My Tent on The Beach

I have a problem.

It’s motivation to work out.  I have none.  I currently have a fully functional gym membership, all the time in the world, and I live three blocks away and I cannot force myself to go.  Perhaps it’s the fact that I view it as “the worst thing I’ll do all day” (even though once I get there, I actively disagree with myself).  Maybe it’s because my gym clothes suck (but I love them…).  I don’t know–I just cannot force myself to get there.

So, here’s what I need.  All 3 of you who read this…I need to know how you motivate yourselves to go.  Respond in your inner monologue, using the exact phrasing you use to tell yourself the gym is a good thing and you must go.  Maybe I just need an inner monologue update.

Until then, I think I’ve talked myself into yoga as a workout again.  Yoga’s wonderful…but it’s not making my jeans any looser, if ya know what I mean…

Today was a great day.  Better than a lot I’ve had recently.  Why? Let me break it down for ya…

1. I was not writing.  That is NEVER a bad thing. EVER.

2. I was spending time with friends who are more like family.  When there is something effortless about people who you find worthwhile, it’s always rewarding. These people are special gifts in life.

3. My apartment “got” painted.  I’ll tell you what the best moment of my day was.  It was finding out that the tiny little space between the sink and the wall in the bathroom was painted.  I didn’t know how I was going to do it.  And the next thing I know…it’s done. This, I think is an interesting function of single life.  I’m so used to having to figure everything out for myself that when something that poses a huge conundrum for me ends up accomplished, I feel especially warm and fuzzy inside.  These don’t have to be “rocket science” things and, in fact, they’re often the opposite.  I still think the greatest thing Andras has ever done for me was take out the trash.  83% of me is not kidding. The one thing I will say to all of my paired-off friends is this: Never, EVER take for granted the fact that there’s someone else around to get your back.  They might bring with them a host of other annoying attributes but remember…that’s garbage you don’t have to take out and tiny slivers of wall between the sink and the wall that you don’t have to figure how to get to. That’s just incredible to me.

4. My apartment got painted.  Holy Crap.  That’s a major project in a whirlwind…done.  Amazing.

5. I laughed.  When in solitary confinement, writing, laughter can be hard to come by.  This was nice.

6. Pizza. And Beer. Need I say more?

That’s enough.  How much more does a day need to be great.  I’ve got a “stunning” week ahead…in that I’m going to be tired and anxiety-ridden and in need of everything that today was.

Sometimes the universe just knows what you need.

It’s coming around to that time of year again: gift-giving season.  And I’ve got a real conundrum this year, not just in gift-giving but also gift-receiving.  If your “people” are anything like mine, a requisite Thanksgiving Day discussion involves rattling off a list of things I want to family members who want to buy me things for Christmas.  Here’s the problem: my life conditions make it such that my list of “needs” far outweighs my list of “wants” to the point that talking about “wants” is almost moot.

I’m actually okay with that reality.  The conundrum is that people don’t want to hear it.  So this year, when my mom asked (because she’s the Grand High Mediator of Pacyna-family Gift Giving, acting like an info clearinghouse for me and my brothers) what I wanted and I told her “money so I can pay my bills,” she had a rough time accepting it.  “Really?” she asked quizzically and, frankly, piteously.  “You don’t want anything that we could, like, wrap and put under the tree?”  Of course, the answer to that is yes.  But it begs other important related question-based binaries like, “Do I want a DVD or to pay for my car?”  “Do I want a snazzy new scarf or to pay my cable bill?” “Do I want a new book or to eat breakfast two weeks from Tuesday?”

The issue here has nothing to do with want or need but actually the confounding of them.  I’m at a point that my wants are trivial because my needs are primary–and they’re big ones.  I’m one good pair of jeans away from financial ruination; I don’t expect it will always be that way, but that’s the state of things today.

So, here’s the question: Is it possible not to conflate the two? How do I generously receive “little thingies” which are meant for good when they do nothing to solve the issue of my totally cracked peace of mind?  I don’t want to be ungrateful and I’m not.  But my practicality on this, I think, might be alarming to my family.

Ah, the holidays.

I woke up this morning with one purpose and one purpose only: to deal with the egregious speeding ticket I got last Monday.  The icing on the cake that was the total ruination of that day was that, for the first time ever, I got a speeding ticket on the effing Ohio Turnpike.  That’s right.  Apparently, I was doing 82 in a 65. (I do have to say…I drive a Kia Rio5 which I love but I would have a hard time believing I could actually coax it up to 82 without it internally combusting…thank you Sir). Alas, I digress…I had to get a money order to pay the ticket.  So I went to the bank (a long lead in…I see that now).

Thus, I was perfectly positioned for what will surely be the best part of this Monday.  As I returned to school, grabbed up my Morning Coffee (capitalized to show it due reverence) at Metropolis, and walked to school in my fantastically cloppy-but-manageable modestly high-heeled shoes (ala Jen Leonard), I saw the greatest thing perhaps ever seen on Kenmore Avenue.

Driving up the street was a golf cart, controlled by two burly men, their appearance enhanced by the overly puffy winter-wear they happened to be sporting.  This in itself was kind of funny.  But wait, there’s more.  Hitched to the back of the golf cart was a cart with one of the Magi, riding a camel, facing backwards. (Loyola happens to own and proudly display yearly one of the ugliest, tackiest manger scenes I’ve ever laid eyes on.  If I can get a picture, you can bet I’ll share it.) Ironically, the golf cart was traveling north (probably following the Star) but the Wise Man (I think it was Balthazar), now reduced to being toted around by a golf cart, was facing south.  The  bewilderment and consternation painted onto that figure was especially poignant for the context.

It was so stunningly unexpected, out of context, and just sad, sad, sad that I started laughing out loud and actually had to stop and compose myself. It was bizarre.  And probably the greatest gift I never could have imagined I wanted.

Thank you Balthazar.  And good luck to ya.

…and it was funny (if I might say so myself) and, lest I be a little immodest, it might have been occasionally insightful.  Sometimes it would get a little Zen-ny and then it would flow more like “People” magazine for awhile.  Sometimes there would be pictures.  I was good at lists.  And then, somewhere in the ether, my blog evaporated.  Probably with the endless months of intense (and I’m gonna go ahead and say intense) paper-writing, sitting at my computer for hours at a time, my hip flexors contracting to nothingness.  Sadly, I began to look a little like Montgomery Burns…all jaudiced and hunched over and with little warty things on my face (not really, but redness yes).  Oh, I was a sad sack.  Am a sad sack.  But trying to be a recovering one.

As I was driving home to the Cleve on Monday, I realized that I have been miserable as long as I can remember, almost to the point that I can’t remember what it feels like to be happy.  But my reasonable, logic-driven head remembers that certain things do make me happy…at least for awhile.  And funny thing…writing on this tiny little postage-stamp of the Interwebs is one of ‘em.  I’m not sure how to recapture the voice I had when I started this thing…a lot has changed…and actually, sometimes I long for the stupid Vox blog on which it all started (technically it’s still there but I hate Vox and this thing is paid for for up to three years).  So, I’m just gonna re-start and see what happens.  I refuse to let Facebook train me to speak to “my public” (all two of them and dwindling) in 140 characters.  I’m going to have a say and it might be a long(er) one.  Yeah.  But, so as not to fall into a crevasse of negativity, here’s a list of things I promise (myself) not to do:

1. No whining or complaining unless I think it’s actually funny and/or wittily biting sarcasm.

2. No blowing sunshine up anyone’s nose.  This post inevitably comes after a particularly whiny, wheezy one (See #1).

3. No “deep insights into the world” unless I provide the context and do not preach.  I hate preachy blogs.

4. No over-sentimentalism or over personal-reflection.  Can you believe I write a journal too?  That’s where that stuff goes.

5.  No changing names to protect the innocent.  I have real friends and now their friendship with me is contingent on being mentioned by their real first names (no last names…seriously, that’s just not right) for their greatnesses.  I will only celebrate friend greatness.  If you piss me off, I’ll wait to we work it out and then talk about it vaguely and in the past tense.

6. No overly dedicated school talk.  School does nothing but make me whiny, wheezy, and agitated.  (See #1 again).

I think that’s a good start.  And yes, I’m going to be that person that posts the updates on Facebook because…no one checks this thing regularly.  So deal.  Those updates just let you know there’s something new in the pot…it doesn’t mean you have to eat it.

Let the blogging begin.  Again. For the first time. For the last time.

I’ve been held hostage in my apartment by UPS today.  The helpful little sticky left for me on my front door yesterday boldly (and helpful) proclaimed that UPS would attempt a re-deliver today sometime between the hours of 10:30am and 5pm.  They must now be conspiring with the cable company to offer very constructive information regarding their paid visits.

Anyway, because of this, I’ve wanted nothing but to go outside of my apartment and, thus, have had to keep myself busy in other ways.  All hasn’t been lost though.  Despite my bondage, I’ve had a good day here including (but not limited to):

1. Forcing Andras to bring me his “good-bye” lunch instead of going out for it.

2. Finishing a UW project exceedingly fast…when all I wanted to do was walk away from it.

3. Feasting on Trader Joe’s food almost constantly.

4. I’m going to work out here in 5 minutes or so.  Usually, this urge wouldn’t strike until at least 7:30pm.

5. Cleaning the kitchen.  I know.

6. The possibilities feel endless at this point.

I always feel some kind of relief when this person shows up and gives me the go-ahead to assume freedom.  But until then, I suppose there are worse things I have to endure.

Like getting a PhD…but I’ll worry about that later.

I bought a new car on Friday.  In my old car, the “check engine” light would go on randomly, oh I don’t know, every other week. So I chucked it and bought a new (but simple) car.  That was Friday.  Yesterday the check engine light when on.  In the new car. Holy shit.

And I lost my mind.

Blinding rage? Fury? No, just a quiet, growing anger manifesting itself as what became raging, fiery heartburn.  In a momentary out-of-body experience as I was digging through my closet for the Tums (which have Calcium, I realized, so at least I had my RDA dosage of that), I realized that this is not a healthy coping mechanism. So, over my coffee this morning as I’m piecing back together what are the twisted and broken shards of my mind, I’m trying to work my way through what might be going on here.

I don’t have an answer.  But what I know is that I’ve become prone to really flying off the handle, most especially when inanimate objects are involved.  I won’t lose my mind with people.  I almost never have gone loco on a person.  But when something crosses my path–take cover.  This has happened when the cable goes out, my computer malfunctions, my coffee maker bites the dust, MY CHECK ENGINE LIGHT COMES ON…you get the drift.  It’s a Thing thing.  And so, I wonder if this is my own craziness constantly creeping up on me or if it’s a symptom of a greater social condition.  What I’m wondering is if Facebook has done this to me…

Here’s the thing: I’ve become used to speed (not the narcotic, although there are days when I consider it) and functionality.  Usually I love it: I’m in love with being in the know NOW.  So, Facebook lets me see what my friends are doing now. Gmail tells me instantly when I get an e-mail.  I can pay my bills and have the total deducted from my account now.  I’ve grown completely intolerant of anything that 1) breaks or 2) takes more than 3.4 seconds.  Which I think is the root of my check engine rage.  (Also connected is that this is a brand new thing that has now, inexplicably BROKEN ALREADY which just exascerbates this whole thing.)

What I don’t know is how to reverse it.  Yes, I can unplug and not engage with the face-paced world of technology.  But then I’m left behind. FAST. I know people who’ve done this and it’s like they’ve become irrelevant…and if there’s one thing I live for, it’s being relevant (although, now that I’m this far into this post, I’m left wondering…).  Unplugging is extreme.  My current state of plugged-in-edness seems extreme.  So where is the happy middle in determining the speed of life?  And how much control do we really have over it? How do I get Zen with very expensive things breaking in the first 5 minutes I have them when everything is a thing that I’ve paid for.  And has been promised to work?

This is not new, I know.  Since the invention of things, things have been breaking.  But it seems like now, in this shiny world of things everywhere that do amazing things very fast, failure is becoming way less of an option.  Because if I had a little C4 and duct tape, at this moment, I’d strap it to that car and show it who’s boss.

But maybe that’s an overreaction.

I really hate to be that chipper, cheerful, “Look at the sunny side of life,” kinda girl.  In fact, it makes me want to flog myself for it. I’m much funnier when I’m wry and cynical.  But amazing things have been happening to me recently and I’m not sure why.  I suppose the smarter side of myself says, “Katie…what the hell? Why are you questioning it?”  But, you know, I like to live on the wild and stupid side.  So let’s dig in…

The goodness, I’m finding, is in the universal return.  Like Mars in retrograde, stuff keeps coming back to me at the right time, in the right place.  I’m making myself sick with my own giddyness about it.  “Like what?” you say, “Katie. What is mystically on the return?”

Like:

1. Chez and Patrick with whom I now share an office.  Previously I thought that would be a productive space.  Today, Patrick and I proved that it probably won’t be…academically speaking…but it was great.  My return to the sociology department is the return I was looking for.  Weird.  Couldn’t have seen that coming.

2. Katie and Andy visited on Tuesday.  For Katie, it was a return to Chicago. It was glorious.  For Andy, it was not a return, but he didn’t seem to have a horrible time, so maybe someday he will return.  Either way, though, it was wonderful.  I haven’t had that much fun in a long time…with adults who appreciate Harry Potter like I do.

3. Friday we returned to Book Club.  Another fantastic time.

4. A little bit of my zest for sociology has returned.  It feels right again when for a long time it did not.

5. I returned about 79423874 library books last week.  Literally a weight off my shoulders.  Also means…I read them.  Another weight off my shoulders.

6. Fall is returning.  This past week I literally curled up under my down blanket, had a beer (the RETURN of Goose Island Harvest Ale), and watched football.

I could go on but I’m getting nauseous.  Bottom line, the returns are so celebratory because it means I’ve been given a reprieve from waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting.  I guess I want to ask why…what changed?  Was it me? Or the Universe?  And how do I keep this table turned in my direction?

But, you know…questions are stupid right now.  I’m just going to go sleep while I can because with returns, here’s the thing: everything returns.  Even waiting.

I can’t stop eating.

“It’s crazy,” I say sitting here, having just inhaled a donut after eating a sandwich and fries for lunch.  What. the. heck.  This has been going on for two weeks and I’m starting to get concerned.

Now, before you go hurling the fat-jokes around (which is something only I do…almost no one hurls fat jokes at me anymore…which is good because I’d kick ‘em in the nuts and then twist their nose), this is a novel occasion because I’m just that hungry.

There’s no doubt, I’m an emotional eater.  This is evidenced in my “soft” exterior which, I think, clearly corresponds to my consistently high levels of stress.  I will also claim with a serious face that I have an “athletic build”…I do, because working out nets me huge American-Gladiator-like muscles.  They look cool when I’m really toned, but they’re also mammoth.  When I’m working out I go from round to square.  What I wouldn’t do to find “slim” in there somewhere.  Anyway, this tendency plus the emotional eating has always equalled “Katie shops in the plus-size section.”  (Which was completely hilarious last week when I went shopping with a friend of mine…The Lady, for those who know her…who was particularly unembarrassed by plus size shopping.  Every store she walked into she would go up to the sales person and loudly…and I mean loudly…announce “My friend needs the plus size section…No the PLUS sizes.”  It was strangely comforting that she wasn’t apologetic about it. Meanwhile, I’m like diving behind any rack I can find wheezing in her direction, “Uh, yeah, okay let’s just go…” and the salespeople were like, “Why are you shouting?”)

Anyway, what I’m not used to is the hunger.  This is functional eating that’s going on here, not emotional, and it’s just always there.  When I eat, it makes it worse. Conundrum: When I don’t eat…it’s just as bad.  AHHHH.  Of course, anyone else would find this a fantastic problem to have.  I, however, am imagining the shoe-horning that’s have to go on to get into my favorite jeans…which are, everyone together now, plus size.

I’m trying not to freak too much and just enjoy the ride.  Maybe this is justice for those three or four months last year when, because of extreme horrible stress, I just didn’t eat anything (Cruel irony there: I’m wearing the same jeans today as I did then…all of that time I could’ve been eating jelly donuts everyday).  But I’m starting to worry about things like “cholesterol” and “heart disease.”

Maybe I’ll just eat this here Toblerone and contemplate it for awhile.

Ooh, I don’t know if you’ve all been following the big buzz: Archie finally proposed after all these years…TO VERONICA.

'Bout time, Arch. Good for you.

That’s right.  This comic book icon that’s been all over every medium from gum wrappers to online comics finally committed…the cardinal American sin.  And people are up in arms about it.

For those unaware of the story, here it is.  It’s the classic American love triangle: Archie loves Betty, Betty plays hard to get, Veronica (the vixen) is always there to throw a wrench into an otherwise bland boy-loves-girl story. Awesome.

But here’s what’s so interesting to me about this public outcry over the fact that the Archie Gang (now well into middle age) has defied convention…that Archie actually asked the “hot, slutty” girl to marry him after all these years of pining hopelessly (and fruitlessly) over Betty.  Betty has been the ungettable get for too long.  And now that she’s finally gotten what her coy little self deserves (Archie moving on to someone who’s openly wanted him for, well, ever), we’re angry.  We feel sorry for Betty.  Because that’s not how the story ends.  What else could Betty have done but what she did…we asked her to play that role and we promised her that in the end, she’d be happy.  And now Veronica is wearing her ring.

Good, I say.  Betty totally screwed this one up.  Maybe I speak from a standpoint heavily informed by the fact that I’ve never had guys falling all over me (far from it, actually.  Usually I intimidate them…which I will never totally understand) but, I look at this story (and the countless number of real stories that look exactly the same) and I think Betty’s been an ass.  Archie’s tied himself in knots trying to get her attention and she’s been stringing him along (for, like, 15 years now).  How long does she possibly think he’s going to put up with that?!?  Seriously. It’s embarrassing for him and heartless for her.  But isn’t it interesting that we side with her when he asks Veronica because Betty’s done what every “good girl” should do…we expect her to be rewarded for playing the part of  “ideal girl.”  We’ve done Betty a disservice in leading her to believe that messing with Archie’s mind for so long is something that will be rewarded with his love and loyalty in the end.  Only if Archie’s a total idiot would that happen.

Now, I know…you’re reading this thinking, “Kate…seriously…it’s a comic book…who cares?”  This story is not a comic book.  I talk to many men who are Archie and have chosen their Betty and regret it.  Why?  Because if we take Betty at face value (and put out of our minds “the ideal girl” idea), she’s a manipulative bitch.  And there’s nothing to indicate she won’t continue to be that.  Meanwhile, Veronica (the hot, slutty girl as we’ve cast her) has done nothing but show Archie how she feels about him.  Archie is the real winner here.  He’s chosen the girl (now woman) who has given him every reason to believe she loves him…for real.  Good for you, Arch.  Nicely played.

Of course, this isn’t the end of this story.  Archie Comics has already said there’s 5 issues left, which means they’ll totally bow to the crush of complaints from readers wanting the Fairytale Ending.  Veronica will be left heartbroken, (“As every slut deserves,” we’ll say) and Betty will be featured on the next episode of Bridezillas and we’ll all clap Archie on the back and given him that hang-dog, “Man…what are you getting yourself into?” look of satisfaction.  Because that’s how the story should end.

It’s a sad day for the girl next door…not because she didn’t get the proposal. It’s because she’ll never learn that what’s she’s doing is anything but “cute” and “coquettish.”  It’s actually kind of gross.  And we’ve all asked her to be that.