How Skinny is Too Skinny?

I've always said I can't date a guy who wears smaller jeans than me. Sorry, my fragile body image can't handle being the larger one in the relationship - I need to feel feminine and attractive, so smaller - right? Not that I would ever judge people by appearances (ha!). And not that I would be at all horrified if a guy judged me by those kinds of superficial standards.

So by any chance am I finally mature enough to put happiness over body issues? 'Cause his jeans are definitely smaller.

A friend said something to me a while ago that I have been mulling over. She said she likes me at my current weight better than when I'm thinner - this weight "suits me better". Huh.

More surprising to me than the comment itself was my reaction to it. First, I let myself consider what it might be like to believe her for a moment. Then, I became confused about why I'd never even considered that possibility for myself before.

Um, duh? At some point didn't we decide something about thinness and an unhealthy illusion concocted and perpetuated by inauthentic popular culture? And about the endless pursuit to be thinner actually being a misplaced attempt to cover up deeper emotional needs? I actually do prefer women's bodies that have some softness and curve. And I would whole-heartedly argue that a healthy well-balanced internal and external life leads to a healthy well-balanced body - and that weight, whatever it is, is when someone is most attractive.

But somehow I'm still sure I'd be happier if I were just one size smaller and if everyone stayed on their side of stereotypical gender body norms. Nice.

Luckily for now, he has found ways to express his appreciation for the curves...

Why I Love My Job #216

At the beginning of every year we take the new 8th graders to "Leadership Camp" for ropes course and community building activities (and for handstands, volleyball, and finding out who is going out with whom). I get to use my outdoor education experience and stretch my wings building an experiential program for the kids I know so well in another context. Every year I feel simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted by my worlds coming together. Like I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. But it makes me so tired that I can't imagine teaching kids full time (God bless those of you who do).

New this year to my ever-expanding job, I have an Advisory of nine exuberant 7th grade girls who come to my room 30 minutes every day to get organized, talk about social and emotional life, and bond as a group with an adult they trust. Basically all of my favorite things. So suddenly I'm filled with professional inspiration. Staying up late reading research, writing plans for relational aggression lessons, getting advice from teachers, parents, and counselors, energized and excited to try things, lots of love and patience for students...

It occurs to me: isn't that supposed to be what you do when you get a degree in all this stuff? But I'm more that a little gun-shy when it comes to graduate school. You can only drop out miserable from so many institutions of higher learning before you begin to loath the thought of opening yourself up to torture again. Am I finally really personally invested in what I want to learn? Enough to outweigh the old paralyzing perfectionism? If so, how and where? Teaching certification/masters? Finish the school counseling degree?

Despite uncertainty about the particulars, it seems like I might have to consider giving in to that teaching degree I've been trying so hard to avoid. And maybe happily. Hard to fight with that feeling of doing what you are meant to do.

25 Things

There's a chain-letter like activity spreading like crazy through Facebook called "25 Random Things About Me". When someone sends it to you, you write a list of 25 random facts, habits, or goals about yourself. Then you send it to 25 friends, including the person who sent it you. It's a big online "get to know you" game.

Unlike many other viral fads, most people are actually doing it. Something about the format and the popularity make it worth the effort. I think we want to share ourselves. And there is beauty in the mundane details. Every list I've read has something delightfully surprising about the person and something that makes me feel a little less alone in my "hidden" foibles and neuroses. Here's my 25:

1. My greatest fear is going crazy/losing my mind/losing touch with reality. I honestly worry about it happening to me. And then I panic that I might really make it happen by worrying about it too much...

2. I’ve kept a list of favorite kids’ names since I was 12 (even through my phase when I wasn't sure I wanted kids), but I've started using them on pets (and cars) just in case I never get to use them on kids.

3. I am at my most content on the way back down a mountain with a happy dog at my side.

4. I have always wanted to be a foster parent.

5. I don’t think I like my cats (Oliver and Violet) as much as I should. I take their rejection personally.

6. I take everything personally. Or at least I used to.

7. I hate talking on the phone; I rarely answer it and often don’t call people back (please don't take it personally!).

8. I love Facebook because I can communicate with lots of wonderful people without the pressure of having to actually talk to them. And I love blogging because I can pour my heart out without the immediate risk of judgment or rejection. Yes, I hide behind technology. But I used to just hide, so I see this as major progress.

9. I really enjoy picking my nose.

10. I’ve watched General Hospital on and off for about 15 years, at times taping it daily.

11. I love to sing Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now” to my cabins/tents of kids at lights out, but I’m always terrified when I start it. Then they always love it (or at least don’t complain) which gives me faith in sharing your heart.

12. My favorite movie is easily Dirty Dancing. But one of my other favorites, the Philadelphia Story, is the one I usually claim in public.

13. I think there’s nothing in the world like someone sticking up for you.

14. I am often simultaneously confident that I know everything and convinced that I am completely wrong about everything.

15. I usually cry whenever I see someone else tear up. But I often have trouble crying when I am upset.

16. I'll drink champagne for any reason from celebration to misery.

17. My glory days seem to have been breaking summer swim league records as an 8 & under and starring in my middle school musicals. Oh, and winning Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie tickets in a hula-hoop contest at a St. Bridget’s dance in 6th grade - that was rad.

18. What I want to “do” with my life changes weekly, sometimes daily. Currently rotating between school counselor (again), art teacher, and interior designer. Or dream job: children's book author/illustrator.

19. I am very grateful that I love my current job so I have some time to maybe figure out what's next.

20. I wish people would ask me more questions, especially about the challenging things in my past.

21. I’ve been in love 3 times. And still love each of them.

22. I’ve never broken a bone or had a cavity (yet).

23. I’ve always wanted glasses for their fun fashion accessory potential.

24. I am afraid of the dark, and I have to sleep with a light on in the hall.

25. I am a often paralyzed by perfectionism (and typed this list in Word first).

Go ahead, make your own list... everyone is doing it!

Happy Blogoversary

One year ago today, I started wearing my heart on the internet. "High Five" was born... kinda by accident, but it happened (obviously). And it has actually stuck around longer than I thought. Seems to do something for me. I forgot how much I enjoyed writing. Especially when no one is grading it. (Assuming you're not; please don't start now.) It's been all about finding my voice. Taking a risk. Putting it out there.

Who knew the adventures my blog would chronicle over the year? I think the high five story was a great start. And come on, the Trader Joe's/Craigslist saga was made for blog. I survived surprising heartbreak and even more surprising connection. If you told me this time last year that I'd be taking over my parent's house, I would have called you crazy. I wish I had more juicy stories to share lately, sorry. I'm working on it.

The act of writing/posting has had some interesting effects on me life. I've had the regular wrestling match with perfectionism with each post. And have been known to edit old posts when something amiss catches my eye.

But I swear the "no apologies" idea has steadily crept into the rest of my life. Or maybe that was already starting when I decided I should blog. Either way. I'm a little less worried about what people think. A little less worried about being acceptable. A little more WTF; in a very good way. Aren't I getting old and wise?! ('Bout g*d d*mn time.)

Blogging. Was a foreign, outlandish concept. Now feels like a normal way to express myself. Lucky you.

Haunted House

It just sunk in. I've been distracted by the anticipation of a dishwasher, low rent, a patio for a grill, etc., and I didn't stop to fully consider what this means... I'm taking over the house that houses my childhood.

I had distanced myself from the difficult parts of my past by no longer thinking of it as mine. But now when I walk in, bits of memory and emotion jump out and nip at me at unexpected moments. With the familiar hop up the front stairs and the smooth door latch in my hand. With the familiar creak of each floorboard. With the unique sound of each door - which I can hear before it even swings. Like the back of a hand I thought I had amputated. Surreal memories from a past life. Plenty good. Plenty hard. Lots that just were. All of which surprise me with their force as they surface. Not really sure what was real, what was imagined, or what I've long forgotten.

The closet I open and expect to still see clothes that I wonder if my sister will notice I borrow. The bookshelf that housed the encyclopedias confirming my suspicion about Santa Claus (after one more quick look at the word "mythical"). The wood floors that I could never clean up well enough to not leave a mark when they got wet. The storage loft that was my private safe haven. The bathroom where I was perplexed by tampons but too ashamed or too proud to ask for help. The room in which I spent hours flirting and making out with high school boyfriends, but also spent hours holding my favorite dog while she was dying. And, of course, the kitchen where it became clear my hunger was an unfortunate and unsatisfiable urge.

A vortex. Where I am all of those parts of my past selves again at once. Where I can't always remember the difference between who think I am supposed to be to fit in and who I really am. Where the constant fear I may be doing something wrong still lingers in the air.

Can I be an adult in my childhood home? Will the substitution of my grown up stuff and some new color on the wall make it my (grown up) own? Will the legs I finally stand pretty steadily upon still hold me up when I walk in the door every day? Or will I wake up terrified of that same old boogie man outside every dark window.

I'm not sure I'd trade any of what that house has held. The wounds healed over stronger. I can see the undeniable love, now that I've learned to interpret it. But I'm bracing myself. Anticipating getting briefly knocked off-balance by the whirl of old selves.

I figure my only defense is to just immerse myself in whatever the house throws at me, messy as it may feel. Welcome the ghosts. Listen to what they have to say.

Then maybe have a cleansing. Burn sage. Gather friends to bring in new energy. Fill it with music and laughter and new life. And get ready for the selves yet to come.

Nina Luna finds her kitchen.

I don't cook very often because I don't think I do it well enough. Perfectionism (aka my constant companion and shadow) keeps me away. And of course eating is still not uncomplicated for me even after over a decade of healing from an eating disorder. If I do cook, it is in a Conquer kind of way: get a big idea and make a big production trying it once, then good or not - it usually seems like too much work to bother again.

But an unexpected result of my current romantic relationship is more time in the kitchen... somehow the gentle and accepting company of this particular companion has helped me be open enough to take this risk. Luckily, I have received a lot of personal coaching from my friend who cooks good food as naturally as she breathes. It started, of course, with bacon and brussels sprouts. Then came the fajitas - which turned out OK, but a little too chewy. Then I successfully tackled lasagna - after my friend calmed me in the midst of a dating crisis with the wise words, "A lot can be healed with lasagna." There was even a side trip into baking apple pie, which I have lots of practice at - I seem to be more comfortable baking. Or just more motivated to eat those baked treats.

Then, last Monday I read my favorite food/love/life blogger and came home to happily make her latest recipe for dinner. This might seem pretty ordinary to some people. But to me? Miraculous. Cooking on a weeknight just feels like way too much unnecessary frustration. And I am often limited to certain foods or textures as dictated by my emotional state, like my fascination with cottage cheese and rice crackers when I have an angry need to crunch but a milky comforting longing as well. In general, I often don't feel satisfied with a meal unless it somehow involves cheese. I probably ate Trader Joe's frozen pizza and a wild greens salad at least four nights a week for about two years. I'm still not sure exactly what emotional need that was filling, but the compulsion seemed like a little more than really liking pizza.

But the point is that something may finally be shifting inside of me. With some help and new perspective on food itself. This blogger, Shauna, gives recipes and directions but with rich context and an amazing passion for food. Like my friend with the lasagna advice, Shauna speaks in the language of textures, smells, and preferred taste more than exact volumes and specific amounts of time. The openness and focus on learning the process rather than rigidly following directions gives me the information, but with freedom. And the way she talks about food is teaching me to savor each aroma, color, and flavor with real creativity and love. Food not only can sustain life but enrich your life. It's not just something to fight against and control and resent. Who knew?!

And enjoying my kitchen tools really helps - I am in love with my cast iron pans (thank you Uncle Jim). There is something so timeless and wholesome about them. Seasoning them feels like caring for old friends. I picture pioneers cooking with them over open campfires and grandmothers with rich equatorial skin pulling them out of outdoor clay ovens. And they work really well.

This week I was inspired enough to feel like it was creative and fun. So I made Shauna's savory black beans. (The grape tomatoes on the top make it a masterpiece - I couldn't find yellow, but red were delicious.) I cooked them along with some rice, quick chili-lime prawns, and roasted asparagus. And enjoyed myself.


File under: small victories and simple delights... like actually using my sewing room to sew. I know, I'm getting it. Sometimes it just takes me a while.

Time On My Hands

For the record, it is very hard to think (much less write) about anything but dating right now, since my brain is consumed by the current deliciousness. Thank you blog for the opportunity to remember the other sides of myself that I've worked so hard to cultivate for at least a moment...

Life has actually been good. Although, a little romance tends to make just about anything rosier. We just had Spring Break. The kids at school all asked, "Where are you going?" Because we are all headed to some exotic tropical location, of course [yes, that is a hint of bitterness that you detect]. I answered, "To my couch." And pretty happily, actually.

My usual plan of attack for any open expanse of time is to dive onto the couch and indulge in the luxury of doing nothing. And "nothing" inevitably means television. But the TV binge usually ends up feeling like a hot dog does for me; a fun idea at the time, but empty and regrettable. I was determined not to feel like I had wasted this gift of time. It took me a while to figure out what I needed to for that to happen. Turns out shopping isn't entirely the answer (though I gave it a good shot). I realized that the first flash of intuition is usually the answer... I needed a project. Like the vacation when I locked myself in a garage with some power tools and came out with a bookshelf.

So I decided to finally make a skirt out of some vintage fabric I have been holding on to. I am lucky enough to have a finished room in my basement, and I have done my best to make it conducive to creative endeavors. Great color and inspiration on the walls. Convenient and attractive storage for lots of supplies. A big fold-out table to spread out on. But I can never actually get myself to use it. It's cold. Kind of dark. I'd rather lug everything upstairs for the slight distraction of the TV... Just more shades of resistance and perfectionism, of course. And a reluctance to be entirely alone with myself.

But I had a breakthrough. Did you know I have a whole room in my house just for creating things?! Somehow I was ready to quit making excuses. I turned on the lights, turned up the heat, and put on some music. And got lost (or perhaps found) in the work.

The cats loved it, too. They even tried to help - if you can call lying on top of whatever I am trying to work on "helping".

Too Nice

I received the first open complaint about my coaching... apparently I am "too nice". In the grand scheme of complaints, that's not so bad. But it still stung. Especially because it came from two girls I appreciate and respect. And they told someone else, not me. (And I'm already dancing on the edge of neurotic at the possibility going on a date with the Trader Joe's guy. More on that later...)

I'm just not so good at receiving criticism. My first instinct is to tear up and feel like I'm failing because I'm not perfect. I stayed there for a while. And might go back in a minute.

Then I point out all the reasons why they are wrong (to myself or sympathetic ears only, of course). I'm insulted that people don't see the complexity of what I try to accomplish. I'm not a pushover; I'm not trying to be their friend. I have good boundaries. I expect them to work hard and pay attention. I just know the value of facilitating an open group process, so I am not an authoritarian. And I'm not willing to sacrifice any of the girls' feelings about themselves in the pursuit of a win. The bottom line is that I'm there to have fun, so I'm going to create fun. I quess it's been so much fun for me that I forgot about my own learning and growth here - which rarely happen painlessly.

I'm not sure where to look for guidance. The other coaches around me seem to have no problem being relatively insensitive - the kids all want to win, don't they? Tell them what they are doing wrong (along with praise for what they are doing right, hopefully). And play the best players without feeling bad for the people left on the bench. Can I be authentic and sensitive and still win? I think it's possible I could be tougher. Not everyone is the sensitive and perfectionist little girl that I was.

It's a balance I haven't completely found yet, even if I thought I had. Great. If only growth didn't hurt in the process.

I Heart Volleyball

Volleyball season is here again! Looking at the calendar, I was worried about what I got myself into by coaching again, but after the first practice I remembered why I do this. Pure unexplainable joy. Who would have thought that bouncing a ball off forearms could do so much for me. Although, I think it's the power of hitting that I love. But setting is unexplainably satisfying, as well.

My old team graduated last year, and I loved them so much that I wasn't sure how I was going to cope with the new crew of adolescent girls. Then, they seemed more interested in decorating themselves than with the volleyball part at first. But as it turns out, they love it too, and they are willing to listen. Luckily, they seem to be under the false impression that I know what I am doing as a coach.

It's not all roses, though. We had our first match this weekend, and the games were very close - but we lost. I've certainly lost before, but I couldn't shake this one off right away. I'm afraid it was my fault because I could have done a better job with the line-up. There's just too much going on during the games for me to see everything and adapt the plan a lot as we go... all the while trying to maximize the impact of the best players yet not appear to favor anyone since that's not in the spirit of the league (and parents are all watching closely). Fortunately, several people reassured me that I'm doing a good job, and it actually sank through my thick skull a little. It takes time to get to know the girls as players, and now I know more after seeing them in a game. Just like we tell the girls: if you aren't making any mistakes, you aren't doing anything challenging enough. Somebody keep reminding me about that, please.

I am lucky to only have a few regrets in life. But a big one is not trying out for volleyball my junior year of high school because I wasn't sure I would make it again. Fear! Perfectionism!! Sad. Luckily, volleyball found me again right when I really needed to remember I had a strong and athletic side.

P.S. Another big regret... calling my dad on his 64th birthday without having John, Paul, George, and Ringo sing "will you still need me, will you still feed me..." I may have failed as a daughter.

A Whole New Bag

Inspiration can be around every corner. I see something, get an idea, another builds on that. With each idea, my spirit lifts. Possibility.

But too often something happens between idea and action. Perfectionism. Unstarted projects often hang around (often for years). Taunting me.

But something has been knocked loose recently. With encouragement from the right company, the possibility outweighs the fear. And once I get started, I can feel my brain chemistry change for the better. For the moment, it's somehow worth the risk to get into that space. Here's an oilcloth bag I cooked up while at Stitches and conquered within a week - unheard of for a sewing project in my world.


And here's a custom birthday crown for a friend's 50th. Any excuse for a little decoupage and glitter. And a reason to use grommets! Basic idea shamelessly stolen from cute novelty shop, with a few personal twists...


Hmm. What's next?!

Bump in the night. And on the slopes.

I went skiing for the first time this season! With a cozy new raspberry-pink ski coat and a freshly knit hat to match, of course. The snow was great. But unfortunately, my own internal conflict overshadowed the potential fun. Why so afraid? It's like climbing... and the rest of my life. I am standing right next to sheer joy, but this big barrier keeps us separate. Fear of the chair lift, fear of taking a turn that looks too steep, fear of looking stupid, fear of losing control.

And what keeps me in my house when there are relationships and connection right outside the door? Fear of judgement. Rejection. I'm not smart enough, funny enough, attractive enough, thin enough, interesting enough... Perfectionism much?! All these years of therapy and it still has complete control of me sometimes.

On the eternal quest to figure out how to be happy in life and make a living while I'm at it, yesterday I decided I should go to design school and work in the clothing/textile industry. (FYI: A few months ago I was going to spend a year at an orphanage in Central America, and two years ago I was going to refurbish vintage Airstream trailers...) Just the idea that I could possibly do something all day that made me happy and make a decent living made me feel fifty pounds lighter for about two seconds. But then the fear and doubt slowly creaped it's way in. How would you even get in? What if you weren't actually any good? What were you thinking?! Until it's just another crazy idea to joke about. And I stick to what I know I know.

I was recently reminded how intoxicating good chemistry with another person can be (even with an immature republican football coach, but that's another story). Deliciously all consuming - concerns about all other responsibility and consequences (and reason, obviously) melt away for a while. I think fear is equally intoxicating in the opposite direction - into the dark side. It sucks me in and everything else fades to the background. And when I go through times when the fear gets louder than the belief in joy and love, I start waking up startled. Hearing more bumps in the night. Doors and windows suddenly exist only as potentials for intrusion. The other night, I actually forgot I had cats and spent a good minute in terror. In my anxiety-drunken state, life means danger. Isn't it amazing the power your mind has to shape your reality? And in the winter around here, I am pulled towards the shadows.

But as I keep skiing, less and less energy is fed to the fear. I start to catch glimpses of the familiar rush. I remember this is something I enjoy. My body knows what to do. Conversation becomes more interesting than worrying about falling 30 feet. I remember about trust. And joy. Now the trick is to get that to rub off on the other areas of my life...