I woke up this morning feeling like I had been run over by a truck. A big one, carrying very heavy things. There isn’t any real reason for this particular brand of aches and pains. I am not feeling sick, I did not run a marathon over the weekend. On the contrary, I spent hours and hours driving from Salt Lake City to Phoenix. So yes, perhaps they were “wow, you sat too much this weekend!” aches, or “hey, would it kill you to take a turn on the treadmill?” pains, but it seemed far more intense than that.
And then I remembered the probable culprit: I’m old.
I turn 29 today, without qualms or freak-outs or emotional anxiety. Just with the extra aches and pains that come from being old, or rather, older (and yes, for sitting in one position for approximately 11 hours yesterday, I should give myself a little slack here). I wish I could regale you of amazing stories about how I am launching into the last of my twenties with all cylinders blazing, no holds barred, and ready to rock and roll the rest of my life! Hell yeah!!!
…
Um, is it okay that I’m not feeling quite that ambitious? See, I woke up feeling like a steamroller had eaten me for breakfast, silently (or perhaps not so silently) grumbling at my alarm to please let me sleep for 20 more minutes, or at the very least, to shut up. I got ready and made breakfast and smiled as J-Mo groggily and adorably wished me a Happy Birthday. In fact, other than a terribly charming phone call with a chorus of little people singing “Happy Birthday” very nearly on-key, today has pretty much been like any other Monday. Tonight J-Mo and I are going out to dinner to a new restaurant, and I’m looking forward to that. But it seems, particularly the last few years, that my birthday is a fairly low-key event. I think I will have to throw an all-out bash next year to properly welcome my thirties. Hold me to that, will ya?
*Due to Leap Year, that number in the post title is correct, although it jogs me as wrong every time I look at it. Silly Leap Year.
In recent weeks I have come to the conclusion that my life could very well do with a lot more…well, actually, a lot less. A month or two ago I deleted 1400 “friends” from my Facebook account, I also removed the app from my phone. I generally sign on once or twice a day to see what is going on and send the requisite birthday wishes. I have stopped keeping Twitter running in the background at work and also removed the app from my phone. In fact, I only sign on to Twitter once or twice a week, sometimes even less than that.
I find that, in general, I do not miss being uber-connected all the time. I’ve stopped incessantly checking my email on my phone and looking for updates or new texts.
I also reduced the shows that I DVR. J-Mo and I recently signed up for Netflix Instant and while I spent a solid 30 minutes getting my list of shows and movies queued up…I haven’t starting watching them yet. Nope, not a one.
I spent a few hours cleaning out my fridge. And my freezer. And my pantry. I have been collecting cardboard boxes to sort, contain, label and stack remaining clutter. I think my closet will need to be next, and that whole thought both terrifies and…well…terrifies me.
I also desperately need to pare down my Google Reader. Right now I am subscribed to 521 blogs. Five-hundred-and-twenty-one. Holycrap. Yes, that needs to be reduced in a serious way.
I read somewhere that limiting electronic use for the hour before you go to bed helps you relax. As I have thought about it I realized that usually the hour before I go to bed is full of DVR, text messaging, video chat, email, reading up on blogs…the list goes on and on. I’m going to try to calm down and unwind instead of finish up the last few things before the day is over. Perhaps I should try reading a book before bed instead of reading blogs and texts and emails and everything else.
What does this all boil down to? I need to simplify my life. I need to spend more time and energy doing things that make me happy and less time doing things that complicate my life unnecessarily. I am reducing clutter, removing the electronic connectivity-clutter and trying to live more with less. That doesn’t mean that I am giving up blogging, because–and this post is a prime example–writing things down help me to process them, and the community of blogging is something that I really, truly love. (Hi community, I love you!) So, what does this all mean? Nothing. I’m not making a goal, I’m not amending my New Year’s Resolutions, I’m not filling up all vertical surfaces of my apartment with post-it notes reminding me to SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY! Nope, I’m just trying to make a lifestyle change to make my life less chaotic. Of course, I will let you know how that goes, but for now, it’s just my new thing.
SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY!
…Am I the only person who imagines Hermoine waving her wand and yelling this at an ugly pile of To-Do List failures? Yes? Okay.
Hi. Hello. Hey there.
So, I’m married now. In most ways, it is exactly the same. And really, I think that is a good thing. I don’t think that a wedding should drastically change a relationship, nor should that event alter the behavior each party exhibits in that relationship. In fact, any kind of drastic change would really worry me (been there, done that), and at the very least would be a bad omen for the rest of the relationship. Right? So, things are the same. The same kind of wonderful. I love that.
Now, I know you were probably hoping for a pretty, pose-y picture-filled post, and I was hoping to add one more “p” word to that sentence, but, unfortunately, neither of us will get exactly what we want. I won’t get pics back from our photographer for two to three months and I haven’t convinced any of my friends or family to send me their snapshots yet. (Truth be told, I imagine they had something else going on this weekend and, you know, it’s only been 4 days…but seriously, family, please send snapshots!)
So, because we aren’t going to share any bits of the wedding day, allow me to tell you about the day before when I had an absolute break down. You knew that was coming somewhere, right? You didn’t? Oh, don’t feel too bad, it came as quite a shock to me too.
Remember how I told you I had a rash on my torso that was getting worse due to stress? And remember how my dermatologist gave me a mild steroid to make it go away? Well, it hasn’t gone away, but it didn’t spread up my chest and neck, so when those wedding photos do surface they won’t have blotchy red spots splashing out from the neckline of my dress. The bad news was that in the subsequent 60-some-odd hours after I started taking that pill I got less than 5 hours of sleep. Five hours of sleep, three days, and stress up the wazoo does not a happy girl make. At noon on Thursday (day prior to wedding day, if you recall), a few of my coworkers kicked me out of the office and told me to please go home and take a nap.
Instead, I went to the salon to get my toes painted and texted my favorite aunt–who happens to live next door to the salon and be my same shoe size–to see if she had some rainboots that would go with an emerald green dress. The forecast was calling for slush, snow, sleet and all sorts of nasty weather. My Aunt Mouse, my Dad’s youngest sister, was at the salon in a jiffy with a pair of adorable boots. When she walked in she took one look at me and asked me what on earth was going on. I really did not look very well. I started sobbing. Sobbing! Uncontrollably sobbing. Apparently, negative sleep, a super stressful week of work and finishing up pre-wedding details (with a list still go finalize that afternoon)..(plus there may have been a little bit of PMS in there somewhere), will reduce me to a very leaky pile of dark undereye circles and nail polish residue.
Luckily, Mouse is the most incredible woman I know. Within minutes she had taken over. She insisted the girls at the salon give me a full pedicure and manicure, with that fancy new shellac stuff so they were instantly dry. She had her assistant call and iron out the last details with one of my vendors (note: when the Alt Design Summit, the Outdoor Retailer’s convention, and Sundance Film Festival are all in one town the same weekend, things like getting an exact time, or even a normal range of linen delivery is next to impossible under the best of circumstances, and under my circumstances–see: melt down in above paragraph–it was absolutely impossible). Then she insisted her assistant tackle the rest of my To Do list. She went to Costco, she finalized everything, she arranged the last minute details…she saved me. I obviously was in no condition to talk to anyone rationally and logically about anything. And, as if that wasn’t amazing enough, Mouse booked me an appointment with her personal massage therapist for later that afternoon. She fixed everything. By the time she was done I had exactly three things left to do. Finish my mani/pedi, get a massage, and pick up J-Mo from the airport. Three things! Knocked down from somewhere in the 10-12 range!
I cannot imagine what kind of mess I would have been in if Mouse had not staged an intervention. I mean, Mouse saved me. She swooped in with cute rainboots and left me with my fingers and toes well attended; she and her assistant cleared their day and fixed and finished and finalized my To Do list. They forced me to take a break and focus on what was really important, and surprising to me, the important thing was not running to Costco to get an entire shopping cart full of citrus fruit.
Friday morning, Wedding Day, I went to get my hair done, set-up the final bits for dinner after the ceremony (including doing something very Pinterest-worthy with that shopping cart full of citrus fruit), went to fill up two balloons that were so ginormous they would not even fit into my vehicle, took a quick bath, changed into my wedding dress, and went to the church.
And then, my friends, I walked down the aisle and recited some of the most lovely vows to the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. I cried, but this time instead of sobs of sleep-deprived overwhelmed frustration, they were tears of joy and happiness and overwhelming love for him and for us.
***** ***** *****
In writing this post it has occurred to me that while I can be controlling and sometimes even a bit on the freaky side of controlling, I think my biggest problem is that I assume I am Wonder Woman. I assume I can do anything I set my mind to do, and that I can do it on my own, and without asking anyone for help, and in a timely manner. So, some of those may be true, but all together? Yeah, probably not 100% true all the time. I can do anything I set my mind to do, but I more often than not need to ask for help to accomplish it in a timely manner. Unfortunately, it took me breaking down in front of a pedicurist the day before my wedding and someone–a true Wonder Woman–swooping in to save me in order for me to realize it. Fortunately, I realized it. And fortunately, I have some people around me that can help me remember that realization.
***** ***** *****
Dear Mouse, I know you don’t read this blog, and I’ve already written a lengthy and tear-filled thank you note with far more heart-felt sentiment, but I wanted to thank you, publicly, for showing me that it’s okay to ask for help; it’s okay not to be perfect; and it’s perfectly normal for someone to love you, despite and perhaps because of your imperfections. Love always, heidi
***** ***** *****
*No, her name isn’t Mouse, but it’s been her nickname as long as I can remember, and in our family it is a very sincere term of affection and endearment.
Filed under: AwesomeSauce, Life 101, On Being an Adult, Proof that I'm a Nerd
I have fallen in love. Deeply, irrevocably and terribly in love. It’s new and exciting and frankly, built to last. No, this isn’t a new beau, things with J-Mo are just fine. Better than fine, in fact. My new love is not some Rico Suave or anything like that. It’s Amazon. Good old Amazon. (Insert very witty but probably over-cheesy pun here about my falling in love with a South American who Has It All.)
I realize that Amazon has been around for millenia…ok, perhaps not for thousands of years, but since 1995 and in Internet world that’s practically the same thing. Last year I fell hard and fast for eBay and had to quickly back away before my life savings was put on the line for first edition books I loved as a kid. Seriously, it was getting scary. And expensive. But Amazon is different.
This year, particularly the last few months, I have been busier than I ever have. I have been working full time and finishing up my last semesters of school. If that weren’t enough I also have reserved most of my weekends to spend with J-Mo as his work schedule (and frankly, my work/school schedule) doesn’t really allow weeknight hang-outs. At the moment I am also designing and making a big pile of costumes for a high school theater production and trying–unsuccessfully–to find the time to update two websites. This one (badly neglected), and my Shoeologist site (also, badly neglected. I’m like the negligent mother of two teenagers who are quickly receding away from their peers at an alarming, but silent pace.) Top that with a normal dose of “off the internet” drama and my poor little Google calendar is packed to it’s virtual gills with things that must be done. Sadly, shopping is not something that must be done.
I’m not talking about back to school clothes or shoes or anything like that. Granted, I don’t need any more clothes or shoes, but I’ll admit to a little harmless online browsing and buying when I find something I love. Ditto on the lunch-time wander around the shops close to my office. I don’t have problems buying clothes. It’s the other things in my life that must be replaced that I can hardly find time for. I have been pretty good about going grocery shopping once a week for eggs and fruit and veggies, my weekly appointment with the Grocery is on Monday night at about 11:30 pm. Unfortunately, there are many things in life that I cannot purchase on Monday night at 11:30 pm. Things like the special light bulbs for the dining room chandelier; a belt rack to harness my ever-expanding collection; a special 3-prong plug to live behind a dresser that enables the dresser to be flush to the wall and my air conditioner to still be plugged in; the fancy syrup that Britt blogged about which is only available at certain grocery stores and then only sometimes; a winter’s supply of Natural Ice chapstick which is mysteriously unavailable at the grocery or the gas station; a waffle iron with removable plates so I can get all the waffle residue off without using a toothbrush; and–my latest purchase–a new shower curtain that can somehow tie together my banana-yellow wall tile (with red and black floral trim, no less) and cover up the aqua tub. (Yes, it’s really aqua. I really should post pictures.)
Can you imagine the time required in trying to locate all these individual items at one of several dozen stores, deliberate on color or brand or price, purchase, and then transport them home? It is mind boggling. So far, I have managed to carve out 40 minutes a day to shower, shave my legs, wash and dry my hair, and apply mascara…but an hour to locate the appropriate chandelier light bulbs just isn’t going to happen. So I have turned to Amazon, and Amazon has come through with gold stars and sparkles and every possible thing I could need. Yes, I may have to pay some shipping charges, but my time is at a premium so I happily fork over a few extra dollars for their timely, trackable, front door delivery service. I don’t know why it has taken me so long to jump on the Amazon bandwagon, but I have found myself a nice cozy seat and will not be jumping off anytime in the near future. I’m only fifteen years behind the curve, but online shopping (for items that are not clothes or shoes) has found a permanent place in my heart.
**No, Amazon is not sponsoring this post or giving me any kind of perk for blogging about them. Nor do I get any kind of kick back from some kind of affiliate program if you buy that same waffle iron or belt rack. I’m simply sharing the wealth and breadth of the awesomosity that is Amazon.
Several months ago I went on a weekend camping trip with a grundle of people, some friends, most strangers. I had a good time, made some new friends, blah blah blah. Anne* started to grind on my nerves after about 3 minutes, she was loud and boisterous and inserted herself into every possible conversation, every possible interaction, and I quickly lost count at how many times she manipulated a situation or a conversation to her benefit, to make her the star, or to try and impress or snag the attention of some new guy. It was pathetic. And irritating.
At one point a large-ish group of us were gathering to go on a water-related activity. Like usual, I made sure to cover my delicate bits and slather up with some more sunscreen. Someone asked if they could borrow a bit for their face, I agreed but half-jokingly warned of the astronomically high SPF. Anne immediately started laughing and said in a voice about 18 octaves higher than normal and with most statements ending, inappropriately, in a question, “Like, no wonder you have, like, blindingly white legs? With SPF like that you’ll always, like, look like the underside of a beached whale!?!” *Cue irritatingly obnoxious cacklelaugh. I politely smiled/grimmaced, made some comment about not minding my albino roots, and continued to apply sunscreen. But Anne didn’t stop there, she started in on my rash guard/surf shirt being frumpy and “like, you’re probably, like, not even a surfer? Like, I lived in Hawaii? And, like, I know how surfers dress? And that’s not it.” I looked at her, hand on her hip, giant sunglasses covering her whole face, unnaturally freckled, leathery skin under her teensy little polka-dot bikini and–with the hope of diffusing the situation–simply said “I had skin cancer a couple of years ago, so I just have to be really careful.” Her response still baffles me. She just scoffed and said–not to me, but to the group of people around us who were uncomfortably but silently shifting their weight from one foot to another–”Well, I, like, had skin cancer too? But, like, I still think blinding white legs are, like, super ugly? And, like, tan is the only way to go. Like.” She raised one overly-plucked eye brow at me–my hand still full of a pool of sunscreen–tossed her hair and flounced off towards a shirtless boy who had no idea he was about to be accosted by flippant, fake-baked stupidity. It’s too bad, too, because if she’d been within slapping distance for about one more nanosecond I would have smacked her 14 different ways with a palm full of sunscreen leaving a very satisfying hand-slap pattern of SPF 85 that would have shown up the next day as her tan deepened to a more orangey orange.
May I please point out that the time of this encounter was this past summer and not in junior high or some teenage, made-for-TV drama. This level of immaturity and girl-on-girl hating was totally inappropriate and flat out ridiculous. However, my girl-on-girl fight was quietly imagined and resolved in my head while hers was barked out with an atrocious overuse of the word “like”, appalling grammar, and punctured with an ear splitting cacklelaugh in front of a dozen peers. Different? Yes. Is my reaction more adult? Yes, don’t pretend like you don’t also do the in-your-head bitch-slap when faced with idiotic bimbos.
*****
I can usually write off bitchy behavior as someone who is just having a bad day or a bad decade, and I can let the stinging comments slide off without allowing the barbs to snag under my skin. I can usually re-categorize a Meanie as someone with low self-esteem who is unable to deal with normal life situations in any kind of healthy way. They probably weren’t hugged enough as a child, or their puppy preferred a chew toy instead of them, or maybe their first boyfriend was a overly pierced, unwashed sleaze ball, or perhaps they just mistakenly take Bitch pills every morning instead of vitamins. They’re just people too, right? Do bullies and bitches deserve sympathy and compassion? Yes, they do. I am (hypothetically) willing to give Anne another chance to see if at her core, this girl is a bitch or just someone who is appallingly incapable of dealing with her insecurities in any kind of normal, healthy way. But, to be honest, I don’t predict I will find an opening in my schedule to willingly put myself in close enough contact with either woman just to test this theory. When someone mocks me, publicly humiliates me, or otherwise bullies me or anyone else for no good reason my claws come out and don’t retract. When someone puts another person down to try and make themselves feel better, or bigger, or more accepted they earn a one-way ticket to the bastard/bitch/bully category (BBB) in my book; it takes a hell of a lot of voluntarily being an overly nice person to get out of that category. You’ve pretty much got to morph into the benevolent love child of Ghandi and Mother Theresa.
*****
Recently, through the wonders of social media, I discovered that Anne has consumed an astonishing number of cupcakes and cheeseburgers since she flounced away from me in that polka-dot bikini. And apparently her teenybopper friends have no sense of edit or restraint when posting photo evidence all over the Interwebs of a beachy weekend where Anne sported that very same itsy-bitsy, teeny-weenie, bulging polka-dot bikini, now with more cupcakes! Yes, it made me feel better because I am not above pithy vindication.
The moral of this story is that, under certain circumstances, yes, I can (and probably will) hold a tremendous grudge. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Do not burn my books, or steal my shoes. Don’t lie to me and don’t hurt me on purpose and we’ll be just fine. Just to be clear, bullying me–or anyone else–falls into the “hurting people on purpose” category and you will quickly find yourself on the blacklist reserved for bastards, bitches, and bullies (BBB).
* “Anne” is a fake-out name and the above story have been scrubbed of identifying information. I’m snarky and can hold a grudge, but I’m not vying for my own listing on the BBB.
**Yes, this post has also been scrubbed of one more example of bullying and general bitchiness. I don’t want to get into the details of how or why or what-have-you.
Tonight I am going to my 10 year high school reunion. I am not particularly nostalgic about my time in high school and I’m not bitter about it either. I’m over it. Looking back the years from 1998-2001 were not particularly awesome, in fact, they kind of sucked, but not because of the “High school dramaz! I has them!” part. In most ways I emerged from the halls of ACRONYMHS* relatively unscathed (*obviously, not it’s real name) and it was the rest of my life that left the scars.
But, enough of that. No one really wants to hear about high school era woes. It’s old hat, the stuff of bad first screenplays and teenage soap-dramas.
Let’s get on to something a little less blah, okay?
The people that I graduated with have accomplished some amazingly awesome things. We were a very talented class with smarts and chutzpah and awesomeosity leaking out at every turn. Seriously, to be included in the “Top 30 Scholars” you had to have a weighted 5.0, (unweighted, 4.0) and you probably had to have taken at least 8 A.P. classes. One boy earned a perfect score on the ACT test. A perfect score.
And now for their accomplishments, en mass and in no particular order:
- Country musician Susie Brown of The JaneDear Girls who not only performed at this year’s CMT Awards but were also were nominated for ACM’s Vocal Duo of the Year and Top New Vocal Duo of the Year, hanging out among other nominees like Lady Antebellum, Taylor Swift, Keith Urban, Carrie Underwood and The Zac Brown Band. Yeah, I knew her “when”…like, when she was in Kindergarten through ACRONYMHS.
- My long-time friend, Kiersten White, a New York Times best selling author of Paranormalcy and the newly released (and awesome!) Supernaturally which hit the NYT Best Seller list this week as well! (Also, she’s my date. Squee!)
- My BFF Josh is a ridiculously successful theater teacher and recently some really important people have been confirmed singing his praises. People like Fred Adams, founder of the Tony Award Winning Utah Shakespeare Festival and Michael Barr, Education Director of the Festival. In his field, compliments from these two are the equivalent of a Pulitzer Prize winning author telling you they really appreciate the writing on your blog and the affect it can invoke on humanity. Big. Freaking. Deal.
- Musician Benton Paul and Cambodian documentarist Trevor Wright. (Is that how you say “he made an amazing documentary about Cambodia?” Not sure, but that’s what he did. Check it out.)
- Sam Burgess, hot-shot basketball player and Chris Fogt, Olympic bobsledder.
- (Sidenote: People I graduated with who have Wikipedia pages? Intimidating. And Awesome.)
- My amazing friend Peter who is currently performing on Broadway. Not Off-Broadway, or Off-Off Broadway, but the Great White Way of Broadway proper. And after less than 6 weeks auditioning in New York City. I burst with pride a little for him.
- Annie Thurman-Young was competing the the U.S. Women’s Open Golf Tournament by the time she was 20 and is currently the head golf coach at OSU.
- RG and NW are both working in acronymed federal agencies, ones that, according to my friends in DC are uber-exclusive and with incredibly difficult, intensive interview processes. Basically, these two are the cream of the proverbial federal crop. (Not really interested in outing either of them here, hence the initials.) (Also, if they had Wikipedia pages they would probably be classified.) (So there.)
- Blog sensation Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing graduated a few years before I did, and I have heard an unconfirmed rumor that Tiffany/Amber/Megan/Nicole from the no-longer-updated but still wickedly-satirical Seriously, So Blessed also went to ACRONYMHS.
Additionally, besides this handful of wildly successful and public classmates, there are dozens and probably even a couple of hundred other classmates who have gone on to earn masters and doctorate degrees. They have volunteered around the world and started companies. They are in the armed forces, they are teachers and lawyers and counselors and doctors. They are political campaigners, engineers, researchers and on the police force. They are writers, and artists, and musicians. They are professional, contributing members of society. They are wonderful husband’s and wives, Mom’s and Dad’s, caring friends and dedicated adults.
Will you please give a warm round of applause to the Class of 2001!
*Applause*
Note: this list also has some folks who attended my high school at the same time I did, but may not be part of the Class of 2001. I am no discriminator of achievements by those in the Class of 2000 or 2002 that I have gleaned by stalking the Interwebs-slash-Facebook.
I’m sure by now you have heard that it is Shark Week, right? The Discovery channel is airing dozens of slots of shark-related programming, and I have found myself DVR-ing episodes that go into great detail about shark sightings, shark attacks, and all other subjects in which sharks and people do not mix. I cannot NOT watch this stuff! Am I afraid of sharks? Yes, yes I am. The thought of them gives me an uncomfortable tightness in my stomach. Seeing footage of gaping mouths of teeth–even though they are safely contained in my TV–makes me shudder. I have nightmares about being chased by a shark, or having one use me as a chew toy. That Bruce character in Finding Nemo freaked me right out. I have never seen Jaws and I think it is safe to say that I never will. I have to look away when they show the “scary” or “gruesome” parts during Shark Week. On public television. Aimed at educating children. “Scary” to me basically means anything where teeth or jaws or blood is involved, which means I spend most of any given program with my face buried in my hands. Four year olds see more of Shark Week than I do. Have I ever met a shark? No. Have I even seen one in the flesh? Um, no. Not really. Baby-sized ones that are sometimes kept in an aquarium, yes, but never a “real” shark, the kind that could chew your arm off. Does this make my fear of sharks slightly irrational? Uh, yes, probably. I live in a landlocked, desert state; the chances of me coming face-to-face with a hungry Great White Shark are minimal/non-existent. I am SCUBA certified, but I have never gone diving in the ocean. In fact, when hanging out on an ocean beach I rarely get in the water at all. I don’t really care for salt water in my eyeballs/on my face, and the chance of coming into close quarters with a) clingy seaweed, b) stingy sea creatures, or c) sharks, is more of a risk than I am willing to take. I’d much rather hang out on the beach with my nose in a book, carefully tucked up under an umbrella with a sundress covering me shoulders-to-my-knees and the rest of my body completely slathered in SPF 85. Sexy, no?
Ha! No. Not really. Well, not in the way that any advertisement, fashion or beauty magazine published in the last 80 years would lead you to believe.
The thing is, do you want to know what scares me more than sharks? (And bobble-head dolls, but that is another post entirely.)
Tan lines.
Sunburns.
My sensitive dermis baking under sweet, sweet, sunshine.
Melanoma.
Skin cancer.
Like many children, I had white-blonde hair as a kid. Unlike most of those children, when I grew up my natural hair color never really darkened and still hovers in the distinctly “platinum” part of the color wheel. My skin is a fair, creamy white and mostly freckle-free. My foundation color is “parchment” for heaven’s sake. I’m a pale person. And unlike many people who share my coloring, I don’t make any efforts to darken my pasty-white skin. I have never been inside a tanning bed. I have never “laid out” or gone sunbathing. I am terrified of the idea of getting “that healthy glow” or even “a little color.” I don’t know if I can properly convey the fear I associate with my own skin being a “healthy”, “sexy” bronze shade, or, frankly, a shade that can be described by any color not resembling printer-paper.
You probably think I am overreacting. I’m not. I’m not being irrational, or even overly fearsome. Allow me to explain:
About 25 years ago the University of Utah–a premier research institution, particularly in genetics–did a massive study to see if there was any genetic linking to skin cancer. (The short version: there is.) For several years they studied hundreds of families, choosing ones who had multiple cases of melanoma. My mom’s family was chosen. My dad’s family was chosen. As a result, all of us kids were tested; I was 3 but I still remember that day. My oldest brother was 13 at the time and the researchers were shocked–SHOCKED–to discover a chunk of skin cancer on his shoulder. He was the youngest person to ever be diagnosed with skin cancer; it was such a big deal that it made the cover of the Wall Street Journal, and his case was the subject of professional medical conference keynote addresses for years. THE COVER OF THE WALL STREET JOURNAL!! It was is a Big. Freaking. Deal. Yes, this was twenty-five years ago and in the years since there have been more cases of skin cancer discovered in younger children (a trend that is disturbing enough on it’s own), but please understand that this very real, tangible fear of inherited skin cancer has been ingrained in me–and for good reason–for the last two and a half decades. I am a carrier of the melanoma gene. I inherited it from both my mother and father. While I have always had regular check-ups with my dermatologist, have gone back to the University of Utah for follow-up studies, and I have been vigilant in sunscreen application; I am still scared.
Ten years ago I had two moles taken off my head in a routine check-up, one came back positive for melanoma. I was 19. I hadn’t had a sunburn or even a tan line in at least six years. But there it was. Cancer. On my face. Can you imagine your 19-year-old self? Now imagine her going to the doctor by herself to be scrutinized head to toe and everywhere in-between for questionable moles. Imagine the doctor carefully cutting off a few tiny bits of her face because they looked “a little suspicious.” Now imagine 3 days later–Dec. 23 2002 at 4:30 pm, to be exact–when the doctor calls her to tell her that the moles were malignant and cancerous and “I am having my office staff come in from holiday on Dec. 26, first thing in the morning to cut out some more of your face. We need to make sure we get it all.” Imagine that 19 year old girl sobbing into the phone, thinking she is far too young to have to deal with this kind of news. (I still get choked up when I think about that phone call. The fear was palpable then, and even now it makes me breathe faster and my chest become tight.) I am lucky, my dermatologist caught my case really early and was able to cut out the offending pieces of my face, his plastic surgery skillz left only one small scar near my hairline that is hard to see, even if I point it out. I didn’t have to go through chemo or radiation or spend months of my life in a hospital. Yes, I am lucky; or more accurately, I had been vigilant my entire life, luck really had nothing to do with it. Even so, it was still far too close a call for me to be willy-nilly with the sunbathing and beach time. Like, ever.
I wear sunscreen every single day, even if all I’m doing is walking from my house to my car to go to work. SPF 30. Every day. No matter what. (Except that one time I forgot, I am still kicking myself for that. In fact, just thinking about it gave me a knot in my stomach.) Outdoorsy activities will have me bump up the SPF to 45 or 65, with 85 on my face and shoulders. (I don’t want to hear any arguments about how “oh, anything after SPF 30 doesn’t make a bit of difference.” I. Don’t. Care.) (And who made you an expert on hereditary melanoma anyway? I’d like to see your degree and credentials.) (Also, to all former boyfriends–you know who you are–who cruelly and publicly mocked my beach wear, with full knowledge of my genetic misfortune and medical history, I hope you get testicular cancer and have to go through life as a One-Balled Wonder.) (And to the irritatingly, insipid women who make fun of my summer sleeves and long skirts–especially those claiming to have also had skin cancer but not caring about getting sunburned–you are ridiculously stupid, shallow and naive. And douchebags. Sadly for you, getting a tan won’t eliminate any of those qualities. *smirk* I hope you have gross, permanent sun spots on your face and hands by the time you’re 30.) (/rant.) (Man, it feels good to finally get all that off my chest!) (/parentheticals.)
I have been told by my doctors–ones who are experts on my skin, genetic skin cancer, and my family history–that even if I live in a cave for the rest of my life with absolutely no sun exposure whatsoever and develop those creepy, beady-white, cave-dwelling-eyes, I will still contract melanoma again by the time I’m 40. Cancer. Again. Sometime in the next 10-15 years. No matter what. On the upside, my team of dermatological experts tell me that my lack of tanning will make me have fewer wrinkles and clearer, smoother skin as I get older. So I suppose when I’m 40 and going in for Round Two (or three) of having skin cancer removed from my body the medical staff will think I’m only 29. Hey, at least I have something to look forward to! So, while you and your blessed olive skin can prance around the beach or pool in SPF 4 (now with coconut oil!) and a teensy little bikini without a care in the world, I’ll stick with the SPF>45 and a drop cloth. I am not olive, or brown, or tan, or even beige. I am pale, the color of parchment, and always will be. And my bikini has never seen the light of day. True story. It has taken itself–and me–out for some night swimming on several occasions. But obviously in a pool and not the open water, because–honestly, don’t you ever watch the Discovery channel?–night time is prime feeding time for large, carnivorous fishy creatures who are drawn to white, glowing, reflective surfaces (see: heidikins’ entire body) and WHAT ABOUT THE SHARKS!?!)
Did you all have a lovely holiday weekend? Canada Day? The Fourth of July? Whatever your flavor? My weekend was, well, it was a mixed bag. On the one hand, there was the awesome, and on the other hand there was the not so awesome and then the freaking annoying.
The Awesome:
- Lots of nieces and nephews saying and doing lots of adorable/hilarious things
- Homemade lime rickies, I take mine with extra sugar, extra lime, and a maraschino cherry
- Laying on the grass with my brothers and sisters, laughing and chatting and giggling until parenthood called and it was time for their kiddos to go to bed
- Dutch oven breakfast, with fireworks (yep, I’m just gonna link to that whole post instead of try and recreate with pics and what-have-you)
- Going to movies when it’s too hot to do anything else (Larry Crowne, which I loved, and Super 8, which I will have nightmares about for weeks.)
- Playing on the swings in my childhood backyard – I had to sit on the trapeze because everything else was so low my knees dragged on the grass. (Better my knees than my ass, right?)
- Showing my sweetheart around my hometown
- Afternoon naps snuggled up with that very charming boy of mine
- Snow cones and sour patch kids
- Playing Monopoly while waiting for the fireworks to start
- Fireworks, lots of them, right above my head
The Not So Awesome:
- The bookcase I bought from IKEA was too skinny, I picked up the wrong one which required a return trip to exchange it
- A chopped a piece out of the left thumb while making salsa (don’t worry, the salsa was phalanges free, pinky promise)
- I misplaced my keys, forgot where I parked, forgot I was driving, and had several “oh crap!” moments when I spied a police officer seconds after I *almost* (maybe) broke a minor traffic law.
- I dropped things, broke things, ran into things (big things, like people and furniture and walls) and generally had one of those days where nothing seems to go quite right
- I forgot how freaked out I get by scary movies, even moderately scary movies, or not-scary movies with moderately scary scenes. Super 8, I’m looking at you in your zombie-make-up spider-alien face.
- During one little game of Monopoly I was sent to jail no less than 11 times. The boy? He maybe went to jail once. For the record, I also went bankrupt due to his blasted hotel on Park Place. *shakes fist in the general direction of the dark blue properties
The Freaking Annoying:
- I love fireworks. Last 4th of July I didn’t get to see any big ones up close, so I was particularly excited about seeing some things year.
- The boy and I went to the park pretty early to grab a good parking spot, help stake out a spot on the grassy hill and enjoy the lovely evening. When I say “we went early” I mean we showed up almost 5 hours early. We scored a killer parking spot, brought some snacks, and some games, listened to some live entertainment, took a little nap, more snacks, a hilarious round of Monopoly (see above)… it was lovely.
- A few hours later some friends showed up and we chit-chatted for a little while, sharing picnic munchies and telling stories. Then some of their friends showed up, and then friends of the friends, and more removed “friends”…and by the time the fireworks started at 10:00 pm I knew perhaps 8 of the 30 people suddenly crowded onto too few blankets. More people stopped by, really LOUD people.
- One stepped on my hand, one almost sat on my head, one complete stranger plonked herself right in front of my fireworks view and I admit, I was not oozing charm and friendliness when I asked her to please move to somewhere that was not 3 inches in front of me on the blanket that I wove myself from cotton I grew myself and sewed together by hand using wool thread from sheep I raised myself…ok, that last part is a bit of a stretch. But seriously? I was getting bugged.
- Piles of loud, obnoxious strangers were holding inane conversations at eye-twitch-inducing decibel levels. ” LIKE, OH. EM. GEE!!1!11 DID U C STACY W/ THAT MANWHORE!? SRSLY, I DUN KNOW WHUT SHE’S DOING W/HIM. AND, LIKE, JUSTIN!? HE COULD DO SOOOOOO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT TIFFANY GIRL, LIKE, I MEAN, REALLY!!1! TIFFANY ISN’T EVEN HAWT! OHMYGOSH, DID YOU, LIKE, WATCH THE BACHELORRETTE? THIS IS JUST LIKE THAT, ONLY REAL LIFE! JUSTIN IS A TOTAL BENTLEY!! HAHAHA! I’M GONNA FACEBOOK THAT! LIKE IT, OKAY?!?!1!”
- I wish I was kidding. Sadly, I am not. And you guys, they were loud. Really, obnoxiously loud, and right next to my ears, and putting their feet and asses far too close to my face, and stepping on my hand (an accident, I admit, but still freaking annoying). I know that I was in a public space, and I can’t control the environment, and technically they had every right to be there, but this was a little ridiculous. They were loud, and pushy, and rude, and generally obnoxious.
- I’m usually one to roll with the punches life throws, but I was really disappointed in my fireworks show being taken over by this loud, pushy, rude, generally obnoxious ilk. The worst part is they showed up right before the fireworks started, it was already dark, and it was a little impractical for me to try and find a new, less annoyingly populated place to enjoy the fireworks spectacular.
Weekend Recap:
- Little people that are related to me are hilarious
- I get ridiculously excited about food (see multiple mentions above
- My man is awesome (I swear I’ll properly introduce you as soon as this fireworks etiquette rant is out of my system, mmkay?)
- I love fireworks but can’t stand obnoxious people, good thing I have another 12 months to come up with an alternate plan. And/or alternate “friends of friends of friends.”
Yesterday I got an email from my landlord that she had not yet received my May rent. Let it be known, I mailed the check on the 3rd like a good tenant. Let it be known, I have always paid my rent on time (“on time” means before the 5th, as per my contract). So, it seemed a little odd that she would wait THREE WEEKS to casually mention “hey, I never got your rent.” But whatever. The point is, either USPS lost my check or the mail sorter people at their office lost it. Whatever, the point is I did what I was supposed to, but to make sure my check hadn’t fallen into nefarious hands, I checked with my bank online.
And then my heart dropped out of my chest.
I didn’t even get to the part about my rent check, because I was staring hundreds and hundreds of fraudulent charges in the cyber-face. ATM withdrawals in California (I haven’t been to California for at least six weeks, and I have never been to Monterey Park, the location of the crimes against my bank account), there were online purchases from sites I would never in a million years shop, more ATM withdrawals, more online charges. I stared for a minute, not quite comprehending what was happening. My debit card was safely in my wallet and I had my credit card locked away for emergency use only. What the what!?
Instead of freaking out and running around my office waving my arms, I decided to take immediate action. (Ok, I may have freaked out a teensy little bit first.) There was a branch of my bank on the same block as my office building, so I shouldered my purse and walked over there. I found the offending mis-charges at 11:55 and ten minutes later I was sitting down with Tyler: Personal Banker and Nice Guy Extraordinaire and he was on the phone with the bank’s fraud department.
I won’t get into all the nitty-gritty details, but the end result was 90 minutes at the branch, brand new accounts for me, new cards on the way, and a money order to drop off to my landlord (because I am a responsible tenant, even in the face of debit card-hackery). I guess I’m supposed to feel violated, or hurt, or bothered, or something–but I don’t. It’s just numbers in the computer to me. The bank will replace all the funds that were stolen. I can prove 14 different ways that it wasn’t me making those purchases. And yes, I realize my identity resides in my computer, and I pinky promise to keep close tabs on all things related to my financials and identity and if there is more to it than a stolen debit card number, I promise to stay on top of it and all that jazz. But here’s the thing. I had about 3 minutes to freak out before I was doing everything I could to fix the problem, it eliminated 99% of the drama associated with this type of situation.
Is there a life lesson here?
Absolutely.
Stop creating drama where it doesn’t need to be. Hear that, Self? Stop it. You know when a situation arises that can potentially rock your world. So instead of wallowing in it, getting the crocodile jaws of despair clamped down on you and then being rolled around, flailing and drowning and whining and causing a ruckus, all you have to do is shoulder your purse and head out to solve the problem with your stiletto heels clicking on the pavement. Lesson: learned.
Also, I feel the need to pass along some very wise information a friend shared with me a few years ago. He was the victim of a bank account heist (which sounds so much more intriguing than “someone stole my debit card”) and he said the hardest part was the week or two between the time they found it and the time he got his checkbook/debit cards for his new account. His financials were basically frozen. He told me to keep a couple of hundred dollars in a separate bank, one that is not linked to your primary bank, isn’t associated with your credit or debit cards. So in the case your funds are frozen due to theft or you lost your debit card or a retail store/gas station is “holding your funds” for whatever period of time, you can still put gasoline in your car and take yourself out for a therapeutic cupcake. This is brilliant. My primary bank is doing everything they can, but until my new cards come I have a little “rainy day” fund that I can use for a gorgeous emerald green dress that was marked down in crazy kind of ways. It’s things like that beautiful dress that is currently hanging in my cube that make this whole thing much easier to handle without resorting to dramatic psychosis.
Does it kind of suck? Sure, but really it’s fine. It’s inconvenient to call and adjust all my automatic withdrawals (student loan, car insurance, power bill, cell phone bill, etc), but it’s fine. It’s annoying, but it’s fine.
Have you ever had your bank account hacked? Or heisted? Any tips on how to deal? How to clean up the mess? Am I so oblivious to other, real problems here that I don’t even know I should be worried about them? Please advise.
Yesterday afternoon I ended a relationship that I’ve both loved, needed, and relied on for the last five years. Yesterday, I broke up with my shrink. Dr. N is moving to Russia in a couple of weeks (RUSSIA!?! What the WHAT!?!) and won’t be doing the long-distance head-shrinking thing; and as much as I would love to visit Siberia I don’t think that my insurance would cover the plane ticket to Moscow. Admittedly, there is a chunk of me that is scared of trying to do this without her. I’m sure she has great things to do in Russia, but right now I’m harboring a not-so-secret grudge against Siberia At Large for stealing her away. Yesterday was my last appointment with her before her move, and while we talked about a few new developments and she made some excellent points about how to better deal with a few situations and people that are causing me a little grief (my harboring angry thoughts against Russians for her choice to move to their country is not something she condones…I’m working on it, give me a minute), we mostly talked about where I was 5 years ago versus where I am now. People, it has been quite the journey.
I know that sometimes therapy is seen in an ill light, like it’s some sort of blot on an otherwise clean and shiny figure. But I see therapy more like going to the dentist, or getting a tune-up on your car. I get my teeth cleaned every six months, whether I have a cavity or not, whether my incisors have turned black and fallen out or not. I go to the dentist and attempt to chit-chat while his fingers are all up in my mouth. See, it’s called “preventative care”, regular check-ups to prevent your teeth falling out, or, more likely, the need for a root canal or something like that. (And yes, this is a shout-out to my dentist, Dr. McLachlan, good friend and fab dentist. Go see him, he’ll shine your teeth and send you on your way.)
You take your car in for service on a regular basis, whether the “check engine” light comes on or not, whether it is leaking strange fluids or smoking or not. You maintain your vehicle to prevent explosions and cracked engine blocks. Most of the time, with an honest mechanic, there is nothing more to do than change the oil and top off your fluids. But you still take it in for a once-over, right?
Therapy is the same way. It’s preventative mental care to make sure you have figuratively shiny teeth and clean oil. If your therapist is worth his/her weight in salt, they will also be able to diagnose potentially harmful situations, the root canals or seizing engine’s of your emotional well being. There shouldn’t be any kind of stigma about seeing a professional to help you navigate the hardest, trickiest situations in your life. There is, but there shouldn’t be.
So, I see a therapist. And I have seen her on a regular basis for five years. Actually, I began seeing her at the gentle prompting of my former boyfriend, who, by the way, is also my current dentist. (Yep, that’s right. No, it’s never been awkward or weird. He is awesome and his wife is equally awesome.) This not-so-small feat of encouraging me to seek professional help was probably the best thing he ever did for me. I had been single again for only a few months and I thought I was fine. I had made it out of that situation in one piece, and I assumed that’s all it took to be okay. Boy, was I wrong. I was a mess. Dr. Mac (who I nicknamed Berkley) suggested I may want to see someone about some of my stuff, and was so kind and sweet about it, he promised he’d go with me if I wanted him to, he’d sit in the waiting room, or hold my hand in the shrink’s office, whatever I needed. I went alone, but his support was what got me there.
My first appointment I told this complete stranger that I had recently gotten divorced, that it was a messy relationship, and that I wanted to be the best version of myself, and I wasn’t sure how to get there. She asked me to tell her what had happened. At that point in my life I had told this story with all it’s hairy details several times, and I was to the point where I could recite the facts without breaking down into a sobbing mess if I was uninterrupted, and if I didn’t look anyone in the face. I told her it would take me about 45 minutes, and if she could please just listen and ask questions at the end. She agreed, and I launched into the story of the hardest, ugliest, scariest parts of my life; events so recent some of the scars were still red and hurty-looking. I didn’t cry, I didn’t display much emotion at all, actually. I just recited the story, like it had happened to someone else. When I finished I looked up and Dr. N had tears streaming down her face. It was at that point that I realized I probably wasn’t okay, and that I needed to be there.
We went to work, it started out with visits twice a week, I was determined to fix myself and I wanted it to happen as quickly as possible. I read everything she told me to read, did all the little (and big) exercises she had me do, made the lists, dissected the relationships, had the difficult, brutally honest conversations and dug out all the rotten bits. I won’t gloss over this, it was hard. At times it seemed impossible. However, a year later I was seeing her only once a month and doing remarkably well. I was happy, healthy, and had the ability to think rationally and critically about myself, my decisions, and my relationships. Five years later, I’m on the “every three months” appointment track, I have had some ups and downs, but I am happier, healthier, and more rational. I am myself, I am a really good version of myself. I am strong, I am heidikins, I am me.
Dr. N is moving to Russia. I’m still kind of unsettled about the whole thing. She recommended another therapist, but for reasons I can’t necessarily get into right now, it’s complicated and I don’t know if I’ll be taking the recommendation. I figure I have three months to find someone new, right? And until then I will be on my best behavior to prevent my frantically emailing her about some relationship or some boy or something. Project: Find New Shrink Who Will Not Abandon Me For Russia is commencing.
