Friday, February 29, 2008
OfLaw school is eating my brain.
Maybe my soul, too, but definitely my brain.
I sat here today, staring at my Emanuel's for Contracts and couldn't think of a way to continue writing my outline. Numbers and letters jumbled together and I didn't want to read or write anything anymore.
Instead, I cleaned my house. My hands smell like lysol and pledge (lemon scented, of course). My head hurts from fumes and my back from vaccuming and hauling the vaccum up and down the flights of stairs. My kitchen is spotless again. My floors are mopped. My bathroom shiney.
And now, here I sit.
Staring again at Mr. Emanual and his damn contract.
I started to write and couldn't remember how to spell "of"
This stupidity caused my realization.
Law School is eating my brain.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Two Little Girlstwo-thirty in the morning, and my gas tank will be empty soon- neon sign on the horizon rubbing elbows with the moon...
The first song I listened to by Ani. We listened to it in your pickup truck, while we were both depressed over someone or another (one of the million “loves” we were so sure about at 17). We spent weekends driving around in a red truck- singing too loudly- drinking beer out of a Kool Aid container from your sister’s graduation party. We’d roll down the windows and confess where we thought we’d be and where we wanted to end up. We both were going to be actresses- together- in New York city. We were going to live together and be random and crazy all the days of our life. We’d fall in love with some man- an artist- who’d drive us crazy with his introspection- a wall street broker- who’d drive us crazy with his suits and plans. We’d always have each other- even when we didn’t have them.
We were crazy together. Insane, emotional, wild girls who flew by the seat of our pants. We never committed to anything- if we showed up we did, or we’d get lost wandering through an empty house we climbed through the window to get in, or lost in the back streets getting to your parent’s greenhouse. I hit your mailbox so many times that the numbers no longer stand up straight if you touch them. We honked every time we drove by each other’s house- along with the other friends we planned to have forever.
You were depressed when I went to school. I missed my partner in crime- my best friend who really got me. Time went on. You moved away. We moved a part. Our lives crossed sporatically, but now exist in two different parts of these United States. We’re both, ironically, doing the same thing, though- married and law students. Still connected in some way.
And every time I listen to Ani, I think of you.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
J and I are planning our yearly vacation. Last year, we had to use his vacation time for moving, and we had planned an amazing trip to Maine (my fav state to visit).
So, this year we plan to pull the plan back and out hit up Acadia for a week. Amazing.
I've been looking at pictures online and getting more and more excited. This excitment is tempered by the fact that if J has to deploy, the trip will be canceled again.
There are times when I miss J being active duty. When we had some sort of timeline, and the questions of will he or won't he were when he's instead. Oh well- I suppose I mostly have to just keep my fingers crossed and hope it works out for the best (as if any of us knows what that is).
But for now... Acadia calls... :)
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Rexy-RificSo, in recent weeks the subject my old friend Rexy (as in, you know, Ana...) has popped up into conversation. People laugh and are, admittedly, a bit uncomfortable when they look at some of my old photos. They are even more uncomfortable when I tell them how fat I felt back then. Today, tomorrow and always, I suppose. I look at the pictures now and wish with everything I am that I looked like that again. Sick- maybe. But what is even more insane is that mere fact that I know, deep inside, that if I was that bobble-headed girl again I'd still feel the way I do. Everyday.
For example, in editing and reviewing my blog, I ran across this... At 5'6 and 110 pounds, this is what I had to say for myself:
I was called boney last night. I don't know that I have ever been called boney. I have been called "portly" by a woman fitting me for a dance costume. "The portly girls will have to wear these" she said to the other seamstress. She obviously operated under the assumption that our "portliness" crept into our chubby ear canals, causing deafness. As if standing half naked wasn't bad enough at age 12... it felt like a scene from a TBS movie- the girl pledging the sorority, standing naked while her sisters circled the fat on her body with a sharpy.
I never joined a sorority.
I lucked out in junior high to not develop a nickname, like some of the other fat girls. No one made jokes about an earthquake coming down the hall, or tease me about what I ate for lunch. This was because I was well liked, I suppose. As well-liked as anyone felt in the hell that is junior high school. But this didn't stop my girlfriends from singing "1-800-94-Jenny" to me whenever they decided I was not cool for a week. I hated those weeks. I was banished to the table of too fat girls. Or too skinny girls. Too smart girls sat at the table next to us. Too poor girls next to them. But they all had one thing in common... they were all too something to be anything. I spent most of junior high hoping one of my so called friends would develop a thyroid condition causing them to balloon into the good year blimp, thus cementing my position with my friends.
High School I was "average." Medium. I would hear that the average size of a woman in America is a size 10. I was a size 10. I was normal. No one called me portly. Jenny Craig's theme song didn't ring in my ears. But no one called my thin either. Never petite, but at least I had a boyfriend. And having a boyfriend in high school is a must have accessory and any girl who denies it is lying or single.
College brought freedom and pizza. Friendship and China Express at 2am. Hook ups and Hot Dog Man. And then I got fat again. But of course no one called me anything at this time. But we all knew the facts. I was the fat girl again. Beautiful girls always have a token fat friend. That way they can go out and be assured that they will get all of the attention. Wingmen look at the fat friend and cringe a little. They know their fate for the night is with that porky girl. Entertaining her and making her forget her fatness, melting it away with his flirting and allowing her inner thin, confident woman to emerge. The illusion is ruined when she goes home alone, or, if enough alcohol was involved in the evening, goes home with her suitor, only to wake up to an empty bed. This is the way of the 20 somethings. And please don't hatemail me, random chubby girl who found my page. I'm not saying it's right. I'm saying it's true.The truth... sucks. Hurts too. But mostly sucks.
Now, I was lucky enough to have a boyfriend in college as well. I have always had a boyfriend. I have not been single since high school. This is not the rants of a girl desperate for a boy to like her. However, had I been single when I turned 21 and began to go to the bar scene, the above would have been my fate. I felt it. I felt the looks when we went to a party and the dancing began. My friends had a line behind them of guys who wanted to dance with them. All I can say is thank god for the BSU football/basketball boys at these parties. They danced with me because girl can dance. They didn't try to hook up with me, but I never failed for dance partners either.
So none of my friends commented on my weight. My professors did. They told me I was fat. They just phrased it differntly. As I gained weight my dance teacher urged me to come to the studio more for workouts on my technique. They suggested trips to the gym because I just didn't "Look like I felt confident" in my body. They forced me to take off my baggy sweats in dance class, to look at my body in my leotard and tights in the mirror every day. Suggestions about a diet were made. I knew they thought I was fat. They just didn't want to be mean. They might as well have been.
I remember going to the gym and getting on the scale there. As I read the number 185lbs I felt lightheaded. How did this happen? Where was the medium 135lbs girl I had come to college inhabiting? Apparently she was sitting at her table at Greeks Pizzaria inhailing food. The fat girl was out again. And she was on a roll... with extra butter please.
I suck at dieting. I don't know how to do it. I either restrict to ridiculous proportions or I binge and purge. I started my form of a diet: 10 grapes. 1 bite of pasta salad. No dressing. No mayo. I looked around my girlfriends and recognized that many of them were doing the same as me. They took trips to the bathroom following a mean, they barely touched their food. They worked out non-stop and examined their flaws in the mirror in dance. I watched them and was determined to keep up. It was fun, in a way. I felt normal. Like what we were doing was okay. My weight began to drop and I saw results. Fast results. And that's what we all like. Get the job done, no matter what it takes. That's the way of the world.
I entered a therapy program 2 years later. Intense and difficult I began taking my steps towards recovery. Carrie was my couselor and I adored her. At this point people called me "thin." Not too thin though. But at least it wasn't portly, or even average. I was finally down to 130lbs and on a 5'6 frame I suppose that is thin...ner. But I never looked unhealthily thin. For a long time that was just another failure. To have an eating disorder and not even do that right. It only fed my insecurities.
So to hear the word "boney" as I sat in my size two pants last night come out of my friends mouth was... I can't think of an adjective. It felt like a lie. Like when a fat girl asks you if she looks fat. You always say no. Even when it's a yes. And calling me boney felt like a lie. My friend that I hadn't seen in years asked me if I was eating. Again, it felt like a lie. I hope that someday I can look at my body in the mirror and not feel like I am in the fun house at the state fair, looking in the stretchy mirrors that makes your body look wider than it is. I'd like to love what I see reflected there.
I'd like to see me through others eyes. Because I truly have no idea what I look like."
Friday, February 01, 2008
Ground Hog's DayAs Ground Hog's approaches, I remember my old Ground Hog's Day...
This is my Ground Hog's Day scene that plays on any given work day...
The UPS man comes in, asks me out, I say no and then he leaves. This man never tires of asking, even though the answer is always the same. Sometimes the conversation lasts longer...
"Would you set me up with one of your friends?" he asks, referencing to the array of pictures I have on my desk of my young and beautiful friends.
"They'd eat you alive, Tom."
And it's true.
"What about you?" he winks. I hate winks. "If you were single."
"I'd still say no." I laugh, even though I'm not kidding, a habit I picked up from my grandmother. Smile when you're breaking their hearts- makes it sting more.
"You're just saying that because you can't tell me the truth." he winks again. I wonder if he has a twitch. "It's just dinner. A burger, some fries, maybe a beer."
"Then I'd definitely say no. I'm not a burger kind of girl."
This is usually when I walk away. He always laughs and walks out, as if this is a game of cat and mouse. Little does he know I am in no way a mouse and somehow the analogy of cat and tiger doesn't seem as appealing to most men I know. I certainly can't imagine that Tom-I-love-to-wink-UPS man would be interested in that sort of game.
He treats me like a woman.
Yes, I am aware I am a woman, thank you, before you even say it.
But just because I have breasts and a vagina doesn't mean every Tom, Dick (yes I'm calling you that) or Harry (ick) gets to experience either one of them. I feel violated by his eyes. I feel raped in his thoughts. And I would never meet him for a date, single or taken.
On a sidenote if I were trying to woo a woman with a significant other, I would never suggest a meeting for burgers and beer. A good bottle of anything-but-merlot and oysters rockefeller? Tom might have had a date. But then I'd have to endure him all night, and no amount of wine, no matter how good a year it was, can make that bearable. Instead I am destined to repeat this performance tomorrow.
and the day after that.
and the day after that.
Groundhog's day. what a bitch.