I had an enormous gift this weekend: the health to attend a weekend retreat. So grateful for that. Oh, one small caveat to the health is that I think I'm the only twenty-four year old who still gets violently, horrifically car sick. Yes. That's me. Defying expectations yet again. ;) Before the retreat changes from a bright, inspirational experience to a faded and vague memory, I'd like to share with you what's on my heart and mind. I won't try to write it like a paper, though... I think a list will better serve my purpose here.
1. It is not what I wanted, but it was what I needed. I thought I needed a weekend of introspection and "me time" with Jesus. I haven't had an opportunity to spend that kind of time with Him in too long. Well, I haven't made the time to do that. So going into the retreat, I was hoping for a lot of mandated prayer and reflection time. That isn't what I got... but that didn't turn out to be a bad thing. It wasn't what I expected and probably wasn't as objectively "good," but I do think I benefited from it.
2. I need community to be spiritually healthy. I had the closest community possible in college. I haven't had that much of a connection with my peers since then. I have a few near & dear friends in the area, but nothing you could call a community. I knew that was missing in my life. What I didn't know, but learned this weekend, is that a lack of community is incredibly detrimental to my spiritual life. I need that group, that support, that fellowship to be happy on a natural level. What surprised me is that natural, human support from others is key to my supernatural health and happiness. We are never better off alone.
3. every. woman. is. broken. The men and women were separated from one another and each group was given the opportunity to be totally honest and open with each other about our struggles. Sitting in a room full of women who felt unloved, unworthy, and ugly - and admitted that to every other person in the room - was an incredibly moving experience. It gave me a sense of communion with these women; we shared the same fundamental doubts and struggles. It also broke my heart. I wanted to help and reach out to every single person in that room. I wanted to be there for them and comfort them. The fact that the heart of womanhood is so very broken is devastating. Every woman is so very vulnerable... how can we fix that? How do we stop this? This is not what God intended for His finishing touch of creation. More on that in another post...
4. every. man. is. broken. Rejoining the men for the rest of the retreat, I shared generally about the brokenness and vulnerability of women. I am fully convinced and know that if any of those men had been able to listen in on our discussions, to see the tears running down every face, and to feel the fear of the women in that room, they would be heartbroken and just as desperate as I am to help fix this problem. Turns out, women aren't the only ones who are broken. As I shared my experience with my small group, which was comprised of men and women, the men opened up about their own discussion. Every man is afraid. They are afraid of failure, afraid of rejection, afraid that they aren't manly or strong enough.
5. Isolation is a temptation, never a healer. This weekend showed me so clearly and pointedly that every person feels alone in their struggles. Not only do the fears of the men closely parallel the fears of women, but every individual feels alone in that. Our solution to our weaknesses is to hide them and deal with them internally. Even if we invite Our Lord to heal us, we feel that we should isolate ourselves from the communion of humanity. We don't want to tarnish the others with our sins, weaknesses, and fears. We imagine that we alone are this scared, this scarred. My healing comes from the grace of God... but God is not only in my heart. He is in yours. And if I find fellowship with you, His presence will be able to heal me from the outside, too. We can be instruments of healing for one another in spite of our brokenness.
6. "You can miss Heaven by eighteen inches: the distance between your head and your heart."
pause here.
take a breath.
does Christ live in my heart or is He just in my head?
7. Watching grace in action is so much fun! Being in a group of peers who are all excited about finding and knowing Jesus, one can get an incredible emotional high. This type of retreat is designed to help you be on fire for Our Lord and His Church and it works. There is natural excitement, but I really felt the supernatural excitement. I don't know how to describe it exactly... but as the weekend progressed and we were able to receive the Sacraments of reconciliation and Eucharist, I could see the grace growing in people. I am not inclined to charismatic worship in my devotions, I am not one to jump up on a table and dance because the Holy Spirit moved me. What I saw was more subtle than that... a more relaxed smile, a light in their eyes, the love that we found for each other so quickly... it indicates something more than natural fellowship. We really became a community... we were in communion with the Lord in one another. It was crazy. I feel incredibly silly writing this down, but it's really how it happened. I don't just feel that those people were filled with grace, but I know they were filled with grace. Grace begets grace begets more grace.
8. I need a silent retreat, too. I would not give up the experience I had this weekend, but it's only one piece of the puzzle. In the prayerful, reflective time I got, there were so many things in my mind and heart. Even though we were supposed to "talk about it with God," there was simply not enough time to sort through all of that mess. What this retreat did for me was show me a community where I wasn't alone in those struggles. I do need that quiet, introspective time to talk to God about all of that stuff... but those conversations will be better now. I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me from within and without.
9. I need to be moving forward, but it can be slowly. There isn't any pressure to "fix myself" alone or on a schedule. I, through the grace of Christ in me and in others, can be healed, but there isn't a time table. There isn't a deadline. I need to take baby steps, but I need to get myself on that road and take a step. This weekend was like the deep breath before poking your toes in the ocean. I took a deep breath with 149 other young people and put my toes in the water. What I found is that those people weren't in front of me, encouraging me to come to their side, but they were beside me. Every person is taking babysteps and no one is alone in the Body of Christ.
There is definitely a pattern here. And I love that.
22 September 2014
16 September 2014
A Dish of Mozart with a Dash of Squeak
It was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life and, like most truly humiliating experiences, it makes for a pretty funny story. I'm not quite sure I find it entirely funny, but I am assured that the passing of time (years, maybe) will remove my embarrassment and I will be able to enjoy it just as much as anyone else. Other people are distanced from it by place... I simply need to wait to be sufficiently distanced by time.
It really was rather ridiculous.
First, let me set the scene. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon at TAC. Campus was busy being its usual, beautiful, yet sometimes claustrophobia-inducing self. I was studying upstairs in the library. I didn't typically study in the library, but this wasn't a typical day. This particular day played host to a once-a-semester event, called a Schubertiade. This event was an occasion for students to perform classical - and occasionally not so classical - musical pieces. Since the College does not have a musical program of study, apart from a toe-dip into some theory junior year, this event served as a rare opportunity for the musically inclined and (to varying degrees) talented to showcase their abilities.
The performers were staged on the first floor of the library and a number of chairs were arranged for those who chose to watch and listen actively to the performances. Others, who wished to study while listening, sat on the second floor balcony, books in hand. I was included in the latter group, although I admit that I never did get much studying done up there. I pretended to study, but I don't think I ever read more than five or ten pages during those two hours concerts.
There was another factor that made this Sunday different than any other: my family was coming to campus.
My grandfather had passed away only a few days before. The most effective way to get me to the funeral was for the rest of the family to drive up to campus, pick me up, and then all five of us would fly up to the Bay Area from the nearby airport. Not wanting to suffer through an obnoxiously long travel day, my family elected to come up to campus the day before our flight and spend the night on campus before heading to the airport the following morning.
Following this plan, my family arrived on campus during intermission. I told them of my plan to continue sitting upstairs and studying while listening to the program and they decided they would join me (for the upstairs part, not the studying part). We all settled in for what should have been a completely uneventful, not to mention unmemorable, afternoon of music. All was calm and well for about thirty minutes. Then a little storm of chaos struck.
During a Mozart piece, my mother's purse began to squeak. Startled, I turned toward her in time to see her jump and frantically try to open her purse. The squeaking became louder as the purse was unzipped. Mum began digging through the bag to find it. Lots of little thoughts popped into my head and intermingled with a sense of confusion: what was in Mum's purse? why was it squeaking? did she have a mouse in her purse?
Within seconds - although it felt like an agonizingly long stretch of time - Mum pulled out a little orange and tan, furry, and roundish thing. Not quite registering what it was exactly, but being fairly certain it wasn't alive, I watched as she unsuccessfully endeavored to silence it. I then watched as she stood, scooted over to the elevator and began frantically pushing the down button. I felt a twinge of panic as I thought of all of the elevator noises that would soon fill the air along with Mozart and rodent squeaking. I winced, but the elevator didn't move. No noises. Neglected repairs, which were usually a source of frustration, were a blessing that afternoon. I jumped up, ran over to her, and scooped the whirring, squeaking object out of her hands. Then I ran.
There was a set of stairs near me and I knew there was a door at the bottom of them. I hurried down them, attempting to muffle the squeaks by wrapping my hands around the toy - by then I deduced it was some sort of toy that was sent to plague mankind - and shoving it against my stomach. Down three fights of stairs, I stopped abruptly in front of the door that I had never used and read the "Emergency Exit" sign. I probably should have just gone out that door because I'm sure it wasn't hooked to any sort of alarm, but being a stickler for the rules, I had to move to plan B. This plan involved running up one flight of stairs, coming out on the first floor very near the piano that was being beautifully played, and then trying to quietly and quickly hurry past all of the people - tutors, students, guests - and finally make it out through the main library doors. I executed this less than ideal plan, again hugging the toy against my stomach, hunching over it to further muffle the sounds.
Once I was safely outside, I finally had a chance to examine this little noisemaker that had disrupted the solemn Mozart-filled atmosphere. It was a Zhu Zhu pet. I didn't know what it was at the time. It was a small hamster-like toy, with three small and whirring wheels that would enable it to scoot around on the ground. It's nose was a button that turned it on, leading to the whirring and squeaking that had caused my hasty exit from the library. The nose turned it on, but it didn't turn it off, which was what I wanted to do.
One of the College's tutors, seeing my flight from the library (which, it turned out, everyone watched with great amusement), had followed me outside, thinking I had caught a live rodent (the conclusion most people reached, apparently). When he saw me busily futzing with a toy, which was still emitting high-pitched squeaks, he offered his assistance. With his daughter clinging to his leg and begging to play with it, he attempted to find the off switch for about five minutes before he admitted defeat and handed the toy back to me. Since I had despaired of finding the button myself, I sat down on the grass, put the toy in my lap, and let it squeak and whir until stopped of its own accord. I assumed it would stop eventually, which turned out to be an interval of about 7 minutes. I wasn't in a hurry to get back in the library; the concert was nearly over and I had caused enough of a scene by running out of the library. I had no desire to leave more of an impression by trying to sneak back up to my perch. When the concert ended and people trickled out of the library, I found my family and returned the toy to my mother. I asked the obvious questions of "what is that thing?" and "why did it start making noise?" to which I received this answer: it was a Zhu Zhu pet that she had purchased and brought to help cheer me up. She had put it in her purse to show me later and must've bumped its nose inadvertently during the concert. Then the chaos ensued.
Needless to say, this whole episode sparked quite a big of curiosity among my schoolmates and, once explained, the story was told frequently and repeatedly. It was an easy way to embarrass me and, as we all know, friends exist to embarrass us whenever possible.
My 19 year old self found this occurrence to be totally and completely humiliating. My friends thought it was hysterically funny... and I admit that the passing of five years had significantly reduced the sting of it. I can admit it's funny... mostly. A bit of humble pie is good once in a while, yes?
(hop over here to read Mum's side of the story)
It really was rather ridiculous.
First, let me set the scene. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon at TAC. Campus was busy being its usual, beautiful, yet sometimes claustrophobia-inducing self. I was studying upstairs in the library. I didn't typically study in the library, but this wasn't a typical day. This particular day played host to a once-a-semester event, called a Schubertiade. This event was an occasion for students to perform classical - and occasionally not so classical - musical pieces. Since the College does not have a musical program of study, apart from a toe-dip into some theory junior year, this event served as a rare opportunity for the musically inclined and (to varying degrees) talented to showcase their abilities.
The performers were staged on the first floor of the library and a number of chairs were arranged for those who chose to watch and listen actively to the performances. Others, who wished to study while listening, sat on the second floor balcony, books in hand. I was included in the latter group, although I admit that I never did get much studying done up there. I pretended to study, but I don't think I ever read more than five or ten pages during those two hours concerts.
There was another factor that made this Sunday different than any other: my family was coming to campus.
My grandfather had passed away only a few days before. The most effective way to get me to the funeral was for the rest of the family to drive up to campus, pick me up, and then all five of us would fly up to the Bay Area from the nearby airport. Not wanting to suffer through an obnoxiously long travel day, my family elected to come up to campus the day before our flight and spend the night on campus before heading to the airport the following morning.
Following this plan, my family arrived on campus during intermission. I told them of my plan to continue sitting upstairs and studying while listening to the program and they decided they would join me (for the upstairs part, not the studying part). We all settled in for what should have been a completely uneventful, not to mention unmemorable, afternoon of music. All was calm and well for about thirty minutes. Then a little storm of chaos struck.
During a Mozart piece, my mother's purse began to squeak. Startled, I turned toward her in time to see her jump and frantically try to open her purse. The squeaking became louder as the purse was unzipped. Mum began digging through the bag to find it. Lots of little thoughts popped into my head and intermingled with a sense of confusion: what was in Mum's purse? why was it squeaking? did she have a mouse in her purse?
Within seconds - although it felt like an agonizingly long stretch of time - Mum pulled out a little orange and tan, furry, and roundish thing. Not quite registering what it was exactly, but being fairly certain it wasn't alive, I watched as she unsuccessfully endeavored to silence it. I then watched as she stood, scooted over to the elevator and began frantically pushing the down button. I felt a twinge of panic as I thought of all of the elevator noises that would soon fill the air along with Mozart and rodent squeaking. I winced, but the elevator didn't move. No noises. Neglected repairs, which were usually a source of frustration, were a blessing that afternoon. I jumped up, ran over to her, and scooped the whirring, squeaking object out of her hands. Then I ran.
There was a set of stairs near me and I knew there was a door at the bottom of them. I hurried down them, attempting to muffle the squeaks by wrapping my hands around the toy - by then I deduced it was some sort of toy that was sent to plague mankind - and shoving it against my stomach. Down three fights of stairs, I stopped abruptly in front of the door that I had never used and read the "Emergency Exit" sign. I probably should have just gone out that door because I'm sure it wasn't hooked to any sort of alarm, but being a stickler for the rules, I had to move to plan B. This plan involved running up one flight of stairs, coming out on the first floor very near the piano that was being beautifully played, and then trying to quietly and quickly hurry past all of the people - tutors, students, guests - and finally make it out through the main library doors. I executed this less than ideal plan, again hugging the toy against my stomach, hunching over it to further muffle the sounds.
Once I was safely outside, I finally had a chance to examine this little noisemaker that had disrupted the solemn Mozart-filled atmosphere. It was a Zhu Zhu pet. I didn't know what it was at the time. It was a small hamster-like toy, with three small and whirring wheels that would enable it to scoot around on the ground. It's nose was a button that turned it on, leading to the whirring and squeaking that had caused my hasty exit from the library. The nose turned it on, but it didn't turn it off, which was what I wanted to do.
One of the College's tutors, seeing my flight from the library (which, it turned out, everyone watched with great amusement), had followed me outside, thinking I had caught a live rodent (the conclusion most people reached, apparently). When he saw me busily futzing with a toy, which was still emitting high-pitched squeaks, he offered his assistance. With his daughter clinging to his leg and begging to play with it, he attempted to find the off switch for about five minutes before he admitted defeat and handed the toy back to me. Since I had despaired of finding the button myself, I sat down on the grass, put the toy in my lap, and let it squeak and whir until stopped of its own accord. I assumed it would stop eventually, which turned out to be an interval of about 7 minutes. I wasn't in a hurry to get back in the library; the concert was nearly over and I had caused enough of a scene by running out of the library. I had no desire to leave more of an impression by trying to sneak back up to my perch. When the concert ended and people trickled out of the library, I found my family and returned the toy to my mother. I asked the obvious questions of "what is that thing?" and "why did it start making noise?" to which I received this answer: it was a Zhu Zhu pet that she had purchased and brought to help cheer me up. She had put it in her purse to show me later and must've bumped its nose inadvertently during the concert. Then the chaos ensued.
Needless to say, this whole episode sparked quite a big of curiosity among my schoolmates and, once explained, the story was told frequently and repeatedly. It was an easy way to embarrass me and, as we all know, friends exist to embarrass us whenever possible.
My 19 year old self found this occurrence to be totally and completely humiliating. My friends thought it was hysterically funny... and I admit that the passing of five years had significantly reduced the sting of it. I can admit it's funny... mostly. A bit of humble pie is good once in a while, yes?
(hop over here to read Mum's side of the story)
29 August 2014
05 August 2014
Working Out Your Work Out
"Thigh gap" is one of the most nauseating phrases in the English language. Say it a few times. Think about it. It's enough to make your skin crawl.
This physical "feature" is the new fad goal for every girl who wants to be thin and, thereby, socially accepted as beautiful. It's a farce, a scam, a fool's errand of a goal, which has been exposed as such by countless doctors, personal trainers, and random bloggers. It is a fact that no matter how low the needle on the scale gets, my earlobes will be attached to my jawline by a bit of flesh and my thighs will touch when I stand. In spite of its scientific implausibility, it maintains popularity because it belongs to a genus that women cannot do without: a reason to work out.
Throughout the entirety of history, there has been some physical feature that has been prized above all others. It has varied, to be sure, sometimes swinging from one thing to its polar opposite. At times, we coveted small waists. At others, small hips. Porcelain skin was celebrated as a sign of opulence, but now everyone strives to be some shade of gold or bronze. For a long period of time, all the ladies of high society were fat. Now we need to be lean and fit and lithe.
So here's my take away: working out should not be connected to a personal appearance goal.
Let me explain before you all toss back your heads and howl your angry dissent.
I'll make this personal.
I am plagued by the same self-image issues that follow all other women through their lives. There are parts of my body that I don't like. I have striven to work out in a way that would "fix" me. Flatten the stomach, firm up the arms, etc.
I've walked, I've run. I've done Zumba, free weights, and swimming. I always had some concrete goal, some mental image of myself, and I imagined that if I pushed myself hard enough, if I was disciplined enough, I would somehow become perfectly beautiful to myself and everyone else.
I never got there. Everyone has a personal brick wall into which they slam. Mine is chronic pain, persistent migraines, hypermobile joints and... well, generally, weighty health problems. I never accomplished any of my fitness goals because two days, two weeks, or two months into my exercise regiment, I would buckle physically. Some malady would derail me. I would be side-lined for days, weeks, or months while my body recovered from whatever ailment had overwhelmed me.
I think this would have frustrated me if I had the determination to cling to my goals, but I wasn't that persistent. I gave up. It was simple and easy. When you have to come to a full stop at the first milestone of your marathon, you walk away. There isn't any point to trying to finish that marathon because that long of a stretch is downright impossible.
So marathons are impossible for me. I will not be a triathlete, I will not be a super-fit superwoman. That is physically impossible for me to accomplish with the anatomy I have been given. So why try at all? I can't become perfectly sculpted. I have failed every time I give myself a fitness goal.
So I've gotten rid of the fitness goal.
You've read that correctly. I have no fitness goals. I don't have a distance or time goal for running. I don't have a magazine clipping hanging on my mirror that features some celebrity looking perfectly thin and perfectly fit. I have abolished all of my fitness goals.
I don't exercise so I can be something. I exercise because I can exercise. Every morning when I wake up, I take a personal pain inventory. Head to toe, I mentally check off each body part and register how much pain it is radiating. If I can, I put on my running clothes, slip on my shoes, and head out for a jog or brisk walk.
I have no extreme goals. It's moderate - extremely moderate - exercise. I don't push myself to exhaustion. I don't try to go farther and faster than I did yesterday. I just go.
As my feet pound the pavement, I fight the urge to go faster and harder. I force myself to slow down from a sprint. Listening to my footfalls, I am tempted to be frustrated with how slow and heavy they seem. I need to remember and be thankful that today, I'm on my feet and they are moving.
When I am tempted to be frustrated by my mile time, I concentrate on being grateful that today, I can go a mile.
When I want to hate my arm flab, I concentrate on being grateful that today, my arms can move and lift some weight.
When I feel my heart pounding and my lungs burning, I concentrate on being grateful that today, my lungs are working.
I cannot workout to achieve a physical goal. I cannot workout to become something. But I can work out.
Today, I can walk, I can run, I can move without tremendous amounts of pain. I may not be able to tomorrow. But that's ok. I can today.
If the exercise itself is the goal, you won't frustrate yourself into depression. You won't be encouraging a tendency to judge your body without mercy.
In the midst of my fitness frenzies, I wasn't ever happy with my body. I don't suppose I ever will be completely happy with it. But I think it's time we disassociate exercise and body image. I don't think any amount of exercise will ever make me 100% happy with what I see reflected in the mirror. If I were to make a perfect body the goal of my exercise, I'd be setting myself up to achieve perfect failure.
But the frustrations of self-image don't have to be the frustrations of exercising. Exercising is something you should do because you deserve it. Don't exercise so you can deserve that new dress or that piece of chocolate. Exercise because your body is a gift. You can move, stretch, and push yourself because you are a beautiful and wonderful creature. Don't make yourself move, stretch, and push in an effort to become beautiful or wonderful.
Stop the mental games. Exercise should not be a punishment that yields the reward of a toned body. Make it simple, make it easy, make it a joy. Lace up those sneakers and hit the pavement. Don't do it to become beautiful. Do it because you are beautiful.
Abolish that form of self-punishment that you call exercise.
Adopt exercise as an exercise of gratitude.
This physical "feature" is the new fad goal for every girl who wants to be thin and, thereby, socially accepted as beautiful. It's a farce, a scam, a fool's errand of a goal, which has been exposed as such by countless doctors, personal trainers, and random bloggers. It is a fact that no matter how low the needle on the scale gets, my earlobes will be attached to my jawline by a bit of flesh and my thighs will touch when I stand. In spite of its scientific implausibility, it maintains popularity because it belongs to a genus that women cannot do without: a reason to work out.
Throughout the entirety of history, there has been some physical feature that has been prized above all others. It has varied, to be sure, sometimes swinging from one thing to its polar opposite. At times, we coveted small waists. At others, small hips. Porcelain skin was celebrated as a sign of opulence, but now everyone strives to be some shade of gold or bronze. For a long period of time, all the ladies of high society were fat. Now we need to be lean and fit and lithe.
So here's my take away: working out should not be connected to a personal appearance goal.
Let me explain before you all toss back your heads and howl your angry dissent.
I'll make this personal.
I am plagued by the same self-image issues that follow all other women through their lives. There are parts of my body that I don't like. I have striven to work out in a way that would "fix" me. Flatten the stomach, firm up the arms, etc.
I've walked, I've run. I've done Zumba, free weights, and swimming. I always had some concrete goal, some mental image of myself, and I imagined that if I pushed myself hard enough, if I was disciplined enough, I would somehow become perfectly beautiful to myself and everyone else.
I never got there. Everyone has a personal brick wall into which they slam. Mine is chronic pain, persistent migraines, hypermobile joints and... well, generally, weighty health problems. I never accomplished any of my fitness goals because two days, two weeks, or two months into my exercise regiment, I would buckle physically. Some malady would derail me. I would be side-lined for days, weeks, or months while my body recovered from whatever ailment had overwhelmed me.
I think this would have frustrated me if I had the determination to cling to my goals, but I wasn't that persistent. I gave up. It was simple and easy. When you have to come to a full stop at the first milestone of your marathon, you walk away. There isn't any point to trying to finish that marathon because that long of a stretch is downright impossible.
So marathons are impossible for me. I will not be a triathlete, I will not be a super-fit superwoman. That is physically impossible for me to accomplish with the anatomy I have been given. So why try at all? I can't become perfectly sculpted. I have failed every time I give myself a fitness goal.
So I've gotten rid of the fitness goal.
You've read that correctly. I have no fitness goals. I don't have a distance or time goal for running. I don't have a magazine clipping hanging on my mirror that features some celebrity looking perfectly thin and perfectly fit. I have abolished all of my fitness goals.
I don't exercise so I can be something. I exercise because I can exercise. Every morning when I wake up, I take a personal pain inventory. Head to toe, I mentally check off each body part and register how much pain it is radiating. If I can, I put on my running clothes, slip on my shoes, and head out for a jog or brisk walk.
I have no extreme goals. It's moderate - extremely moderate - exercise. I don't push myself to exhaustion. I don't try to go farther and faster than I did yesterday. I just go.
As my feet pound the pavement, I fight the urge to go faster and harder. I force myself to slow down from a sprint. Listening to my footfalls, I am tempted to be frustrated with how slow and heavy they seem. I need to remember and be thankful that today, I'm on my feet and they are moving.
When I am tempted to be frustrated by my mile time, I concentrate on being grateful that today, I can go a mile.
When I want to hate my arm flab, I concentrate on being grateful that today, my arms can move and lift some weight.
When I feel my heart pounding and my lungs burning, I concentrate on being grateful that today, my lungs are working.
I cannot workout to achieve a physical goal. I cannot workout to become something. But I can work out.
Today, I can walk, I can run, I can move without tremendous amounts of pain. I may not be able to tomorrow. But that's ok. I can today.
If the exercise itself is the goal, you won't frustrate yourself into depression. You won't be encouraging a tendency to judge your body without mercy.
In the midst of my fitness frenzies, I wasn't ever happy with my body. I don't suppose I ever will be completely happy with it. But I think it's time we disassociate exercise and body image. I don't think any amount of exercise will ever make me 100% happy with what I see reflected in the mirror. If I were to make a perfect body the goal of my exercise, I'd be setting myself up to achieve perfect failure.
But the frustrations of self-image don't have to be the frustrations of exercising. Exercising is something you should do because you deserve it. Don't exercise so you can deserve that new dress or that piece of chocolate. Exercise because your body is a gift. You can move, stretch, and push yourself because you are a beautiful and wonderful creature. Don't make yourself move, stretch, and push in an effort to become beautiful or wonderful.
Stop the mental games. Exercise should not be a punishment that yields the reward of a toned body. Make it simple, make it easy, make it a joy. Lace up those sneakers and hit the pavement. Don't do it to become beautiful. Do it because you are beautiful.
Abolish that form of self-punishment that you call exercise.
Adopt exercise as an exercise of gratitude.
14 July 2014
Cinnamon Pie
I was watching Psych the other day. Shawn and Gus go to the town of Dual Spires to solve a murder per usual, etc, etc, but the point that stuck with me was the cinnamon pie they kept eating. I was so excited that I paused the episode halfway through to google cinnamon pie recipes. I didn't find anything satisfying, so no pie was made.
I was disappointed with this result, but days later the thought was still nagging me. I really, really wanted some cinnamon pie. Back to the internet I went. I looked and looked for a recipe that seemed yummy to me, but once again, I came up empty handed and, thus, empty stomached.
So I made one up today.
I just had a slice and ohmygoodness it is so good. You have to like cinnamon and you have to like delicious desserts, but this is awesome. And I'm going to share my awesome brainchild because you deserve to have deliciousness in your life, too!
Ingredients:
Filling:
2 Tbsp butter
3/4 cup white sugar
1 cup brown sugar (not packed)
2 Tbsp flour
1 cup almond milk
4 eggs
4 Tbsp cinnamon (this is a rough estimate, I just dumped a whole bunch in because I love the stuff)
1 Tbsp vanilla
Topping:
1/4 cup flour
1/2 cup oats
1/2 stick butter
2 Tbsp brown sugar (not packed... because who packs tablespoons?)
2 Tbsp cinnamon
Prep:
- Preheat oven to 375
- Grease and sugar pan*
- Thoroughly beat all filling ingredients together. Batter will be liquid with some chunks of butter floating around if you didn't melt the butter prior to mixing. I didn't melt mine and I'm not sure what melting it would do. Probably nothing, but I have no data to support any theory.
- Pour in pan
- To make the topping, chop your butter into bits and then combine it with all the other stuff. I use my fingers and mush it.
- Top pie with streusel. It's going to partially submerge and you won't be able to spread it around, so you have to sprinkle it around carefully. (Or, in my case, sorta carefully until you get impatient and start dumping it.)
- Bake for 45 minutes. If it starts to burn before it sets, cover it in foil. I didn't have this problem; it was perfectly done after 45 minutes.
* You could probably use nonstick spray, too, but I'm allergic to that stuff. Actually, you probably don't need to grease the pan given the consistency of the pie, but I hate when desserts are cemented to the pan and you lose edible deliciousness. Skip greasing at your own risk of less fatteningness.
N.B. - I know I called this a pie and then neglected to include crust. I decided to put my calories towards a delicious streusel topping rather than a plain ol' crust, so that's why that happened.
p.s. - I apologize to all of my celiac and otherwise gluten intolerant friends that this would be a no-go for you. Maybe you can tweak it a bit and still have cinnamon bliss?
I was disappointed with this result, but days later the thought was still nagging me. I really, really wanted some cinnamon pie. Back to the internet I went. I looked and looked for a recipe that seemed yummy to me, but once again, I came up empty handed and, thus, empty stomached.
So I made one up today.
I just had a slice and ohmygoodness it is so good. You have to like cinnamon and you have to like delicious desserts, but this is awesome. And I'm going to share my awesome brainchild because you deserve to have deliciousness in your life, too!
Ingredients:
Filling:
2 Tbsp butter
3/4 cup white sugar
1 cup brown sugar (not packed)
2 Tbsp flour
1 cup almond milk
4 eggs
4 Tbsp cinnamon (this is a rough estimate, I just dumped a whole bunch in because I love the stuff)
1 Tbsp vanilla
Topping:
1/4 cup flour
1/2 cup oats
1/2 stick butter
2 Tbsp brown sugar (not packed... because who packs tablespoons?)
2 Tbsp cinnamon
Prep:
- Preheat oven to 375
- Grease and sugar pan*
- Thoroughly beat all filling ingredients together. Batter will be liquid with some chunks of butter floating around if you didn't melt the butter prior to mixing. I didn't melt mine and I'm not sure what melting it would do. Probably nothing, but I have no data to support any theory.
- Pour in pan
- To make the topping, chop your butter into bits and then combine it with all the other stuff. I use my fingers and mush it.
- Top pie with streusel. It's going to partially submerge and you won't be able to spread it around, so you have to sprinkle it around carefully. (Or, in my case, sorta carefully until you get impatient and start dumping it.)
- Bake for 45 minutes. If it starts to burn before it sets, cover it in foil. I didn't have this problem; it was perfectly done after 45 minutes.
* You could probably use nonstick spray, too, but I'm allergic to that stuff. Actually, you probably don't need to grease the pan given the consistency of the pie, but I hate when desserts are cemented to the pan and you lose edible deliciousness. Skip greasing at your own risk of less fatteningness.
N.B. - I know I called this a pie and then neglected to include crust. I decided to put my calories towards a delicious streusel topping rather than a plain ol' crust, so that's why that happened.
p.s. - I apologize to all of my celiac and otherwise gluten intolerant friends that this would be a no-go for you. Maybe you can tweak it a bit and still have cinnamon bliss?
13 July 2014
Berry Fine Art
Summer: a time for sunshiny, happy, frivolous fun.
The heat inspires me. I take that back. The heat takes away any and all inspiration to do anything that requires local motion, so the creativity of my lazy activities increases. Here's the most recent love child of heat + hunger + laziness.
They're blueberry-stuffed-raspberries. Aren't they just the cutest little juicy fruit treats? I'm excessively pleased with myself.
The heat inspires me. I take that back. The heat takes away any and all inspiration to do anything that requires local motion, so the creativity of my lazy activities increases. Here's the most recent love child of heat + hunger + laziness.
They're blueberry-stuffed-raspberries. Aren't they just the cutest little juicy fruit treats? I'm excessively pleased with myself.
07 July 2014
My First Democrat Friend
Everyone, meet Lefty.
He's a stuffed donkey with an American flag embroidered on his left hindquarters. The story of how we met is pretty interesting, actually.
I was 14, going in for my first shoulder surgery at Children's Hospital. It was early in the morning, my stomach was full of butterflies, but bereft of all food, and I was shivering. Hospitals are all kept at an inhumanely cold temperature and they make you wear these very light cotton gowns that don't even close all the way. But I digress. The shivering probably had just as much to do with nerves as it did with the cold.
The first OR nurse I saw asked me a whole battery of questions while taking my vital signs. One of the questions was, "Are you pregnant?" I stared blankly at her and blinked a few times, very slowly. I was totally humiliated. "No, ma'am," I said, blushing. On the inside, I was yelling, "WHAT??? DO I LOOK LIKE I'M PREGNANT??? DO I LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO WOULD BE PREGNANT AT 14???"
At the time, I didn't realize that this question is standard procedure in any medical setting. If a woman goes in for anything - asthma, broken bones, surgery, concussion, bug spray poisoning, etc. - she will be asked if she's pregnant. The question will probably be asked several times, just to see if they can catch you lying, I guess. Mum explained it to me a few days later when I related this story. At the time, I knew none of this. I thought it was some sort of personal affront against me and my character. Hence the humiliation, spooned on top of some more humiliation. For some reason they had decided to subject me to this interrogation. Me! Why? What did I do wrong?
She continued, "Are you sure?" I nodded, wondering why she insisted on pressing the issue.
After she finished taking my initial vitals, I was ushered into another room. The friendly nurse there asked for a urine sample. "We just need to run a few tests, including a pregnancy test." My eyebrows shot up toward my hairline, but I didn't say anything. My humiliation continued. They didn't believe me. They had gotten it into their heads that I was pregnant and they were going to keep asking me over and over again and they were going to make me pee in a cup. Not only did they think I was sexually active (the effrontery!), but they thought I was a liar on top of that. Add to all of this moral indignation a personal & severe aversion to peeing in a cup. The struggle is real, guys.
After I came back, the nurse finally had something nice to say to me. "We keep a stash of stuffed animals in the back for all you kiddies who have surgery. You get to pick one beforehand and bring it into the OR with you. It will still be there with you in your bed when you wake up." I was a little confused by the offer of a stuffed toy after the repeated questions regarding my suspected pregnancy - if I'm old enough to be pregnant, why would you think I like stuffed animals still? - but I was relieved. Finally, the interrogation was over.
The nurse escorted me out of the room. Prior to this, my mother had always been present in the room. The nurse opened the cabinet and I knelt down next to it. She put a hand on my shoulder, "Go ahead and pick out a stuffed animal, dear, but I wanted to ask you when your mother wasn't in the room: are you sure you aren't pregnant? There is no chance of you being pregnant? There isn't anything to be afraid of, dear."
It was all a trick. A ruse. The stuffed animal was a ploy to get me in a room with a nurse, but without my mother. I almost threw up. (I have a sensitive stomach, guys. Don't judge me.) I repeated my previous answer. No, ma'am. I'm not pregnant. There is no way I could be pregnant. At all. Eager to leave this scene of trickery, I grabbed the first stuffed animal I could, stood up, and walked out.
A few days after surgery, my mother asked why I had a Democrat stuffed animal. I was incredibly confused. A what? "Lefty," she said. "It's the symbol of the Democratic party." I thought the American flag on my horse's rump was just a weird embellishment to make a stuffed toy more patriotic. Turns out it was a donkey. A left-wing donkey.
I've had Lefty now for 10 years. He's an excellent snuggle buddy. He has never betrayed or rejected me. He proved to me, from my early teenage years, that I didn't have to be scared of Democrats. Well, it was him and my physical therapist who was a staunch Democrat, but miraculously didn't have horns or a tail, despite what I had been led to believe.
So that's Lefty. Glad y'all got a chance to meet.
He's a stuffed donkey with an American flag embroidered on his left hindquarters. The story of how we met is pretty interesting, actually.
I was 14, going in for my first shoulder surgery at Children's Hospital. It was early in the morning, my stomach was full of butterflies, but bereft of all food, and I was shivering. Hospitals are all kept at an inhumanely cold temperature and they make you wear these very light cotton gowns that don't even close all the way. But I digress. The shivering probably had just as much to do with nerves as it did with the cold.
The first OR nurse I saw asked me a whole battery of questions while taking my vital signs. One of the questions was, "Are you pregnant?" I stared blankly at her and blinked a few times, very slowly. I was totally humiliated. "No, ma'am," I said, blushing. On the inside, I was yelling, "WHAT??? DO I LOOK LIKE I'M PREGNANT??? DO I LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO WOULD BE PREGNANT AT 14???"
At the time, I didn't realize that this question is standard procedure in any medical setting. If a woman goes in for anything - asthma, broken bones, surgery, concussion, bug spray poisoning, etc. - she will be asked if she's pregnant. The question will probably be asked several times, just to see if they can catch you lying, I guess. Mum explained it to me a few days later when I related this story. At the time, I knew none of this. I thought it was some sort of personal affront against me and my character. Hence the humiliation, spooned on top of some more humiliation. For some reason they had decided to subject me to this interrogation. Me! Why? What did I do wrong?
She continued, "Are you sure?" I nodded, wondering why she insisted on pressing the issue.
After she finished taking my initial vitals, I was ushered into another room. The friendly nurse there asked for a urine sample. "We just need to run a few tests, including a pregnancy test." My eyebrows shot up toward my hairline, but I didn't say anything. My humiliation continued. They didn't believe me. They had gotten it into their heads that I was pregnant and they were going to keep asking me over and over again and they were going to make me pee in a cup. Not only did they think I was sexually active (the effrontery!), but they thought I was a liar on top of that. Add to all of this moral indignation a personal & severe aversion to peeing in a cup. The struggle is real, guys.
After I came back, the nurse finally had something nice to say to me. "We keep a stash of stuffed animals in the back for all you kiddies who have surgery. You get to pick one beforehand and bring it into the OR with you. It will still be there with you in your bed when you wake up." I was a little confused by the offer of a stuffed toy after the repeated questions regarding my suspected pregnancy - if I'm old enough to be pregnant, why would you think I like stuffed animals still? - but I was relieved. Finally, the interrogation was over.
The nurse escorted me out of the room. Prior to this, my mother had always been present in the room. The nurse opened the cabinet and I knelt down next to it. She put a hand on my shoulder, "Go ahead and pick out a stuffed animal, dear, but I wanted to ask you when your mother wasn't in the room: are you sure you aren't pregnant? There is no chance of you being pregnant? There isn't anything to be afraid of, dear."
It was all a trick. A ruse. The stuffed animal was a ploy to get me in a room with a nurse, but without my mother. I almost threw up. (I have a sensitive stomach, guys. Don't judge me.) I repeated my previous answer. No, ma'am. I'm not pregnant. There is no way I could be pregnant. At all. Eager to leave this scene of trickery, I grabbed the first stuffed animal I could, stood up, and walked out.
A few days after surgery, my mother asked why I had a Democrat stuffed animal. I was incredibly confused. A what? "Lefty," she said. "It's the symbol of the Democratic party." I thought the American flag on my horse's rump was just a weird embellishment to make a stuffed toy more patriotic. Turns out it was a donkey. A left-wing donkey.
I've had Lefty now for 10 years. He's an excellent snuggle buddy. He has never betrayed or rejected me. He proved to me, from my early teenage years, that I didn't have to be scared of Democrats. Well, it was him and my physical therapist who was a staunch Democrat, but miraculously didn't have horns or a tail, despite what I had been led to believe.
So that's Lefty. Glad y'all got a chance to meet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)