Ran across a blog post today titled Worst End of School Year Mom Ever. I can relate. I think most teachers feel like bad teachers at the end of the year.
Main reason: standardized testing. It’s The Worrrrrrrrrrst. Bad for kids, sure, but as I tell the kids: “At least you get to DO something. I just have to SIT THERE.” In fact, read I Got Middle Schooled for a little taste of what teachers and proctors go through. It’s horrifying and hilarious.
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Three years ago, I shared my experiences with anti-depressants. The magic bullet I mentioned was amino acids—a monster truck load of them per day—which I took for several years, and they definitely helped. But they were super-duper-expensive and not-at-all covered by my super-duper-crappy health insurance. I weaned myself off them within the last six months, and I think I’m doing OK. I have my moments, but between CrossFit, food choices, and workin on mah shit, I’m maintaining a pretty healthy level of sanity.
There I was, expressing my wildly swinging emotions about… some topic. I don’t know—this was probably 8 years ago. But I do remember what my friend Cat said: “Well, sometimes possibility is winning, and sometimes your concerns are winning.”
It was such a simple paraphrasing of what I’d been ruminating on. It was as if I had been spinning in circles, rising into the air, and she had grabbed my ankles and given them a toss earthward. Thunk, thunk, my feet were planted. All was steady.
Because they’re both fiction—possibility and concerns. Neither is real. Neither is what’s happening right now in the moment. Neither can be measured. The battle is a fantasy.
Every so often, I’m reminded that this battle between what’s possible and what’s worrisome rages on, but I feel like I’d benefit from keeping this concept closer to the decision-making part of my brain. (Especially since my concerns tend to occur to me not as obstacles to be overcome but instead as immovable barriers.)
Plus, I’ve noticed a predisposition toward one or the other at different times, so in the spirit of knowing thmyself, I’m going to make a list. I should probably post it on the fridge. Or tattoo it onto my forearm.
Historically, when possibility has been winning:
mornings when I wake up without an alarm
pretty much all mid-mornings
Daylight Savings Time
when I’m pleasantly busy (“Action is the antidote to despair.” -Joan Baez)
generally speaking, if I’m dancing or hula hooping
66% of the time I’m at the gym
79% of dog walks
94% of the time I spend with family/friends
100% of times I’m floating on a tube down a river
Historically, when my concerns have had the upper hand:
mornings when I wake up with an alarm and/or before 7:30am
late afternoons, on days I don’t go to the gym
when I wake up in the middle of the night
non-Daylight Savings Time
when I spend too much time by myself
generally speaking, if I see pictures of myself working out or video of myself dancing
days 21-28 of my cycle
when people deviate from the script I have in my head
when I have too much free time and not enough structure
Sunday evenings
If I can stay aware and recognize when concerns are on top, I’m not saying I’ll be able to wrestle them down, but at least I can say, “Oh, look who showed up. It’s Concerns. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Sure. Gotcha. Thanks for sharing, Concerns. Now fuck off.”
When possibility’s in the lead, that’s when I need to make plans and get shit done.
What about you guys? Do you have certain times when you’re predisposed to letting one or the other win?
On Wednesday, after three days of finding it extremely easy to be nice to my students without even faking it, which is what I had been having to do, and this despite having to get up at stupid:30 a.m. after a long and luxurious spring break, I realized something:
A whole bunch of people said they could relate to that statement, which made me wonder, how I/we might deal with this problem in the future.
Things that might help:
Awareness? Is there a service that will email me, “Easy there, Ame; you’ve got the SAD,” every week from November to March for the rest of my life?
Moving to the Equator?
Seasonal meds? Is that a thing? Do people dose up on Celexa during non-Daylight Savings Time?
Things that don’t help:
Light box. I have one. It’s in my shed. I have to be at work at 7:15, so getting up 30 minutes earlier to sit in front of a light box? Ain’t nobody got time for that.
I was telling a friend about this problem today, and he says he uses a light—wait for it—VISOR. Like a light box, but FOR YOUR HEAD. Hahahaha.
Other thoughts?
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Three years ago, I was writing a lot about my students, so it’s all password-protected, but here’s a good one if you have the password.
Two years ago, I offered you all an obscene sum for a simple, simple task, and you FAILED. YOU’RE ALL FAILURES.
One year ago, I bought a new car! I love it. It is covered in dog hair and nose prints.
Apropos of nothing, you guys would tell me if you thought I had nose cancer, right? I seem to have a growth on the left side of my nose that’s been getting bigger for a few years. Probably just a wort, right? Because I’m a spinster, and spinsters get those.
My sister-in-law is a gifted songwriter, and about ten years ago, she wrote a hilarious collar-tugger of a song called “Too Fat for Breakfast”, in which she (a normal-sized person) outlined some of the ways our society made her feel like a lumbering, jiggly mess (“Last-season Jennifer Aniston/You look like a lollipop”). Here’s my CrossFit-themed homage to that song.
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About half the time, I’m tremendously proud of my CrossFit accomplishments. And then something happens. It’s usually that I see photos of myself working out. In fact, in one of my Fat CrossFitter posts, I addressed my resemblance to a certain Martin Short character. And there are just no other words to capture what happens inside my chest when I look at these pictures except abject horror.
Recently, I had to ask for a Facebook courtesy-delete of a photo of me holding a medicine ball, taken at three-quarters view so my hips are wiiiiiiiide as Mother Ginger’s. Seriously, it looks as if, were I to pull out the bottom of my spandex, nobody would be surprised if some children ran out. In addition, I’m looking down, so my double-chin is in spectacular spectacle.
These photos make me want to close myself in my house and communicate with the outer world only via USPS.
But sometimes it’s not a photo. Sometimes it’s an exercise that’s standard to CrossFit that I’m incapable of doing, and I feel like a failure pile because I’ve been at it for two and half years now.
I’m not even talking muscle-ups or anything. People way stronger than I am can’t do muscle-ups. I’ll probably never do a muscle-up.
But I still can’t do a pull-up. And I’m still too fat for toes-to-bar.
Here’s that story.
A recent CrossFit WOD required as many reps as possible in 7 minutes of:
three 95-lb clean & jerk
three toes-to-bar
six 95-lb clean & jerk
six toes-to-bar
nine, etc.
At this point, (it seems amazing but) a 95-lb clean & jerk is not difficult for me. My max is 129. So the first three clean & jerks were nothing. Then I stepped up to the pull-up rig, grabbed the bar, summoned every ounce of strength, and kipped as hard as I could. And my toes totally hit the bar.
I was like, OK, I’ll do another. I took a giant swinging swing of a swing, and my toes once again made contact. Then I had to rest. I missed the next one and had to rest. I think I got the one after that. Or maybe there was another missed rep in there.
Back on the barbell. Easy six reps.
Back on the rig. Missed the first rep. Efffffffffffffffff.
I managed to get through the six, interspersed with another three or four missed reps (which are the fucking worst because you’ve done all the work, just to get within an inch or two and have the rep not count).
And time was up. 18 reps. For comparison, the relatively fit people got 50ish reps, and the super-athletes got more than 90.
I wasn’t even winded because I had to spend all that time resting for my next toes-to-bar attempt so I did nine anger-clean-and-jerks after the buzzer.
I know, I know, I’ve made progress. When I started CrossFit, I would dangle tenuously from the bar and, with a great heave, pull my knees up to about navel level. Now, I can do nine singles. If you give me a few minutes.
But I still look like Jiminy Glick when I’m doing them.
Aaaaaaand now I’ll be closing myself in my house and communicating with you people only via USPS. Send your addresses.
I’ve been mulling amy a’s post from Wednesday. I do that a lot—mull. Just mull and mull. Some might call it “ruminating” or “perseverating”, but I prefer “mulling” because then I don’t feel like such a crazy person… Hahahaha. Like anyone believes that. Anyway, here are my ruminations/perseverations/mullings:
1. amy a and I are almost exactly the same age, so it’s possible that it’s not too late for me to find someone. Hope!
2. I can’t think of anybody who’s there on the periphery that I might have been overlooking. Despair.
3. I really do believe I’ve taken a good hard look at myself, and I’ve worked on my own shit. And I think I’ve been clear about what I want. I do want “something simple and stable”: a fun, supportive, committed relationship with somebody who wants to have kids with me. …I clearly have some blind spot. There’s something I’m not seeing.
4. I’ve always thought timing was bullshit. I thought, if you’re each into the other, you’re into each other; everything else is just excuses. But now I’m rethinking that.
5. “In my efforts to always be in control of my life and heart, I’d forgottenthe joy of love is not being so wary of it all the time.” I’m so wary. All the time. Is this the blind spot? That I’m wary? That I put too much effort into being control of my life and heart?
6. “And the 20 years of dating and relationships of all shapes and sizes? Well, they just let me know that when I finally was ready, I’d have years of experience cementing the fact that when you know when it’s right, it is.” Please, god(dess)/whoever, let me be able to say this at some point. Soon?
7. I can’t stop boo-hooing about this. I love you, amy a. Also, fuck you.
Saturday was my friend Craig’s birthday. He and I are both grown-up fat kids, so naturally, celebrating meant eating all the processed carbohydrates we could get our hands on that day. The topic of pre-CrossFit pictures arose at brunch. He showed us a photo of himself at 280, two eighty, and I said, “Craig… where are your ears?” He said, “My cheeks are hiding them.”
People have told me I look different from when I started CrossFit, but honest to god, I usually don’t feel that way. However, I did think of this one photo of myself in which I was pretty sure I looked different, so I pulled it up at brunch, and today I’ma show it to you, internet. Now, let’s all just agree to ignore whatever is happening with my hair, OK? I was going for bangs, but I have a cowlick, and also I go to the Aveda school for haircuts because it’s cheap, and I don’t know, OK?! I don’t know. Drop it already.
Also this was pre-makeup tutorial, so all I knew how to do was mascara and lipstick (of a questionable hue).
If you can direct your attention to anything other than my hair or the giant… zit? mosquito bite? cowpock? on my upper arm, you’ll see what I looked like at my brother’s graduation from law school in May of 2009.
I mean, let’s be generous: the photo is taken at the absolute least flattering angle, and I’m holding a baby, so my arm is squished up against my body… but there’s no denying that I’m a chunky monkey.
What did you say? You said you want more photos? Well, OK!
[And let me just stop right there and say that I’m 100% anti-fat-shaming. I think that people of all sizes and shapes can be beautiful and strong. Plus, fat-shamers do little except make the fat person hate herself, which (if she’s like me) will make her go eat more, resulting in more weight gain, and congratulations, assholes, on making the situation worse. So I’m not intending to fat-shame myself or anyone else with this post. (Nor should you. If you jack up my comments section with fat-shaming, I’m going to ask you politely to eat a dick.) Nope, I’m not going to fat-shame or body-bash. I’m going to illustrate something. I have a point to make. I’ll get there. Bear with me.]
Here I am in June of 2006 at my brother’s wedding:
Just barin’ my midriff, awkwardly, in November 2008:
A friend’s wedding in May 2010:
And now, because I love you and appreciate your readership, I’m going to give you a gift. This is not something I do lightly. This counts as the Embarrassing Photo of the Week for all of 2013, deal? It is with great contemplation and no small trepidation that I give you Fourth of July 2009:
LOOK AT BABY REDFORD OMG.
Sorry, I thought I’d try some misdirection. It probably worked for a second. He is so very cute.
OK, we can talk again about the unflattering angle and lack of makeup, but mm-hm, let’s all take a minute to observe exactly how hard my inner lesbian was punching a heavy bag inside me trying to come out. A lesbian friend looked at this picture on Saturday night and said, “When I’m in the act of having sex with women, I’m not as gay as you are in that picture.”
I swear I’m into dudes.
I digress.
So August 17, 2010, I start CrossFit, and I go four times a week, up to this very day. I lift, I jump, I run (ugh), I sit up, I push up, I pull up. I do my best to get harder, better, faster (sorta), stronger. Most definitely stronger.
Here I am this past Saturday, after the first Open WOD:
This is what CrossFit does to a person. Lays you out on the floor, until there’s a sweat angel on the mat underneath you. (photo credit: Rona @ CFD)
OK, granted it was after the makeup tutorial, and granted I’m wearing a slimming black wrap-around dress, and granted my boobs are buttressed like whoa, but I think even in my face you can see the difference.
In fact, here:
Different, right? You’re still looking at my boobs, aren’t you? It’s OK.
Let’s look at another example. This is me at the State Fair last October:
You can see, I’m still wide at the hips, the circumference of my arms is still considerable, and my middle is still kinda squishy, but there’s a difference between that and my pre-CrossFit days, right?
The fact is, until I get my eating issues under control, I’ll always be overweight—I know that.
But here’s the kicker, and you’re not going to believe me, but I swear to fucking god it’s true. You ready?
I haven’t lost weight since I started CrossFit.
The most I ever weighed in my life was 177 pounds, and when I got on the scale at the doctor’s office ten days ago, it said:
1… 7… 3.
That’s right. 173 pounds. A 4-lb weight loss in two and a half years.
So. My point. (I told you I had one!)
CrossFit will not necessarily make you lose weight. If your only concern is a number on a scale, this shit is not for you. CrossFit will not necessarily make you skinny. If skinny’s what you’re after, you’ve got to eat less. (And for some of us, that’s harder than for others.)
CrossFit will, however, change your girth. CrossFit will make you stronger. CrossFit will change your body composition. CrossFit will remove some of the fat and make you gain muscle and therefore make you feel (and yes, look) better.
Plus, it’s fun, and you make friends. Does this sound like a CrossFit commercial? Well, I guess it is. (Hey, CrossFit HQ, you want to make it rain for your girl, or?)
Maybe you can’t afford CrossFit. That’s legit. It’s expensive. All I’m saying is, if you want to look/feel better, consider diverting your focus from the scale; instead, lift a heavy thing, and run a little bit.
All I’m saying is, find some friends who’ll do something physically challenging with you four times a week.
All I’m saying is, there’s a community WOD at CrossFit Durham every Saturday. It’s free. Come on. I’ll go with you.
Costa Rica, last September:
This is what CrossFit does to a person.
(Makes you feel like you need to do handstands *everywhere*. You’re such an asshole. Nobody cares about your fucking handstand.)
Oh, and my friend Craig? These days he’s a Studly Dudley, and you can totally see his ears from the front.
I’m a bloggy failure mess. I am not the boss of this blog. I can’t seem to write shit, and blah blah this has happened before, but never for this long.
It’s scary, to be honest.
I’m in a not-so-great place, to be honest.
Even things that had been going well are not going well. Wednesday, at the gym, my buddy Chad came by to give me a fist bump after the workout. “You crushed that WOD, Amy Scott,” he said.
I responded that I less “crushed it”, and more just “laid a hand on it and half-heartedly pushed down”… And actually, now that I thought about it, I less “pressed on it”, and more just “gave it the finger from a distance”. And it was true. I did pretty much two reps at a time of everything. I was tired and grumpy, and my plantar fasciitis was raging. My right heel felt like somebody’s heavy came after it with a baseball bat and my calf like it was one pace away from charley horsing.
When I said I was grumpy, Chad said, “Well, it was a grumpy WOD.” It was. It was a grumpy fucking WOD (20-minute AMRAP—what the shit?), but sometimes those are the best because you come off them feeling like you’re the boss of it. This one… It was the boss of me.
Also, yesterday as I was walking the dogs, I was reminded of that scene in the movie Parenthood when Steve Martin’s character wonders whether they should have the kid Mary Steenburgen’s character is pregnant with, and she says something like, “I’m not even sure we should keep the two we’ve got.” ‘Nita‘s adorable and I love her, but she’s a psycho around things with wheels, which makes our walks a teensy bit stressful. So what does my brain do? My brain tells me I shouldn’t even have dogs. My brain is the boss of me. The terrible, terrible boss of me.
Then my brain thinks this—no kidding, no edits—it thinks:
Everything’s overwhelming, and nothing’s good.
How’s that for some hyperbole? But, seriously, in that moment, it felt true. For all the above reasons.
Plus, and I’ve mentioned this before, I’m seriously considering single motherhood. To the point that I’ve done some legitimate research on the topic.
And it’s cool and exciting and scary and all that, but mostly it highlights the fact that all this would be physically, emotionally, financially, and in all other ways easier with a mate, and I cannot fucking find a mate to save my fucking life.
And now it feels like I’m throwing myself a pity party, and I hate that.
I’m not being the boss of me. And I hate that.
There. I wrote something. It was terrible. I hate that.
Today I arm-wrestled the boys in my first period class. Only one of them beat me. (Yes, they’re 12 years old; what’s your point?) The one that beat me is hella strong—at least three inches taller than me and wide as a high school football player. We might actually have a 21 Jump Street situation on our hands.
Two years ago, I was trying to come to terms with the fact that the Universe didn’t want me to make any money. The Universe still doesn’t want me to make any money. I’m starting to think maybe this teaching thing is not where the big bucks are. Jobs where I’ll make more money and still have at least 10 weeks off per year, go! (Nota bene: U.S. Congress is out. [See: this blog.])
I rediscovered a year ago that I can’t have Girl Scout Cookies in my house. I also rediscovered that same exact thing two weeks ago. I imagine I’ll rediscover it every year until they put me in the goddamn ground.
