I remember when Saddam Hussein's sons were killed.
I remember when he was captured. The headline in the Everett Herald the next day was "Ace in the hole", a reference to the "most wanted" deck of cards with Hussein as the Ace of Spades.
I remember breaking apart a little at the sight of that old man we'd made a monster, at the thought of his dead children.
I remarked only yesterday to a coworker that a Black ops team and a sniper's bullett might be the best solution to getting Gaddafi out of Libya.
It's funny the way I talk when I'm not thinking about what I say.
A NATO bomb killed Gaddafi's son and three of his grandchildren today.
Tyrant, monster, murderer, he may be.
Father, Grandfather, mortal.
I want freedom for Libya. I want Gaddafi out of power and some one of the Libyan people's choosing to replace him.
But I don't want to forget the part of me that is still human enough to see him as a human. It may have been a naive high school girl who could still mourn for that old man and his dead children but I'm not willing to let go of her, completely.
O, war is an ugly thing. I understand why it's easier to think of it as just another game of cards.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Rather well said
Criticizing the media for failing to live up to its obligations to the democratic process has long been the purview of Jon Stewart and the writers at The Daily Show. They do it often and they do it well. This week, Gail Collins and Dan Rather have stepped up to join in.
It's nice to see some heavy (ish) weights joining JS & company in this.
14 people died in a suicide bombing in Morocco today and this is what CNN looks like:
I don't mean to say that caring about the Royal Wedding is bad. I have plenty of friends who are super excited about it and to an extent I think that's fine. I'm not serious all the time; I adore novels and romantic comedies and TV shows. I think there is anything wrong with loving sports or celebrities or any other "frivolous" diversion. I think it IS wrong when the news media mistakes entertainment for news for the sake of ratings. Donald Trump is a perfect example of this. There is no earthly reason why he should be considered news worthy. None.
Ok I'm not going to rant any more. Read the Collins/Rather pieces, as they are quite good.
The next time you hear about another round of layoffs at a TV news division, the closing of a bureau, the decision not to cover a foreign story with full force, remember this week of silliness in April.(Dan Rather)
It's nice to see some heavy (ish) weights joining JS & company in this.
14 people died in a suicide bombing in Morocco today and this is what CNN looks like:
I don't mean to say that caring about the Royal Wedding is bad. I have plenty of friends who are super excited about it and to an extent I think that's fine. I'm not serious all the time; I adore novels and romantic comedies and TV shows. I think there is anything wrong with loving sports or celebrities or any other "frivolous" diversion. I think it IS wrong when the news media mistakes entertainment for news for the sake of ratings. Donald Trump is a perfect example of this. There is no earthly reason why he should be considered news worthy. None.
Ok I'm not going to rant any more. Read the Collins/Rather pieces, as they are quite good.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The problem with writing about real people
.. is the not inconceivable notion that they will read what you write. The people I write critically about are not the ones I worry about. If I'm being negative it is usually about some one who is both too important to ever care that I wrote about them and also terrible enough that I'd happily repeat much worse to their faces should I ever encounter them (Bernard Lewis, Glenn Beck, my father, etc.) These are not the people I fear. I fear the Paul Constants of the world who will (perhaps rightly) read my adoration as kinda creepy. So I should really stop writing about real people (some of you may already have noticed the absence of a previous entry about some one I know. If you think you're the first person to call me a coward you're sorely mistaken.) So if you are one of the lovely individuals I'm about to write about I'M SORRY THAT I THINK YOU'RE AWESOME AND YOU SHOULD PROBABLY JUST DEAL WITH IT. You probably are awesome, anyway. I'm rarely wrong about these things.
So lately I've been on a "what should I do with my life after graduation" quest. I've been talking to people I admire (sometimes explicitly sometimes casually) and trying to figure out which of them (if any) I'd like to emulate. A rundown of my career options:
Law School: I've always had a sort of fascination with the law, and I have greatly enjoyed a number of law courses I've taken- International Humanitarian Law and American Indian Law (Yes, I enjoyed it even if I never went to class.) So I worked up the nerve to talk to a law student acquaintance and managed to stop being nervous for long enough to hear some of what he said. LSATS. First year they scare you to death. Second year they work you to death. Third year they bore you to death. (I hope I got that right...) Anyway, as much as I like the idea of Law School I think that I'm not cut out for the debt the not working a real job and the reading boring things for hours and hours. I might take the LSATS anyway just to keep my options open. I'll be chatting with a friend I find moderately less intimidating abou this as well, though her short response was already "For the love of God, no!"
Grad School: Today I had coffee with a PHD student at UW working on Egyptian history and politics. I appreciated his frankness, because he told me outright that Grad school is probably not the best option for me right now. We also talked about moving to Cairo, which seems like the best suggestion I've heard to date. Also, I have to say I'm really liking the frequency with which I'm finding myself in conversation with really really attractive men since I decided to take up my advisor on his suggestion I figure out my future plans a little. It's almost like dating but with less pressure to sound witty.
Writing: I'm fortunate to know a number of professional or semi-professional writers. Some are able to support themselves with writing alone, most work other jobs in the industry (publishing, bookselling, etc.) as well. While I love writing and am, for better or worse, still working on a genre fiction novel that is either going to be awesome or completely terrible and absolutely nothing in between, I don't know that I have the talent/drive to make this my career. I'm not being modest- I know I can write and sometimes can write very well- but the world is full of great writers and I don't know that I've yet found anything important enough to say to make me worth listening to.
One of my writer friends, the lovely and talented Jason Vanhee has begun self-publishing his novels for kindle and for nook. This was not a decision he made lightly. His extensive research into e-reading and self-publishing was a long process and I was lucky enough to benefit from much of the resulting knowledge. I don't know what the future of the book industry is, but I see the appeal of at least two sides- I'm a sentimental purist when it comes to books and the written word, but I'm also a blogger with a serious internet addiction. I think every one should read Jason's novels and if this approach facilitates more readers and more authorial control for him, I'm all for it. Still I'd love to have a paper and ink copy of his books to spill coffee on, dog ear the pages and crack the spines.
So if I finish my novel, if it turns out OK, if I try to have it published, I'm not sure I could forsake paper books even if it means giving up ownership as well as decreasing my own profit margins. But that is the sentimental musing of an unpublished girl on financial aid. I suspect a few years of the real world might change my mind.
Adventure: My wonderful thesis advisor has been infinitely patient with me when it comes to making actual progress on my thesis, though I suspect that will end tomorrow if I don't stop blogging and go actually write some of it. But he's also sensitive to my frustration with the lack of practicality in academia, my sense that I am helping NO ONE by writing papers and reading theory. I think that's why he sent me one of his grad students. Unlike most every other faculty member in my department, Shaun will talk to me frankly and treat me like an actual adult. I may have romanticized the notion of living abroad and of living adventurously away from home, but he is kind enough not to point this out. His suggestion that living abroad might be good for me may be intended to remove some of my illusions about such an adventure, but I appreciate that he seems to recognize the value of making some mistakes on your own terms. So back to Palestine? Or maybe Egypt? Peace Corps? or maybe ISM?
I guess we'll see. For now I have a midterm to study for an then store inventory in Tacoma. (Oh joy.) I'm not anticipating getting any sleep for at least 30 more hours, but I needed to write some of these things out of my head so that I can think about them later.
Any suggestions/advice/comments/criticism is welcome and (clearly) needed.
So lately I've been on a "what should I do with my life after graduation" quest. I've been talking to people I admire (sometimes explicitly sometimes casually) and trying to figure out which of them (if any) I'd like to emulate. A rundown of my career options:
Law School: I've always had a sort of fascination with the law, and I have greatly enjoyed a number of law courses I've taken- International Humanitarian Law and American Indian Law (Yes, I enjoyed it even if I never went to class.) So I worked up the nerve to talk to a law student acquaintance and managed to stop being nervous for long enough to hear some of what he said. LSATS. First year they scare you to death. Second year they work you to death. Third year they bore you to death. (I hope I got that right...) Anyway, as much as I like the idea of Law School I think that I'm not cut out for the debt the not working a real job and the reading boring things for hours and hours. I might take the LSATS anyway just to keep my options open. I'll be chatting with a friend I find moderately less intimidating abou this as well, though her short response was already "For the love of God, no!"
Grad School: Today I had coffee with a PHD student at UW working on Egyptian history and politics. I appreciated his frankness, because he told me outright that Grad school is probably not the best option for me right now. We also talked about moving to Cairo, which seems like the best suggestion I've heard to date. Also, I have to say I'm really liking the frequency with which I'm finding myself in conversation with really really attractive men since I decided to take up my advisor on his suggestion I figure out my future plans a little. It's almost like dating but with less pressure to sound witty.
Writing: I'm fortunate to know a number of professional or semi-professional writers. Some are able to support themselves with writing alone, most work other jobs in the industry (publishing, bookselling, etc.) as well. While I love writing and am, for better or worse, still working on a genre fiction novel that is either going to be awesome or completely terrible and absolutely nothing in between, I don't know that I have the talent/drive to make this my career. I'm not being modest- I know I can write and sometimes can write very well- but the world is full of great writers and I don't know that I've yet found anything important enough to say to make me worth listening to.
One of my writer friends, the lovely and talented Jason Vanhee has begun self-publishing his novels for kindle and for nook. This was not a decision he made lightly. His extensive research into e-reading and self-publishing was a long process and I was lucky enough to benefit from much of the resulting knowledge. I don't know what the future of the book industry is, but I see the appeal of at least two sides- I'm a sentimental purist when it comes to books and the written word, but I'm also a blogger with a serious internet addiction. I think every one should read Jason's novels and if this approach facilitates more readers and more authorial control for him, I'm all for it. Still I'd love to have a paper and ink copy of his books to spill coffee on, dog ear the pages and crack the spines.
So if I finish my novel, if it turns out OK, if I try to have it published, I'm not sure I could forsake paper books even if it means giving up ownership as well as decreasing my own profit margins. But that is the sentimental musing of an unpublished girl on financial aid. I suspect a few years of the real world might change my mind.
Adventure: My wonderful thesis advisor has been infinitely patient with me when it comes to making actual progress on my thesis, though I suspect that will end tomorrow if I don't stop blogging and go actually write some of it. But he's also sensitive to my frustration with the lack of practicality in academia, my sense that I am helping NO ONE by writing papers and reading theory. I think that's why he sent me one of his grad students. Unlike most every other faculty member in my department, Shaun will talk to me frankly and treat me like an actual adult. I may have romanticized the notion of living abroad and of living adventurously away from home, but he is kind enough not to point this out. His suggestion that living abroad might be good for me may be intended to remove some of my illusions about such an adventure, but I appreciate that he seems to recognize the value of making some mistakes on your own terms. So back to Palestine? Or maybe Egypt? Peace Corps? or maybe ISM?
I guess we'll see. For now I have a midterm to study for an then store inventory in Tacoma. (Oh joy.) I'm not anticipating getting any sleep for at least 30 more hours, but I needed to write some of these things out of my head so that I can think about them later.
Any suggestions/advice/comments/criticism is welcome and (clearly) needed.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Men in coffee shops and coups d'état
I'm sitting in Solstice watching this sneering college-age boy in a baseball jersey leer at every woman who walks by. Each time one walks by he follows her with his eyes and cranes his neck to watch her leave through the door. As he reels his head back in to return to his conversation, his eyes meet mine just for a second, as though he's checking to see if I'm still glaring at him like he's a fucking idiot. (Short answer: yes.) We've been playing this game for 28 minutes and counting.
Leer, little man, leer. It is your right. Just as it is my right to judge you for it.
I just got a text message from Chev asking if I might have time to call her. I didn't answer, I just called. The PCVs in BF are being consolidated, which is a step toward evacuation. I hope that things calm down, I know she wants to stay. I'm walking that fine line between concerned friend who wants more distance between her and the riots and fires, and the supportive friend who knows she wants to finish her work.
So I'm drinking black coffee after black coffee, glaring at baseball boy, and pretending I don't have a draft of my thesis due later today. My eye doctor gave me contacts to try and today is trial 1. My eyes do not hurt, I do not feel dizzy, I don't even notice them most of the time. But I miss my glasses. I feel uncomfortably exposed without them. Also, they hide the dark circles.
Last night I realized the only God I worship is Morpheus and he has forsaken me.
Are there offerings to be made to the God of sleep? Is there a holy book with instructions for ritual sacrifice? The Old Testament was so handy that way...
I can't sleep. I spend most of my time trying to sleep and not succeeding. Melatonin worked for a while and then it stopped working. I may just make peace with myself as an insomniac and learn to live on 3 hours a night. That might work.
OK, I can't ignore my thesis any longer. Baseball boy can keep leering unjudged. Oh Burkina Faso, please stay calm. I think every one should have freedom and no one should have to die for it. But the world has never worked that way. So I will hope, instead, that some balance of the two can be found, and soon.
Leer, little man, leer. It is your right. Just as it is my right to judge you for it.
I just got a text message from Chev asking if I might have time to call her. I didn't answer, I just called. The PCVs in BF are being consolidated, which is a step toward evacuation. I hope that things calm down, I know she wants to stay. I'm walking that fine line between concerned friend who wants more distance between her and the riots and fires, and the supportive friend who knows she wants to finish her work.
So I'm drinking black coffee after black coffee, glaring at baseball boy, and pretending I don't have a draft of my thesis due later today. My eye doctor gave me contacts to try and today is trial 1. My eyes do not hurt, I do not feel dizzy, I don't even notice them most of the time. But I miss my glasses. I feel uncomfortably exposed without them. Also, they hide the dark circles.
Last night I realized the only God I worship is Morpheus and he has forsaken me.
Are there offerings to be made to the God of sleep? Is there a holy book with instructions for ritual sacrifice? The Old Testament was so handy that way...
I can't sleep. I spend most of my time trying to sleep and not succeeding. Melatonin worked for a while and then it stopped working. I may just make peace with myself as an insomniac and learn to live on 3 hours a night. That might work.
OK, I can't ignore my thesis any longer. Baseball boy can keep leering unjudged. Oh Burkina Faso, please stay calm. I think every one should have freedom and no one should have to die for it. But the world has never worked that way. So I will hope, instead, that some balance of the two can be found, and soon.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Return of Socially Awkward Girl
Oh my.
Oh Jeez.
Yesterday, after being afflicted by what can only be called temporary but total insanity, I struck up a conversation with the extremely good-looking law student in my Arabic class. We've had classes together before and one particularly memorable day sort of had lunch together when we randomly ended up in the same cafe. Other than this, I usually do my best to avoid eye contact or conversation. He's an incredible guy; intelligent, funny, so handsome that when he wears a suit to class I can practically see the words "____ for Senate" below his face. I don't know if he has political aspirations but he's certainly made of whatever the right stuff for that kind of destiny is. I won't say he's "out of my league" because it upsets the people who love me, but I can tell, already, that we have different paths.
So anyway, my brain must have been addled or something, but I asked him about law school (an option I'm weighing for life after graduation,) and he suggested we get lunch. Lunch was had. My usual nervous tics were kept to a minimum, save, of course, talking to much and laughing a bit too nervously. But we talked. I sometimes even managed to say the right thing. I do so enjoy that moment when the words come out so easily it is as though they have already been said. Anyway, it didn't take long for me to realize something was wrong. For starters, I've been smiling so much all day that my head is starting to ache. It's hard to explain this kind of happiness, particularly since, in the part of my brain that is still rational, I remember that I have no idea if he's even single. (I suspect not. I just find it difficult to believe the girls at my school would permit it.) It isn't that I'm happy because I imagine that he likes me or even that I think this is going anywhere. I'm happy that I don't care. I don't really know how to explain it. It was fun, I didn't make a complete fool of myself, and I haven't been robbed of my impression that he's a really, really good guy. I don't need the contrived movie ending a la She's All That (or any other nerdy girl rescue flicks) because my sense of success is not wrapped up in the idea of wrapping up a successful man.
And this isn't to get self-righteous by any means. I'm not comparing myself to other women (even the fictional ones in movies) I'm comparing my current mental state to the way I've looked at the world since the age of 15. I've always felt like I needed the approval of one man or another to feel OK about who I was and what I wanted. So today I got to eat lunch with my dream guy- emphasis on dream- and instead of being so concerned about what he thought of me, I was able to relax for five seconds and have a good time. I still will probably swoon just a little bit when he walks by me in class, (ok, maybe more than a little) but because he's a dream- not because he's a goal or a measure of my self-worth. This may all seem pretty obvious, but these ideas are things I've said out loud and never really meant. For all my preaching self-reliance, I've been the worst person I know when it comes to living and dying with the way my man of the moment thinks of me.
So, yeah, I'm grinning because I had lunch with a great guy. And yeah, socially awkward girl came back a little.
But I'm actually grinning because I'm free. Socially Awkward Girl and I have made peace.
It feels pretty good.
That's all.
Oh Jeez.
Yesterday, after being afflicted by what can only be called temporary but total insanity, I struck up a conversation with the extremely good-looking law student in my Arabic class. We've had classes together before and one particularly memorable day sort of had lunch together when we randomly ended up in the same cafe. Other than this, I usually do my best to avoid eye contact or conversation. He's an incredible guy; intelligent, funny, so handsome that when he wears a suit to class I can practically see the words "____ for Senate" below his face. I don't know if he has political aspirations but he's certainly made of whatever the right stuff for that kind of destiny is. I won't say he's "out of my league" because it upsets the people who love me, but I can tell, already, that we have different paths.
So anyway, my brain must have been addled or something, but I asked him about law school (an option I'm weighing for life after graduation,) and he suggested we get lunch. Lunch was had. My usual nervous tics were kept to a minimum, save, of course, talking to much and laughing a bit too nervously. But we talked. I sometimes even managed to say the right thing. I do so enjoy that moment when the words come out so easily it is as though they have already been said. Anyway, it didn't take long for me to realize something was wrong. For starters, I've been smiling so much all day that my head is starting to ache. It's hard to explain this kind of happiness, particularly since, in the part of my brain that is still rational, I remember that I have no idea if he's even single. (I suspect not. I just find it difficult to believe the girls at my school would permit it.) It isn't that I'm happy because I imagine that he likes me or even that I think this is going anywhere. I'm happy that I don't care. I don't really know how to explain it. It was fun, I didn't make a complete fool of myself, and I haven't been robbed of my impression that he's a really, really good guy. I don't need the contrived movie ending a la She's All That (or any other nerdy girl rescue flicks) because my sense of success is not wrapped up in the idea of wrapping up a successful man.
And this isn't to get self-righteous by any means. I'm not comparing myself to other women (even the fictional ones in movies) I'm comparing my current mental state to the way I've looked at the world since the age of 15. I've always felt like I needed the approval of one man or another to feel OK about who I was and what I wanted. So today I got to eat lunch with my dream guy- emphasis on dream- and instead of being so concerned about what he thought of me, I was able to relax for five seconds and have a good time. I still will probably swoon just a little bit when he walks by me in class, (ok, maybe more than a little) but because he's a dream- not because he's a goal or a measure of my self-worth. This may all seem pretty obvious, but these ideas are things I've said out loud and never really meant. For all my preaching self-reliance, I've been the worst person I know when it comes to living and dying with the way my man of the moment thinks of me.
So, yeah, I'm grinning because I had lunch with a great guy. And yeah, socially awkward girl came back a little.
But I'm actually grinning because I'm free. Socially Awkward Girl and I have made peace.
It feels pretty good.
That's all.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Crunchberries and Cheetos
The New York Times is lamenting the mirthless, grey food of a world in which the fun police liberals make you eat what's good for you. The article is full of really hilarious quotes, so I encourage you to read it in full. One such gem:
As yet, natural colorings have not proven to be a good alternative. They are generally not as bright, cheap or stable as artificial colorings, which can remain vibrant for years. Natural colorings often fade within days.
Ok, first, WHY do you want food that remains vibrantly colored for years? Generally speaking, I don't want to eat something that has existed that long and hasn't changed color. The article frequently references the color of food as an essential aspect of the eating experience, citing studies linking food color to eaters' enjoyment, but never once suggests that this might have some other explanation. I'm not a scientist, but isn't it possible that we've evolved an appreciation for color in our food because that's how we learned that rocks are bad food and oranges are good? This, of course, suggests another problem with the Times article, which at no point mentions all of the foods that are already colorful and flavorful without artificial dye. (One interviewed baker is noted for using strawberry puree to color his desserts, but that is again demonstrating a process by which non-colorful foods are colored, not pointing out the obvious that maybe eating strawberries instead of strawberry-flavored artificially red popsicles or even naturally-dyed strawberry cake, might be a good idea.)
I'm against the FDA ban on artificial coloring, only because I don't think the government banning things usually works (See: Marijuana, Prohibition) and artificial dye isn't dangerous enough to warrant our best efforts like other things we've banned (See: Murder, Heroin.) I have no trouble slapping a huge tax on anything with artificial dye in it, if only to drive up the price and discourage consumption that way, but I can't imagine that would be a popular or politically feasible plan. I really think people should just stop rating the "fun" of neon-orange Cheetos and that-should-probably-be-fatal-green soda higher than the damage it does to our health and to the health of children (who really have no choice but to eat what they are fed and end up the innocent victims of our love of unnaturally bright food.)
Before I read this article I unpacked my produce box and was shrieking to my roommate about how pretty the apples, lemons, avocados, oranges, cabbage, carrots, chard and mushrooms all looked together. A rainbow of fun. 0 artificial dye. While the NYT article makes it sound like a world without artificial dye would be all grey insect-husk breakfast cereal and instant pudding that no one could know was really lemon and not vanilla, any one who has ever seen the produce section of a grocery store (or been to a farmer's market for that matter) knows this is just silly. Color IS an important part of our eating pleasure, and tricking our senses to respond to food by changing the color to make it more appealing isn't increasing our pleasure it's just increasing the number of chemically-altered corn and soy monstrosities that we're willing to consume as "food".
Books, beauty and the sight of blood
Yesterday I read two books. The second was the new novel by Sarah Addison Allen- The Peach Keeper. I'm usually too pretentious to admit that I like Allen's writing, which is romantic magical realism set in the American south. Her novels are light and fluffy and easily consumed in a single sitting. I usually love them. They involve magic food, family curses, ghosts, psychics, sisters and best friends. Her characters generally don't conform to typical beauty standards, and she addresses issues of class tensions, teenage bullying, eating disorders, self-injury and unwanted pregnancy. Unfortunately, the glaring omission of any characters of color, an omission which becomes more and more problematic with each subsequent book (I can accept one book, but she's written four now and there hasn't been a single non-white character in any of them) as well as the increasingly predictable story lines are starting to become too distracting for me to enjoy her writing even as simple escapism.
The first book I read yesterday was Andi Zeisler's Feminism and Pop Culture. This book is an engaging look at the relationship between popular culture and the feminist movement(s) since the 1940's. I learned a number of things and, more importantly, looked more earnestly at my own relationship with modern feminism. I have my problems with the second-wave's preference for white, middle-class, straight women's rights, but I cannot deny that I feel more protective of that generation of feminists than many women my age. They weren't perfect, but they also weren't the man-haters that so many men (and a truly depressing number of women) continue to describe them as. One thing I will give Allen credit for is her female characters, particularly the way she depicts female friendship. Granted, she kind of ruins this all by happily coupling up literally every female protagonist by the end of every story (Finding a man to love you = ultimate win!) But before they settle down with their WASP-y true loves, her characters usually find ways of transcending trauma, class differences and the pervasive culture of competition and suspicion of other women to find friendship with other women, or at least to better understand and connect with their mothers or sisters or grandmothers. So she's not ALL bad.
Anyway, Zeisler's book has also gotten me thinking about my own drive to get back into shape. How much of my vain desire to be physically attractive is because I believe pop culture when it tells me what beauty is and what I need to buy to achieve it? How much time do I spend at the gym worrying about how the other girls in the locker room are so much prettier and how they must think about me? I've been a runner most of my adult life. I love running, I love lifting weights, I do enjoy feeling strong and healthy. I'm not just a gym rat because I worry about how I'll look in my bridesmaid dress. I'm a gym rat because I want to be. But it can be hard to justify, particularly when I have classes to study for and a thesis to write.
Many of you didn't know me when I was involved with my last serious lover. I was probably at my most unstable during that relationship (or whatever you want to call it) and I blamed him for a number of things that were probably, in all fairness, mostly my fault. One great thing that came of this, however, was the weight training we used to do together. He taught me how to lift safely and effectively. He pushed me to lift like he did- to lift in a way women were always told wasn't for us. High weight, low rep, scary, gross, unladylike masculine lifting. I don't want to get into a big discussion about fitness here, so if you're religiously attached to the idea that women need to "tone" with low weight, high-rep exercises, well, you and my 6th grade gym teacher can go have a party together. I like feeling comfortable in a weight room full of guys, knowing what I'm doing and how much weight I can handle.
So that brings me to today. I didn't sleep well last night, but I was still going to lift this afternoon. I wanted to focus on my legs and lower body, and the stabilized bar I usually use for squats was taken, so I tried a different machine, one that allowed lateral as well as vertical movement but still had safety stops. I was not used to being able to fall backwards, which, unfortunately, is just what happened. I took the fall ok, but my finger was caught in the sharp safety hook that is supposed to stop the weights. For some one as easily panicked at the sight of blood as I am, I have a decently delayed freak-out. I stood up, reset the weight, cleaned up the blood, wrapped my hand in a towel and got the first aid room. My hands were starting to shake and I was starting to cry. I hate crying, but it happens. The girls in the first aid room were sweet; they cleaned me up, offered me stitches, and gave me a bandaid when I declined. One girl told me that she prefers to lift on the smaller machines upstairs by the track and seemed to imply that I'd fit in better there, away from the "intense" weights in the room with all the guys. I bit my tongue because you don't piss off the person giving you first aid.
So by the time I hit the showers I was completely shaken up and even more upset with myself for first being foolish and then for overreacting. Why do I freak out at the sight of blood? I think that the disconnect between my reaction to this and self-injury I used to struggle with is the lack of control. An act that used to be all about regaining control of feelings and situations that were overwhelming is now the result of accident and mishap. So it isn't just a laceration, it's a flashback to being 15 and never feeling good enough to avoid the changing winds of my dad or stepmother's stormy moods or being 16 and convinced that my selfish, arrogant behavior had killed Josh, or any of the other dark moments that made me believe this was the only way to cope. So I get a little panicky. By the time I'm out of the shower I'm having a hard time breathing. Am I being vain, foolish, and overly emotional? All in one day?
Luckily, after a few minutes of deep breathing and a couple of new bandaids from the locker room clerk, I recovered. I'm still a little freaked out about the future and worried that planning on losing a few pounds before my sister's wedding seems to be about all of the ambition I'm capable of this week, and my finger hurts like hell, but I'm going to be OK. I wish I were tougher, that I never cried, that I wasn't so clumsy and that I could run the way I used to. I wish I were less vain and more focused on my studies, that I had a concrete goal I could explain and work toward. I will probably still have days where I feel overwhelmed by little things and I will probably still get hysterical at the sight of blood. So it goes.
For now I'm going to take a nap and read a book and finish my homework.
The first book I read yesterday was Andi Zeisler's Feminism and Pop Culture. This book is an engaging look at the relationship between popular culture and the feminist movement(s) since the 1940's. I learned a number of things and, more importantly, looked more earnestly at my own relationship with modern feminism. I have my problems with the second-wave's preference for white, middle-class, straight women's rights, but I cannot deny that I feel more protective of that generation of feminists than many women my age. They weren't perfect, but they also weren't the man-haters that so many men (and a truly depressing number of women) continue to describe them as. One thing I will give Allen credit for is her female characters, particularly the way she depicts female friendship. Granted, she kind of ruins this all by happily coupling up literally every female protagonist by the end of every story (Finding a man to love you = ultimate win!) But before they settle down with their WASP-y true loves, her characters usually find ways of transcending trauma, class differences and the pervasive culture of competition and suspicion of other women to find friendship with other women, or at least to better understand and connect with their mothers or sisters or grandmothers. So she's not ALL bad.
Anyway, Zeisler's book has also gotten me thinking about my own drive to get back into shape. How much of my vain desire to be physically attractive is because I believe pop culture when it tells me what beauty is and what I need to buy to achieve it? How much time do I spend at the gym worrying about how the other girls in the locker room are so much prettier and how they must think about me? I've been a runner most of my adult life. I love running, I love lifting weights, I do enjoy feeling strong and healthy. I'm not just a gym rat because I worry about how I'll look in my bridesmaid dress. I'm a gym rat because I want to be. But it can be hard to justify, particularly when I have classes to study for and a thesis to write.
Many of you didn't know me when I was involved with my last serious lover. I was probably at my most unstable during that relationship (or whatever you want to call it) and I blamed him for a number of things that were probably, in all fairness, mostly my fault. One great thing that came of this, however, was the weight training we used to do together. He taught me how to lift safely and effectively. He pushed me to lift like he did- to lift in a way women were always told wasn't for us. High weight, low rep, scary, gross, unladylike masculine lifting. I don't want to get into a big discussion about fitness here, so if you're religiously attached to the idea that women need to "tone" with low weight, high-rep exercises, well, you and my 6th grade gym teacher can go have a party together. I like feeling comfortable in a weight room full of guys, knowing what I'm doing and how much weight I can handle.
So that brings me to today. I didn't sleep well last night, but I was still going to lift this afternoon. I wanted to focus on my legs and lower body, and the stabilized bar I usually use for squats was taken, so I tried a different machine, one that allowed lateral as well as vertical movement but still had safety stops. I was not used to being able to fall backwards, which, unfortunately, is just what happened. I took the fall ok, but my finger was caught in the sharp safety hook that is supposed to stop the weights. For some one as easily panicked at the sight of blood as I am, I have a decently delayed freak-out. I stood up, reset the weight, cleaned up the blood, wrapped my hand in a towel and got the first aid room. My hands were starting to shake and I was starting to cry. I hate crying, but it happens. The girls in the first aid room were sweet; they cleaned me up, offered me stitches, and gave me a bandaid when I declined. One girl told me that she prefers to lift on the smaller machines upstairs by the track and seemed to imply that I'd fit in better there, away from the "intense" weights in the room with all the guys. I bit my tongue because you don't piss off the person giving you first aid.
So by the time I hit the showers I was completely shaken up and even more upset with myself for first being foolish and then for overreacting. Why do I freak out at the sight of blood? I think that the disconnect between my reaction to this and self-injury I used to struggle with is the lack of control. An act that used to be all about regaining control of feelings and situations that were overwhelming is now the result of accident and mishap. So it isn't just a laceration, it's a flashback to being 15 and never feeling good enough to avoid the changing winds of my dad or stepmother's stormy moods or being 16 and convinced that my selfish, arrogant behavior had killed Josh, or any of the other dark moments that made me believe this was the only way to cope. So I get a little panicky. By the time I'm out of the shower I'm having a hard time breathing. Am I being vain, foolish, and overly emotional? All in one day?
Luckily, after a few minutes of deep breathing and a couple of new bandaids from the locker room clerk, I recovered. I'm still a little freaked out about the future and worried that planning on losing a few pounds before my sister's wedding seems to be about all of the ambition I'm capable of this week, and my finger hurts like hell, but I'm going to be OK. I wish I were tougher, that I never cried, that I wasn't so clumsy and that I could run the way I used to. I wish I were less vain and more focused on my studies, that I had a concrete goal I could explain and work toward. I will probably still have days where I feel overwhelmed by little things and I will probably still get hysterical at the sight of blood. So it goes.
For now I'm going to take a nap and read a book and finish my homework.
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