Inked

You may not believe it if you know me very well, but I actually put my money where my mouth is and got that tattoo I've been dreaming of!

Over Christmas break, when I was down in the dumps as usual because of the dark time of year, the change in routine that vacation and the holidays bring, my familial legacy of unfortunate brain chemistry, etc... I yet again withdrew from the world (hence the Twilight).

One day on a walk, the fog lifted slightly and I had a moment of clarity (or insanity; still waiting to decide). I needed to carry a reminder that "life comes back" like I have written about. I needed that tattoo. I needed to throw out worrying about whether other people approve of me and allow myself to risk.

I knew what I wanted. I pinned down a design in the the delicate vine and scroll style I've been playing with - that to me symbolizes life and growth and goodness. The most shocking part of the decision was to put it on the inside of my left arm below the wrist, so it can catch my eye when I need it to.

As soon as I got it, I felt cooler. Kind of in awe. Who is this person who gets tattoos?! Now and then, I do experience some "what the hell have I done getting a tattoo - especially in a place where everyone can see" panic. Luckily, it usually passes as I remember that the whole point of this tattoo was to remind me to let go of exactly that kind of fear that can so easily keep me paralyzed and hidden from life.

My goal is to live long enough and happy enough for it to outlive it's usefulness and to joyfully regret it. But ask me in 30 years.

Bitten by Twilight

My Christmas break involved the usual amount of retreating from the world, and I decided to use some of that time to finally pick up Twilight. I knew I had to try them in order to maintain my status as relatively knowledgeable about pop-culture (i.e., street-cred with my tween girls). And I knew enough reasonable people who loved them to be fairly sure it would be a fun frivolous way to escape for a while.

Of course, this time of year I am incredibly susceptible to being irrationally swept away by anything that helps me avoid my actual life, but I was immediately sucked in (like they warned). By the middle of day-two in bed with a cold and halfway through the second book, I realized that I desperately needed the next two books before I ran out. I NEEDED them. So three days, 2,548 pages, two movies, and one Google search for whether Kristin Stewart and Robert Pattinson are really dating later... I was done, but only mildly satiated.

I can't quite figure it out. I was literally laughing out loud at the ridiculousness in my hands and at my level of investment in this vapid teenage vampire soap opera. In addition to just bad writing, I had some major thematic concerns. I can forgive the ridiculously heavy abstinence message, whatever. I can just about forgive that Bella is always the one in the kitchen cooking for the men, probably because I'm jealous that she's obviously a better cook than I am. But I'm pretty sure this uber-popular model of undying true love is a actually a cleverly disguised sadomasochistic, codependent, generally dysfunctional relationship. As she is tossed around like a helpless rag-doll from one superhuman protector/ love interest to the next, all while worrying about keeping them happy, I wish more than anything that she would be allowed to unleash just one small dose of Buffy Summers. And does Bella even have any self-esteem?!

And yet I was compelled to read. I could barely put it down to go get something to eat. Heartbroken then sedated by each sliver of tenderness coming from her cold dark overprotective and isolating vampire love - right there in the alarming cycle of emotional control with her.

It must fill some kind of emotional need, right? I'm sure that in the sad state of my current (non)love life, a good dose of undeniable undying first love is attractive. Especially since my own relatively-magical first love is getting ready to marry someone else. And I know a little about Bella's constant need for validation from either Edward or Jacob and her happiness depending on how she perceives they feel about her (I very nearly was that girl once upon a time).

FYI, until book 4, I was pretty much Team Jacob. Not surprisingly, I prefer the warm best friend love-the-one-you're-with comfort of a werewolf to an all-consuming star-crossed infatuation with a stone cold vampire.

Thank god there are only four books. I really don't think that this is helping me maintain my ability to identify and participate in realistic and healthy romantic relationships...

UPDATE 1/10/10: But look, it's a teaching tool! That's why I was reading it... um, yeah. Rachel Simmons (my idol) developed activities to generate healthy discussion about Twilight with girls. Yes, I promise to put myself through the intervention first.

Cheez-It Based Management

Loving my job...
I am wondering how you're supposed to scold 5th grade boys for shouting "Ms. [my name here] is awesome" in the lunchroom. At least they're starting to use their powers for good instead of evil, right? They haven't been able to shut their mouths or follow directions to save their lives on Fridays in the lunchroom. And since when do we throw things or poke/punch people? But somehow at least we bonded - mostly over Cheez-Its. First someone shared a few with me when they found out my Cheez-It weakness, then someone gave me their whole bag, then some one dropped off a whole box... Pretty funny. Especially for 5th grade boys. Not that any of this helps them shut their traps in the lunchroom. But at least we enjoy one another more while they are misbehaving.

Not so much loving my job...
Super quirky Ramona Quimby-esque first grader looks up at me as if we hadn't met fifty bazillion times before and says, "You look like my teacher!" Which would be a lovely compliment... if her teacher didn't happen to be over six months pregnant with twins at the moment. Hmm. Maybe too many Cheez-Its?!

Waiting for Gilbert Blythe

I recently re-watched Anne of Green Gables the Sequel (my official excuse is girls weekend with my preteen niece, btw). Apparently, I swoon like a 12 years old girl all over again when Anne finally says yes to Gilbert on the bridge over the pond after having turned him down a year earlier when she foolishly thought she needed more glamor and romance than her small-town childhood sweetheart could give her...

I realized I might be holding out for Gilbert. The perfect handsome rival/best friend/boy next door/love of your life who is devoted to you despite knowing full well all of your faults, defenses, and silly romantic notions. The person you were supposed to be with all along, who was under your nose the whole time. Who fate handed to you. Complete fantasy?! Possibly.

Regardless, it's a far cry from online profiles, blind dates, messy break-ups, and running into a former flame for the first time since you parted ways only when you've gained ten pounds, have a cold, and haven't showered in two days.

My new approach to finding love: let other people do the dirty work for me. I'm recruiting a few select moms from school to find the love of my life for me. I'm picking good people who know good people... who might know a Gilbert-like adorable well-grounded guy, right? I am choosing these agents carefully, of course - the few down-to-earth parents who I'd hand my own children over to in a minute because they'd probably do a much better job than I could, who are socially connected but for all the right reasons.

We'll see how that goes or doesn't go for a while. Meanwhile I have a few other things to attend to...

Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

The season has changed. School is underway. Darkness is descending, inside and out. Squash soup. My birthday. Halloween. Rain.

Every time my windshield wipers stop mid-window when I turn off the car, I remember my big love at 20-22. He was generally an easy-going guy, but he was passionate that all windshield wipers should always return to their rightful fully-down resting position when you leave your car. I probably wouldn't be here today if that windshield wiper guy hadn't gotten it into his head to blindly love me an unreasonable amount when I happened to desperately need it the most, and I still carry his playful spirit with me everyday. I send a little cosmic apology out to him if I'm in too much of a hurry to turn the car back on to right the wiper situation. It's an odd but pleasant fleeting reminder of having really loved.

Quite a few gentlemen have come in and out of my life, each leaving a unique imprint - whether big and momentous, or small and odd, or both. They linger. Become a little part of who I am.

One of my best friends comes out of the radio with every song that makes me ask "who is that?", thanks to the year with my own personal DJ. The civic-minded environmental consultant who convinced me to use the library again comes out in overdue fines (and a smirk at old Kerry/Edwards bumper stickers which got him so worked up). I can't go through a produce section without a visit from the 7th grade boyfriend and a quick glance to see if they illegally placed organic produce on the same display as regular. Of course, I can't grab green tea mochi ice cream from the freezer case without thinking of the creativity I enjoyed with the Trader Joe's guy. I can't go around Greenlake without the Banker and his dog on my mind (and a quick stop to look for the turtles).

I owe this very blog to a combination of the Med Student and the Ironman triathlete - neither anywhere near qualify as boyfriends, but worth a mention.

The only spooky ghost is that of my high school sweetheart who is instantly conjered up by cheesy 80's love songs, Kidd Valley burgers, Lake Washington Blvd, any early 90's grey Toyota Camry that goes by... I know I am capable of loving with my whole heart in the first place because of him. Also because of him, I know how easily you can deeply wound yourself and the person you love. How you can scare off the people you need most when you withdraw in the face of Chaos instead of leaning and trusting. Still working on that one. Maybe a little haunting is good for me.

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.

Bring It Back To The Breath

Take a little Chaos. Add two parts Greener Grass. And some Goldilocks. Welcome to my summer. Lovely. I'm looking into filing for a do-over.

My initial strategy to cope with change and loss in my life was Deny & Distract for as long as possible. Don't get enough sleep. Don't exercise enough, and eat too much. Then cry in public at inappropriate moments. (They still don't know what to do with me, but at this point I can barely work up the energy to care.)

My body has been nearly as much of a mess as my emotional state. At the ripe old age of 32, I don't seem to recover from late nights, overindulgence, injury, etc. quite like I used to. The handstand incident injury and my knee issues linger. Apparently, you are supposed to actually do your physical therapy for things to get better, or something. Also as strangely, eating more and exercising less doesn't so much help you fit into your favorite jeans. For me, momentum is everything when it comes to taking care of myself. When the emotional slump starts and exercise goes out the window, it feels insurmountable to get back on track. Even the threat of public humiliation didn't get me going. I did one mini-triathlon at the beginning of the summer, but I let it slide so much that I didn't even try to do the Danskin, therefore wasting a ton of work over the winter and spring.

When my Mom suggested trying yoga again and offered it as a birthday present, I was intrigued. And of course, slightly desperate.

My first class in years started a little rough, but I knew it was good. I was astounded by how sweet it tasted to take a purposeful deep breath. I think I kind of forgot about breathing for a while there. Though my brain won't hold still for more than two seconds - except to focus on counting Lululemon labels around the room and wonder if I would be better at yoga if I was wearing $60 tank top ('cause I know the point of yoga is soooo all about materialism). A moment of mixed success came when the teacher led us through a breathing exercise where you press one nostril closed at a time - which did stop the rest of my brain for a while as I became consumed with how frustrating the exercise was. Baby steps, I guess.

It's been about a month of yoga, and my muscles now beg for it if I skip a day. Which makes me slightly alarmed about how stiff and disconnected I must usually be. I am also attracted to yoga's potential for spiritual connection as well, since it didn't seem fair to sit in church and complain about them talking about Jesus too much. But I need sources of wisdom. And to feel some grace.

I'm hoping breathing can help.

The Leftovers Test

The last one was a tortoise that started 20 years ago and never got anywhere. Then it's too fast, too soon, and I jump ship. Apparently.

The Banker could not have been more sweet or interesting or attentive. He made me laugh and made me feel appreciated. But when it all came at me at once, I backed away. Perhaps less than two weeks between romantic entanglements is not enough. Was it rebound? Was it timing? Or do we blame timing when things just aren't falling into place? I was incredibly appreciative of his willingness to put his heart out there. I wish mine could have jumped out to meet it. Maybe it was difference in style and communication. Maybe it wasn't meant to be.

It could also be that I am just the problem. A lot is changing around me at the moment, and I've been having kind of a hard time holding it together. I have not been my usual relatively-generous self, and I'm afraid he felt the impact of my angst. In my less-than-patient state, what was once charming became annoying; what was welcomed invitation became imposition. And I didn't handle it so gracefully.

All I know is that when he started eating the Pad See Ew left on my plate and I realized that I wanted those leftovers more than I wanted to be nice and share with him, I knew I was not in a place to be a good partner.

Perhaps a new dating test: if you have trouble choosing between him and the leftovers, let him go. Preferably earlier, rather than later - not after you've tried and failed to change this reality, which did more damage and made a further mess of things. Not that I would know anything about that...

Must Love Dogs

I have discovered a new potential dating perk that I hadn't given enough attention before... a surrogate dog! I haven't been sure that I'm ready to have my own dog, but it turns out I am definitely ready to date a guy with a dog. The Banker's shepherd mix has been the center of many of our favorite activities: walks around the lake, dinners al fresco, hikes in the mountains, trips to the dog park, etc. At just under 50 lbs, she's the perfect size for active adventures, but doesn't take up too much room in my small house. Though I've been careful not to take things too fast with the boy, I have to fight off the impulse to dive right in with the dog. I find myself daydreaming about picking her up and taking her for a run or just hanging out playing fetch while I garden. I freely admit to him that I might be dating him just for his dog. Luckily, he thinks this is funny.

Seeing a dog-owner life up close has got me thinking... and longing. I recently fell instantly, madly, in love with my uncle's new golden retriever, Rosie. And my latent dream of having a golden has been reignited, especially if I can find a small, very sweet young one to rescue. (Let me know if you know of one who needs a home!)

I'm sitting with the idea to make sure I'm really ready. Funny how I sometimes complain about being left behind while everyone else gets married, buys houses, has babies, etc... yet I keep hesitating to even make a canine commitment.

But perhaps it's time to trade some freedom for a little more love in my life.

Love Him, Love His Snakes?

I would like to put on the record, how incredibly open-minded I am in my dating life. Just in case anyone is tempted to call me too picky or compare me to Goldilocks. I say this because it turns out that other than being nice to grandpas, playing bass, hiking/hugging trees, writing a novel, making me howl with laughter, playing with his amazing dog, etc... the Banker has another little hobby. To which I believe I am being incredibly tolerant, open-minded, and generous.

It turns out he has snakes. Small harmless ones, but slithery little snakes nonetheless.

I have to say he played this one well. He made sure I was pretty well won over by his charming personality and appreciated his many other interests and talents before he broke the news. And he prefaced the announcement with a set-up that I was sure was going to end with "...but we're separated" and/or "she isn't even sure I'm the father". So snakes were actually almost a comical relief.

In an incredibly nerdy kind of way, it is kind of cool. Apparently he has bred and sold them pretty successfully. I appreciate his enthusiasm for the natural world and it's creatures, and I admire his entrepreneurial spirit. But snakes?!

Luckily, he gets that people think it's unusual at best (his own mother calls them "the f***ing snakes"). He assured me that they are actually on the way out, even before I gently made it clear that I, and most women I know, would probably have an very hard time ever spending the night in the same house with his little friends. Not that I'd ever want to ask someone to give up something they love, especially so early in a relationship. But I'm just saying...