Month: November 2011

I Pretend That I’m Not Competitive

That is, I pretend that I’m not competitive when I can’t compete, which is, like, all the time at CrossFit. But I am, in my head, competitive. Sometimes.

Last week, we were supposed to find our new one-rep max for dead-lifts. No way I’m as strong as a couple of my girlfriends, but I hit 248 that day, and I was really proud of myself, first because it was a 35-lb. personal record, and second because my form was really good up through 243. Two forty-eight was ugly, but it still counts.

Usually for all matters CrossFit, I comment on the CrossFit Durham site or Facebook page, but that night, I posted on my own wall:

I feel like even my non-CrossFit friends should know that I dead-lifted 248 pounds tonight.

Status was Liked. Props were conveyed. Yay, me.

But one comment made me go into full-on Ivan Drago mode. It was from my cousin, who said:

Nice work! I did 200 lbs a couple months ago. Not sure what I am at now since I couldn’t go today.

This particular cousin is six months younger than me. We rarely, if ever, see each other these days because she lives on the other side of the country, but we grew up as summertime besties at Grandma‘s house.

And I was always ferociously jealous of her.

She was beautiful and vibrant. Flawless skin. Body that could stop traffic. She laughed at everything, all the time, including herself (something I’ve had to work very hard to learn). Her family went on cruises. Her clothes were just about the coolest, not that I could borrow any of them because I was always half again as large as she was. She grew up, got married, had two ridiculously cute children, and is now a total MILF who goes on Mexican vacations with her hot husband. Both of them do CrossFit out on the west coast.

Now, back up a second: a month ago, the Universe offered me a particularly jarring lesson about being jealous of people. A 40-year-old acquaintance who still got carded when buying beer and her husband who, in a friend’s words, was so handsome you could hardly look at him, well, he committed suicide, and now she gets to raise two kids, one of them with special needs, on her own.

So intellectually I realize that You Just Don’t Know About People, ergo You Shouldn’t Be Jealous, but when my cousin posted that comment, I just thought, “No. You get everything else. You don’t get this one.”

And I immediately started planning my next trip to the gym and my workout regimen because I was not—was not—going to let her dead-lift more than me.

The problem is that there’s no such thing as healthy competition in my disordered brain, and it went, in about six seconds, from “work on dead-lifts” to “eat paleo and lift every day and lose 50 pounds” to “shove Peanut M&Ms in face at kitchen counter”.

A little later, I realized that this competition (a) was decades-old, (b) lived entirely in the real estate of my crazy-ass brain, nowhere else, and (c) made me feel bad.

This is the part of the story where I tell you that this realization lifted a weight off my shoulders. Changed my life’s paradigm. Set me free.

Would that it were. Nope. I’m still petty and shallow and jaundiced.

A Cotton Swab Parable

It was the morning of the Watauga High School band’s trip to Carowinds, I want to say sophomore year. I showered as usual and headed to my parents’ bathroom to scout out a q-tip to dry my ears. And when I say “dry my ears”, you know it went a little farther than that.

It always started out as just drying my ears, and one of my mom’s sayings, along with “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all”, was “Don’t put anything in your ear that’s smaller than your elbow”, but as I’ve mentioned, I have my dad’s ear wax genes, and I could never help but dig in there a little bit and pull out a satisfyingly disgusting wax-coated swab of cotton.

Maybe I was a little aurally fixated because I’d had a shit-ton of ear problems as a kid. Frequent, angry ear infections. Throbbing pain that I remember vividly thirty years later. Seriously, I recall looking up at my mom, who I know now must’ve been dying to see her five-year-old in such agony, and thinking, “How are you letting this happen?” Anyway, I had to have tubes put in my ears. Twice! To this day, when doctors look in my ears for the first time, they go, “Whoa!… Um, so you’ve got some scar tissue in there, huh?”

This particular morning in high school, after I’m certain I spent a half-hour picking out the perfect outfit to impress Robbie, probably involving matching shirt and scrunchy socks, I got really into the “ear drying”, and I just went a little too deep into my right ear canal. A little tap on something inside, and I found myself eye-level with the bolts that kept the toilet anchored to the floor. Totally horizontal, like that, in an instant. My ear felt a little tender but didn’t hurt. It was just weird, was all, that I could’ve been so undeniably standing in one moment, and in the next on the fucking ground.

I began to pick myself up, but even weirder, when I raised my head more than three inches, it was—no joke—like someone was holding me down. I could not make myself vertical.

Of course, I was not thinking that I may have done some major damage to myself. I was freaking out that I might miss the charter bus, and Robbie would never see that the coral and aqua in my earrings was exactly the same as the coral and aqua in my shirt, and uuugggghhhhh, why me?

But eventually, over the course of about 20 minutes, I raised myself up a few inches at a time until I was able to stand and stagger out of the bathroom. I went on the trip, and it’s unclear whether Robbie appreciated my fashion choices—he played cat and mouse with me for, oh, about three more years.

I have no recollection of where my family was during this incident. Maybe my parents had already left for work, but my brother must’ve been in the house because he was the captain of our ’83 Subaru GL (I was quartermaster, and by that I mean I managed the Led Zeppelin cassettes). Was I too embarrassed to call out for him? No idea.

Anyway, clearly the moral of this story is, do not match your accessories perfectly. It looks like you’re trying too hard on the band trip.

Dear Victorious Praise Fellowship

I appreciate your persistence. Actually, ‘appreciate’ implies that it’s worth something to me. Admire? No. Acknowledge. That’s it. I acknowledge your direct-mail dedication to getting me to your Gospel Explosions and whatnot. And I can see that the Muse was with the graphic designer of this latest postcard who cleverly exchanged the zero in ‘2011 Big Event’ for a disco ball.

But I have no interest in coming to your church. And when I say no interest, I mean like, the opposite of interest. I would rather do burpees for an hour than sit through a Sunday morning in your mega-sanctuary. Moreover, I don’t wish to donate toward your $6 million project to build a bowling alley, movie theatre, business center, gymnasium, and workout center. Even if I held your same religious beliefs, I’m not sure I could reconcile how the bowling alley would “win souls to Christ”.

In fact, in the event that I give my life over to Jesus, I can’t imagine that it would be in a church that has a Director of Marketing.

Save yourself the stamp.

Thanks,

Amy

Dear Redford, Part 7

Sometimes when we’ve been strolling around the neighborhood, you and Violet have started sniffing enthusiastically at the same spot. You’ve decided it’s mark-worthy before she’s finished checking it out, and you’ve peed on her head. OK. I get that. There must have been something that required your scent, on the double. But, dude, when I reached down to pick up Violet’s poop on our walk just now, and you marked my leg? That was uncalled-for. You know I’m yours already.

Love you anyway,

Amy

The Net

A month back I went to see Louis C.K.—one of the funniest people alive—at DPAC with my friend Jonathan. Jonathan mentioned Louie’s appearance on a podcast called WTF with Marc Maron, and I’ve been downloading that program ever since. I haven’t yet heard the Louie episode because it’s in the Premium Content section and costs TWO WHOLE DOLLARS, but the most recent episode I listened to was Maron’s interview with Aubrey Plaza. She’s an actor/comedian currently on Parks and Rec, who also appeared in Judd Apatow’s movie Funny People, neither of which I’ve seen. Before the podcast, I had no idea who Aubrey Plaza was; in fact, I think I loaded hers on my iPod accidentally when trying to transfer a Mike Birbiglia episode.

Anyway, her story was sort of interesting, not riveting, but I was walking the dogs, and it was the only thing on my Shuffle I hadn’t listened to yet so I kept it running. At one point, Maron asked her who she’d like to work with in the future, and she admitted she had admired Rosie O’Donnell since middle school, had read her autobiography Rosie multiple times. She said she followed a lot of Rosie’s career advice from the book. For example, Rosie wrote, Never have a net. So Plaza had never gotten a “real job”, always counting on making her living through her art.

And that hit me in the gut. I realized I not only have a net, I’m in my net. I’m highly qualified in my net. I’m National Board-certified in my net. I’ve been lying in my net for going on ten years. Long enough to have indentations in a criss-cross pattern on my back.

Dear Redford, Part 6

In some ways, you’re the same little puppy you always were, and in others, you’ve changed so much.

The sameness:

  • You still love hoomin beings like whoa.
  • You frequently execute your signature move.
  • You remain hungry all the time, and you don’t hesitate to let me know.
  • You bark that big houndy bark.
  • I often have to shoo you off the picnic table.
  • That drinking problem has not resolved itself.
  • You still love CrossFit (though maybe a little less now that Coach Phil has moved on). The other day, I tied you to the 70-lb. kettlebell, a.k.a. the Yellow Submarine, a.k.a. Kristen’s Bitch, and you started dragging it around like, fun! sled-pulls!
That says 16 kg, but it's actually 32, a.k.a. 70.4 lbs.

(Alas, as of yesterday, you’re not allowed to go to the gym anymore. New policy: no dogs allowed. I haz a sad.)

  • I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this before, but you have the same snacking protocol you’ve always had. That is, you have one little requirement. When we were at Cuttyhunk this summer, Margo gave you and Violet each a beef-basted bone. Violet went to town on hers, while you jogged repeatedly to one end of the porch and back. Margo finally said, “Redford! Eat your bone!” and I had to explain that you need something soft to lie on in order to eat snacks. She scoffed… but draped a beach towel on the planks, and you plopped down on it and started gnawing away.

As for the changes, there are two main ones. First, you weigh 82 pounds now, little man, and second, well, you’ve gotten a bit squirrelly. You get aggressive on the leash when we walk by other dogs, and even a visit to the dog park a few weeks ago ended badly, with you scaring the shit out of a shepherdy-mutt-dog. She was nervous, hovering, getting up in your business, but you most definitely over-reacted. It made me sad because I remember the days when you never met a dog you didn’t want to make out with. During all this time spent trying to let Violet recuperate from her surgeries, we haven’t been as social, and I think you’ve forgotten how to be with other dogs. And that makes me feel guilty and angry and frustrated.

But the other thing that has stayed the same is I love you like always. Madly and forever.

You're my best boy.

Love,

Amy

Photos by Kate “The Ginger Menace” and ATD.

Not Actually Old

My 92-year-old great uncle just lost his license. Nothing had happened; there was no incident, thank god—it was just Time. Actually, it was Time a long time ago. Long about 2003, I rode shotgun on his grocery store run, and all I remember is feeling my heart beating in my neck and hanging onto the oh-shit handle so hard I gave myself calluses. Since then his cognitive abilities have deteriorated. Two days after he buried his dead cat in the back yard, he said, “Now where has that cat Oliver gotten to?” Moreover, he can’t hear or see a whole lot.

So my mom, who takes care of my uncle, consulted with his doctor and his lawyer, and they said, yep, get him evaluated. (By the way, did you know it costs over $300 to get an elderly person screened for driving? You’d think that society might want to bear that burden, seeing as not doing it could get somebody killed, but nope. Out of pocket.)

Of course the evaluation said to get him off the road.

Now he’s miserable and blaming my mom, which is totally unfair because she’s done nothing but cook him dinner, help him keep up the house and gardens, and play two games of cribbage with him every night for the last decade. Plus, she’s devastated for him too. She told me that, after she got the news, she cried straight through her voice lesson. And that’s normally the happiest hour of her week.

I get it, though—he’s pissed and scared. Pissed because even though his daily rounds included only the post office, the dump, and Stop & Shop, it was his routine. His life. And scared because when the DMV revokes your license, well, that’s sort of the beginning of the end, innit? What’s the timeframe between losing the right to drive and having to have somebody wipe your ass for you? Probably not that long.

Ugh. Old age, man. I have to remember that even though I’m feeling old, I’m not. I can drive to Kroger, and I remember putting Boonie in the ground, and I can wipe my own ass. Thank god for that.

 

Feeling Old

I met a boy today—total cutie-pie; dark hair; stand-up comedian by trade except when he’s working on a small farm(!!); and at one point he said to me that he was sore because he’d done “this ballet barre workout” yesterday. Ha ha! How awesome is that?

When he mentioned he was 26, I was thinking, well, that’s not so bad—he’s only four years younger than me.

About two blissful seconds went by before I remembered that I’m not 30. I’m 30-six. Ten years older than cutie-pie. When I started college, he was in third grade.

And guess what, a friend of mine’s 30th birthday celebration is tonight. Yay for him. He could reasonably date cutie-pie, except that he’s straight and in a relationship.

Anyway, his party doesn’t start until 10:00pm. Listen, I can stay out until 10:00pm, but I don’t think I can go out at 10:00pm anymore.

Excuse me while I turn my hearing aid off and count the liver spots on my hands.

(No shit, I’m getting liver spots on my hands.)

I Am a Bad Citizen

I didn’t vote today. Instead, I drove to Carrboro because I thought Oprah Winfrey might find me my soul mate. There’s a lot that’s stupid about that statement.

What happens is, I get an email from a friend mid-day that says the Oprah Winfrey Network is developing a dating show, and they’re accepting applications from 2:00 to 5:00 at this restaurant in Carrboro. I’ve been ruminating on the fact that I’m technically a spinster, and I don’t know, I’m thinking, “Nothing else has worked, so maybe I try a little reality television…?”

So I get there, and they hand me a 27-page form to fill out. Twenty-seven pages. And they tell me a producer will be putting together a little bit of footage. I start filling out the form, but the first page says “YOUR TOWN: CARRBORO” and asks for my address. And I’m thinking, my town is Bull City, y’all, so I shuffle over to the hostess and say, “Do I have to be a resident of Carrboro to do this?”

She says, “Hmm… I don’t know… Do you love Carrboro?”

And I go, “Sure.” But really I’m thinking, it’s aight. I mean, there’s some good restaurants and a gargantuan dog park I used to go to all the time when I worked in Chapel Hill, and it’s walkable. But it’s no Durham.

And as I keep filling out this tome, it becomes clear that this is just the audition for the town. Questions like, What makes your town unique? and Who is the town gossip? and Where do people go on dates in your town? The network wants to find a town in which to make love happen. They’ll accomplish this goal by shipping in various matchmakers and dispatching them amongst the participants.

The producer asks if I’m ready for my on-camera interview, and truth be told, at this point, I’m having some reservations about the whole deal. But I’d driven all the way over there and even applied mascara and lipstick on a Tuesday, in the middle of the afternoon, and OK, whatever.

What’s your type? I don’t really have a type, I say, but funny, smart, preferably stronger than me.

Have you tried online dating? Ahem. Yes. Yes I have.

What does love mean to you? It means fighting for each other and for the two of you as a couple. Platitudes platitudes.

What would you bring to a relationship? Blah stupid loyalty blah fun blah.

I drove away feeling perturbed and disappointed in myself and discouraged. So then I went to CrossFit and lifted heavy things over my head, and I felt better. PR on my push press: 110 pounds.

I’m still an asshole for not voting though.

 

 

You Say ‘Moleskin’, I Say ‘Moleskeen’

I, like many people who write, carry a small notebook to jot down ideas when they come to me. Two reasons, really: (1) An idea for a post will not stay with me for more than 30 seconds, even if it’s the most exciting thought I ever thunk, and (2) during Those Dry Times, I can sometimes flip through the pages and find something to blather on about.

If I don’t have my Moleskine® with me, I just scribble on a sticky note, a receipt, a gum wrapper… and my desk is littered with these little pieces of paper all the time. Here are some in front of me right now:

  • hands smelling like lavender after washing Baby E’s head
  • past tense of breathe should be broathe
  • Things I Don’t Like: (1) when people pronounce amphitheatre as if it has no h after the p
  • I worry that Boonie didn’t know how much I loved him.
  • “I don’t eat when I’m not hungry.” –Kate K. Jealous.
  • Horrifying thought of the day: A hundred years ago, I would’ve been considered a spinster. A SPINSTER. People get into relationships ALL THE TIME. What the hell is wrong with me?
  • Liane Hansen pronouncing “Ghostface Killah” in Mark Ronson interview—hahahaha

Most of these scribbles will never get written about. There’s just not enough there. But I really want there to be. I practically sprain my brain trying to weave these threads into something meaningful. One I keep looking longingly at is:

  • B: “Fly, you fools” (LOTR)

This is a reference to Christmas 2001 when my family saw The Lord of the Rings in a tiny theatre in Stowe, Vermont. At the moment when Gandalf was hanging from the precipice—the hobbits staring, petrified, powerless to stop his fall—my brother leaned over to my ear and said, “Fly, you fools!” one second before those words came out of the Grey Wizard’s mouth. And it was one of the most thrilling moments I’ve ever experienced. The combination of the emotional intensity of the scene and my brother’s precognition was too much.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, of course. My brother had read all the books a brazilian times; he knew every slash of a sword and every breath of a Ringwraith. (Now Dan Miller or somebody’s going to comment that Ringwraiths don’t breathe or something. Shut it, I don’t know anything about them because I didn’t read anything but Nancy Drew when I was little.) But it was so awesome. Just an awesome moment in my life.

So I’ve wanted to write about that moment for a long time; I just didn’t know what else to say about it.

And I still don’t, but there it is.

On the internet.

So. Yeah.

This is one of Those Dry Times.