled boy you met at a youth group Christmas caroling event, who smelled like Downey fabric softener and Marlboro Reds and happily ever after? Of course you do. You still have that homemade Valentine he sent you in a box of memories in the basement – even though he slept with your best friend and broke your heart. Every time you hear Air Supply – or Metallica, oddly enough – you can smell the fabric softener, you can feel the St. Austin’s gymnasium, and you are suddenly transformed to a 14 year old girl with a bad perm and acid washed jeans feeling all the feels.

When I was 14 or 15 or 16, I had all kinds of ideas and dreams about the rest of my life. I was going to save the world. I’d be a teacher; an actress; an author. I’d fall in love, have 2.5 perfect children with the perfect husband. (And by the way, I had him all scoped out too. His name was Pete and he was perfect. He was also incredibly kind and patient and although he knew I had a mad, crazy crush on him, he never mocked me. He did, however, impregnate and marry my arch rival when we were a mere 18 years old, but they have lived happily ever after.)  I’d have a career, a family, and I’d make my mark on the world. At 18, I went on some dates with a guy who delivered Hostess products for a living. I called him “Twinkie Tim” and I didn’t mind that he wore blue polyester pants. He had access to fruit pies and cupcakes, for Christ’s sake! I was never afraid of a little hard work – and although I was lucky enough to go away to a fine, fine liberal arts college, my heart was never far from Minneapolis. I was too young and too focused on “what’s next” to fully appreciate and enjoy my college experience. Instead, I graduated early and tried to start my adult life right away. Of course, with a liberal arts degree and a teaching license in the middle of a medium-sized recession, it was a struggle. I worked lots of jobs and kept trying to “adult” – and I kept searching for my happily ever after with a boy who captured my heart in 11^th grade and for the rest of my life. (His name was Nate. He was WAY better than Pete.)

My more successful friends went on to graduate school; became lawyers and doctors and police officers. I wore a headset and made outbound calls to people who missed payments on their Target Red cards. I made popcorn at a movie theater. And I sold cigarettes and milk at the Qik N Ezy and endured all the horrible jokes that went along with that. Note: it would be years before I became either “qik” or “ezy”. (Sorry, Mom.) I never planned or expected or dreamed of working in business. In fact, there was a time when I would have peered out at you from behind my John Lennon sunglasses and told you that I refused to work for the man. But 20 years later, I find myself working at a Fortune 15 company where I’m earning a stupid big paycheck (considering my total lack of knowledge, skills, and experience). How the hell did this happen?

There’s a whole lot of reasons how and why I find myself where I am today – but I’m struck by the profound influence a handful of people have had on my trajectory, and it’s those folks whom I’d like to talk about. To every single high school principal who refused to give me a full time job . . . I say thank you. There are many great teachers out there – my baby brother being one of them – but I’m not sure I have what it takes to mold young minds. Not hiring me forced me to find another path. To Joe Kalkman, my former boss and mentor: you saw things in me I didn’t see in myself. You knew I was a Maximizer before I ever knew there was a thing called StrengthsFinder. You knew that I would take something good and I would not rest until I made it great. You gave me an opportunity to create a world class, memorable recognition event and you gave me the latitude to make it my own. In spite of all the turmoil and grief that my personal life brought me, I will never forget what we did at Disney World. I’m the only person I know who teared up at the Animal Kingdom – and you showed me that I was capable of making a difference. You also helped me open the door to my first “real” HR job at Best Buy – and that changed the course of my career.

To Kal Patel, the smartest and kindest leader I’ve ever known . . . I’m sorry you got stuck with a rookie HR generalist. I had no idea what I was doing and you needed someone to help show you the ropes. You talked about networks and nodes and I nodded like I understood, but I mostly was just trying not to wet my pants. Over time, we began to understand each other. You took all kinds of chances on me and you are the single most influential leader and mentor I have ever known. Your generous gift became the down payment for my first home – and buying a house all by myself is one of the proudest moments of this ghetto princess’ life. I’ve bought other houses since then, but I will never be as proud as the moment I closed on my first house in Powderhorn Park. You introduced me to my idols, Gary Hamel and Liisa Valikangas. At the moment when I needed something to believe in, when I needed to know that things happen for a reason, you invited me to consider resilience. You gave me the space to introduce an entire company to the quest for resilience – and while we didn’t save the company from its inevitable fall, you surely did save me from my darkest hours. You believed in me, yes – but more importantly, you showed me that hope and faith were not as elusive as Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. You created the space and the opportunity for me to believe again.

As a kid, I was not only a book thief but also an avid reader. One of my favorites was the Choose Your Own Adventure series. I loved being in control of the story – and each choice I made would open up a new and different path. In life, we can’t control our stories entirely – but we can choose our adventures by aligning ourselves with inspiring allies like Joe, Kal, Gary and Liisa. I want each of you to know that the lessons you shared with me? They mostly stuck. My story exists because you wrote a crucial chapter . . . and for that, I am eternally grateful.

 © 2016 Princess D