Judge not, lest ye fall into a self-hate spiral

In my little bubble of friends I can be me. They don’t judge me for drinking and telling them not to judge me. They accept my dorky sense of humor. They believe I am witty, even when I am just ridiculous, or so they say. They cheer me on when I lose weight and they tell me I am gorgeous even when I feel fat. I’m lucky. I’m blessed. I have a network of wonderful friends that builds me up every damn chance they get. They are so great at being supportive that I even believe them.

I feel pretty, witty, competent, intelligent, and most of all, worthy. I say this, because I want one thing clear, I have decent self-esteem.

So why then, am I a big ball of anxiety about having to meet Captain America’s friend’s wives? Not friends mind you, I am not worried about them, but friend’s wives. Seriously, I have been on the verge of tears all week because I am going to meet these girls on Friday. I wanted to bawl in the middle of Kohl’s because I couldn’t find any clothes that made me look great without looking like I was trying to look great. I spent a good fifteen minutes staring at my butt and the backs of my legs willing them to change before my very eyes.

Unsuccessfully mind you.

I bought a pair of shorts with the thought of, “If I tan enough maybe my cellulite won’t show.” How is it that a girl with decent self esteem can be completely overwhelmed by the thought of meeting other women? You note that it isn’t me, or my friends, or my guy, or even my guy’s friend’s opinions that I am  ready to cry over; but a group of unknown women. Women whom Captain America has assured me multiple times that their opinions don’t matter one lick to him. I am completely primed to cry over the thought of being judged imperfect by people who actually don’t affect me in any way.

Me. The girl who can pick up an entire bar full of guys without a problem. Me. The girl that doesn’t believe in appearance enough to even wear make up to work most days. Me. The girl that has this wonderful support network. Me. The girl ready to break down in the dressing room because I will never have thin calves or cellulite free thighs (maybe I could, but even in undergrad when you could see every rib and my thighs were fantastically toned I still had it, so I seriously doubt it).

I read an article today, http://www.rolereboot.org/life/details/2013-06-when-your-mother-says-shes-fat, the writer makes a very good point talking about those that have passed away. “I sometimes think about what these friends—and the people who love them—wouldn’t give for more time in a body that was healthy. A body that would allow them to live just a little longer. The size of that body’s thighs or the lines on its face wouldn’t matter. It would be alive and therefore it would be perfect.” Talk about perspective.

So, why exactly am I tanning myself into an early grave over a few bumps? Why am I worried over what strangers may think when I know that my loved ones would rather have me pale and bumpy than not at all? In short, where in the F has my head been at?

A few weeks ago I went to a concert and in an attempt to make conversation I joined in with the girls I was with during the hardcore judging of those around us. It was toxic. I have never been one to judge on appearance, but after finding flaws in others for about two hours all I can see in myself are my own flaws.

I don’t have the legs for shorts…

                I don’t have the calves for boots…

                                I don’t have the arms for tank tops…

                                                I don’t do my hair or make-up well…

                                                                My friends would let me out of the house wearing that too…

What in the seven hells is wrong with me? How can two hours hurt my psyche so much? I guess there was something else to that whole, “judge not lest ye be judged” thing. Who knew it applied here too? The worst part is, it isn't even being judged by others, my judging others led to me judging myself. In short, the more judge-y I got about others the lower my own self worth fell.

I do have a great smile.

                I do have good legs.

                                I do have good arms.

WTF is that internal voice talking about? Where does that voice even come from? It’s a liar. Tell that voice to sit and spin.

I am attractive, both mentally and physically.

                I am worthy of conversation and attention.

                                I am a fantastic freaking human being.

                     

    And so are you.

Look up and smile. Shine your light into the world. We all want to see it.

"Grown Up"

Periodically I do something that makes me feel particularly adult. Like calmly walking into Sears and buying a dryer, or spending my tax return on a vacuum cleaner. Seriously, I get so responsible and “nesty” that I almost panic and stare down strangers wondering if they realize I am some sort of an adult imposter that secretly eats macaroni and cheese and ice cream for supper. I make awkward eye contact with them and try to smile and look serene. Adults look serene, right? I am probably the creepy woman at the store glaring at the other patrons, imposing my mastery of maturity on them to cover up the fact that I want to skip out of the store and giggle like a middle schooler.

All I know is that a real adult probably doesn’t sit in her car and scream “I bought a dryer!” over and over to herself in the parking lot. She probably doesn’t call up her bff to tell her that she bought a dryer and whisper, “I feel so grown up. It’s incredible.” to her like someone talking about their first kiss.

Nor does a grown up lady stop vacuuming her floor at nine o’clock in the evening and say, “Self, you’re doing an awfully adult thing. Go you, with your responsibility and accomplishments! Wait, wait. Holy hell. I am a grown up. I don’t feel like a grown up. Do I want to be a grown up? Do I have a choice? Am I just caving to societal pressure to fit a certain gender mold? Do other grown ups periodically stop and panic about being gender molded grown up? Is this normal? Will I ever stop feeling like I am being a fake grown up? Am I going to be ninety calling J and whispering to her that I feel so grown up now that I broke a hip? Screw buying a dryer, this is where it is at! Probably. What about my conversation with V talking about buying grown up things. I am 27 should I really be amused when I can buy whatever I want anymore? Shouldn’t I have grown out of this by now? How responsible is it really to buy groceries and cleaning supplies. This is like when I reorganized my cabinets. I wonder if my mom ever had thoughts like this? Did my grandma? I can’t picture my grandma having thoughts like this because she was a REAL lady. Not like the imposter lady that I am. Crap it is almost ten I still have to mend those pants. F. I hate being a grown up.”

Upon much reflection this is what I think about being grown up: F this noise, I wanna play Barbie’s and eat chips.

Okay, okay, fine. Legal booze consumption and home ownership do have their advantages. But I have to wonder, will I ever feel like an adult or will this sense of playing house/dress up continue to pervade?

A Terrible Secret

I have a dangerous addiction that I am not proud of. I felt the need to share it with you in the hopes that the interwebz will show me a vast outpouring of love and support, but knowing that I am most likely just going to get judged and mocked.

But I don’t care. Because if anyone else struggles with this, If anyone else has this problem, well, they need to know that they aren’t alone.

Hello. My name is Lauren, and I am addicted to cereal.

I’m sure all of you know cereal, and it can be used recreationally with little to no harm. In fact cereal addiction is such a misunderstood problem that many companies don’t even warn you of the hazard. There is no warning on the boxes that it can become a problem. That is why I am here today, to bring this issue to light.

Are you like me? Incapable at stopping at a serving? At a bowl? Until you finish the box?

Do you eat cereal for breakfast, and pretend to eat healthy meals the rest of the day only to go home to that cardboard carton of delight? Maybe you try to say it is dinner. Maybe you try to call it dessert. The words you use to justify it don’t matter. We have a problem, and it is time that someone started talking about it.

So, how do you cope with your cereal addiction? Do you avoid the brightly colored aisle at the store? Buy only Grape Nuts or plain Total? You’re in a supportive and loving environment. Please feel free to share. I am thinking we should have a meeting with some sort of drum circle, and refreshments.

But if anybody brings a box of Honey Nut Oh’s to our support group please be warned I will have to confiscate them for your own safety. Actually, Lucky Charms too. And Honey Nut Shredded Wheat! Actually, if it has honey in it you should probably just hand it over. That stuff is like boxed crack.

Breakfast Wisdom

I love my grandpa, and I am blessed that I have him in my life in such an active way.

*insert photo montage of me as a kid learning how to make soap bubbles with him, him getting so aggravated with my math skills that he had to leave the room, a couple rocky years where I stole my grandma’s ashes from the house because his new wife was living there and I didn’t think grandma should have to share a roof with her, reconciliation, proud graduation pictures, repeat jerky making adventures, gardening, canning together, eating, drinking, laughing, etc. here*

He keeps ninja-ing me with free breakfast. Most days this is remarkably pleasant. I have an amazing relationship with him now. I love that my job gives me the flexibility to go and spend quality time over coffee and fried food. Yes. Fried food. They don’t serve anything that isn’t friend and covered in sugar. My diet is so screwed, but my grandpa is more important, which is why when this happened yesterday I went with it.:

Me: “Hmm it is 8:45, surely I can eat something.” Because I starve myself until the breakfast window is closed. “I’ll have some toast.” I freaking LOVE whole grain toast. It is a problem.

Two minutes elapse.

Grandpa walks in. “Well, I’m ready for breakfast.”

Me:“Dang grandpa! I just ate toast!”

Grandpa: “Well, it’s just toast. It would wear off soon anyway.” Gotta love his logic.

So, after replacing my toast with more toast, and eggs, and ham we were enjoying our third (or fifth) cup of coffee and discussing what makes the world go around when grandpa said something to the effect of “Your learning is the only thing that can’t be taken away.”

It struck me. It sounded a chord. Somewhere deep within my soul it resonated. Heaven opened up and angels sang. Or maybe the room getting shimmery was just the caffeine coursing through my system like a magnificent waterfall.

He was right. We had had similar conversations before, but they hadn’t stuck enough for me to wake up at four am dreaming about instilling such simple words of wisdom in the minds of the youth. (Yes. In my dreams I have the kind of awesome following that Allie from Hyperbole and a Half, or Jenny from TheBlogess have. I make a f***ing difference damnit. My words inspire people to live better lives!  [In related news I read a bunch of blogs yesterday, and reading blogs has the same affect on me that watching movies does. I’m going to shield bash someone’s face with my awesome humor and wit! Take that creepy Nazi guy that represents the difficulties many people have with understanding abstract ideas. I will beat you down and make things pertinent by God!])

Our minds, our experiences, our learning; those are the only things that we can take with us. Money, cars, all other objects can be taken away so quickly, but we as a culture keep building ourselves up with them rather than focusing on ourselves. And it is freaking tragic. Our skills, our personal knowledge, are the single most valuable thing that any one of us possesses. It is our contribution to the world. It is what gives us value when all of the other pretenses are stripped away, so why do we feed it so little? Why do we resent the act of learning? Why is it dirty? Every one of us has so much to offer the world with our gems of insight, so why do we smother their light with pillows of materialism?

I love a roof over my head and the food on the table too; don’t get me wrong. I’m am not a monk by any means.

Although, I have made a pact with myself to turn the tv on less, and to books, painting, friends, or Rosetta Stone more. I can say that since then I have amazed myself with the amount of things I accomplish in the time I would spend sucked in to Criminal Minds or NCIS reruns, and I am a lot less paranoid about a serial killer breaking into my house and abducting me in my sleep. I’m going to call that a win-win situation. (Seriously. I live in the middle of nowhere with three cats. When I’m not paranoid that Sasquatch is going to kill me on my parent’s driveway I’m paranoid that someone will break in. I have issues. And a 9mm. And a sword. Read as: Don’t break in to my house. I’m a little unstable, and I don’t respond well to surprises.)

Just a hundred years ago most people didn’t have electric lights, they didn’t have a steady supply of food from a store, they didn’t have cars, but they had their minds and they had each other. Don’t lose sight of the things that have given value to our ancestors from day one. Don’t lose sight of your own value while oohing and ahhing at the stuff that others have amassed. Don’t lose sight of your mind. All your things can be taken away, you can be imprisoned, but your awareness is the one thing that is yours to the end. Love it. Love yourself (even your irrational Sasquatch fears. They give you character, and everyone loves character.)

Well, it is after nine now. I think I’m going to go risk eating toast.

<3

Television Dreams

Do you ever do that thing where you watch a movie and suddenly you feel the impulse to be like the lead character? Hell yeah, Captain America! I’m gonna get a shield and bash some Nazis! I continuously see things and I’m like, “I can do that. Why couldn’t I be Captain America?” and it takes me days to convince myself that getting a garbage can lid and a mask to fight crime and corruption is actually a bad plan. Though this case my inspiration is that chick from Freedom Writers.

My thoughts: Wow, that lady is so inspirational. I bet I could do that. I’d make a really cool teacher. All my students would call me Miss Z (because Miss L or Miss R just sound dumb, and the letter Z is my favorite letter to write in cursive) and we could learn things and I’d make them engaged and they’d love me. I bet I could even do it with inner city kids. They’d be all angsty and stuff in the beginning, but I’d get through to them and be a teaching hero. I would make things applicable, like Shakespeare. The other teachers would be like, “We can’t get through to them! They hate classic literature!" And they’d keep trying to make them read it like:

"O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
[Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy: Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? It is nor hand nor foot, Nor arm nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O be some other name! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.”

But I would be smarter than that. I’d make it applicable. I would be like:

“O Romeo, Romeo why the F*** are you Romeo? Tell your dad to screw off so you aren’t a F***ing Montague anymore. Or, if you’re too chicken shit to do that, marry me you lazy SOB and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

[Aside] Shit, that bitch found out. Should I take my ass chewing now, or later?

It’s your F***ing family that is my enemy. You are so much more, not just a damned Montague. What the hell is a Montague anyway? It isn’t your hand or your foot, or face, or any other part of your totally hot body. God, I wish you had a different last name! What the hell is with a name anyway? A rose smells good no matter what the F*** you call it. So, you’d still be banging hot even if you weren’t a damn Montague. Ugh! Romeo, give up your damned last name, it isn’t really that important anyway, and in return I will give you the night of your life.”

The kids would get it, and they’d all nod and smile because someone got through to them; because someone finally CARED enough to bastardize Shakespeare for them. They’d love me and all of them would attain better things because of my presence in their lives.

Then I would die tragically in a gang war; because my shield isn’t made of cool bullet proof metal like Captain America’s and I can’t fight corruption with it, but I would still try.

Which is why I really shouldn’t watch TV. Ever.

I might have a problem with personifying things too much.

Carlito entered the world on a cool summer night; but he was empty, listless. He didn’t have a path or a purpose. He questioned the meaning of his life. What was he here to do? What did his maker will him to accomplish? As he wandered the streets he felt hollow and ashamed, as many of us have while we too experienced crises of faith. He felt called to a greater purpose, but to what? What direction should his paper mache hooves take him? Sometimes he envied his friends. They stuffed themselves full of candy, trying to fill the void that they couldn’t explain. Was it healthy, this lifestyle? Was it right to mask the emptiness with something, anything; as long as they did not have to feel hollow and alone? Most days Carlito would have said yes, as he sought some greater meaning to his life, but on others he would sigh and merely say, “Perhaps.” You see, when he was honest with himself, Carlito envied them their satiation; however empty they truly still were.

One day all of that changed. Carlito saw her. The woman that changed his life. In an instant he knew a love so complete, so enveloping that he would give everything he had to make her smile. He would charge through fire to bring her laughter. He would wade through the world’s oceans a hundred times to bring her even the smallest bit of pleasure. And in that instant he knew, though it shocked him to his very soul, that he would die to give her joy.

The woman, his angel, shared her burdens with him. She filled him to the brim with her hopes and dreams and fears. He bore them for her, even as he bore the precious bottles she had given him to carry. At last he knew completeness. At last he had fulfillment. He knew friendship the likes of which he had not even imagined could have existed before. For too short a time they went everywhere together. They took photos. They visited faraway places. They explored beaches. They dreamed, and they LIVED.

But joy is a fleeting thing. It is a sad state of the human condition that change must come for good or for ill. Pure happiness much be seized in the moment and cherished in the memory of those that go on. Every week, every day, every moment brings changes that can alter our lives in unforeseen ways. So it was for Carlito. In one moment he and his lady love were dancing on the beach. In the next, a group of thugs came. He put himself between them and her. His only thought for her safety, and the safety of the burdens she had placed on him, in him. How could she go on without those things? He had to protect her! He had to try to save her! But how? He yelled for her to run, but she did not. She stood and watched as the group advanced. They beat him. They tore him apart. They took the bottles from his remains with glee. Carlito looked at her. He begged her to turn, to not watch. Instead she knelt and took a bottle. She uncorked it and put it to her lips. She looked at the group and laughed. He searched her eyes, traces of sadness were there, yes. But so was joy. Carlito heaved his last breath.

Peace and redemption comforted his soul. His life had been short, and brutal, but he had brought joy to the one he loved. He had made the world a better place, however briefly. As his soul lifted upward and heavenly music filled his ears he realized that there really is no better accomplishment than that.

His name was Carlito. He was a piñata. A piñata with a belly bull of liquor minis, and a heart full of love. His quest? Share his love and boozy bounty with the world.

You too can achieve your nightmares! I mean dreams! Dreams!

I did it. This weekend I achieved one of my lifelong dreams. You know those dreams that haunt you? Day after day? Night after night? Pushing you? Pursuing you like a hunted stag? Those dreams that motivate you on a core level?

I attained one of those. Yes. I did it. I fell through a barn. Again. What do you mean that isn’t a dream? You have never had that dream where you fall through a barn floor? What is that? Oh, a nightmare you say? Psh. Nightmares are dreams too. Don’t be a hater. You have your goals. I have mine.

You’re just jealous because I achieved something glamorous. Bruises are considered glamorous, right?

Saturday was supposed to be Farrier day at Prinrock Farms. Farrier day is a magical day from hell that involves gathering up every single horse and having a farrier give them the equivalent of an equine pedicure. For the most part this isn’t bad. Generally 23 horses out of 26 are good. They are catchable and they don’t fight too much, but oh when the hellions decide to fight it is a sight to see. Anyone who thinks people kicking or smacking their horse around is abusive should really observe what they will do to themselves and each other when they are in a pissy mood.

Let me tell you, a horse is a half cocked gun. Take Luna for example, she can be the most docile thing ever, but Heaven help us all if she is PMSing. She can clear a six foot tall fence from a standstill and cause concussions with the best of them. I watched Dreamer break two halters and her own face rather than allow herself to be tied. They’re nuts. They’re exquisitely beautiful creatures, but they are nuts. Anyways, between Luna trying to prove herself the world’s best jumper, Joey picking your pockets and wandering away with any tools that aren’t tied down, and Barbie being the wild mountain horse who will never be touched! Never!!!! Farrier day is one of the days that I look at with trepidation.

So, at 7:30 ON A SATURDAY I already knew the day would not be in my top ten. Then the farrier was late. Then he was an hour late. Then we realized he wasn’t coming, which made life suck for a variety of reasons.

1.       I had been up at 7am on a SATURDAY for nothing.

2.       I had a pen full of agitated horses that I somehow had to feed without them beating each other up too much. This pen would also get grosser and grosser with every passing moment. So I would have to wade through a foot of muck rather than six inches when I eventually tried to capture them. Lovely.

3.       I had made a big deal out of being busy all day with Boyfriend the night before. Now I was no longer busy, and my entire argument that had been emotionally charged and ineffective to begin with was void. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

What to do with a free Saturday? Call Boyfriend and eat crow? Can? Winterize my yard? Clean house? Clean barn? Do laundry? Sleep? Relax?

None of the above. I got wrangled into helping my dad clean out my grandpa’s barn. Which is good because a good wind could knock it over, and my grandpa does not need to be wandering around in it, so I’m glad that I was there, but did I mention a good wind could knock this thing over? Danger! Danger!

Naturally I am selected for the job of retrieving items from across the loft floor. It only makes sense. I am the least useful of the group. It’s like in a horror movie. You know someone is going to die, and you know it is going to be the ditzy blond chick because she contributes the least to the well being of the party. I was cannon fodder. They said it was because I was the lightest, but I know the truth. So I was like, “Hey! Okay!” and “Is this a bad time to tell you guys I have been having dreams about falling through barn floors again?” Chirp, chirp went the crickets. “Hey, Lauren. Why don’t you start by gathering up all the jars and glass [from over there on the sketchy side of the barn]?” Seriously, take the flashlight. Go down the hall alone. It’ll be cool. There isn’t certain doom down there. That’s just bad lighting.

So I collect jars, crocks, and giant wooden things like the good girl that I am. I’m creeping from floor joist to floor joist, spreading my weight out the best that I can on the termite riddled wood. I was practically belly crawling along to reach some of these jars and other mystery objects. Most mystery objects being made of cast iron and appearing to be tools of some sort that I couldn’t identify. My grandpa has some cool stuff. Some cool, HEAVY stuff. A few hours pass. We uncover two glass display cases, because every barn has two antique glass display cases in it for grain and things, right? We found a cider press. Who doesn’t keep one of those laying around? There were also some old chairs, an engine, a steam engine, a tractor, a seed box, thousands of strawberry cartons (WHY?!?!?!?!), planters, enough canning jars to make me ache with jealousy (Really. They are about $10 a box. I have bought about $50 worth of them recently. When I could have just come rummaging…AGH!), and those are just the things I could identify. American Pickers would probably jizz all over themselves if they saw my grandpa’s barns. The point is, I got cocky.

At some point in the barn’s past someone had laid down plywood over the floor in places. This gave me a sense of security. Nothing could harm me. I couldn’t see the broken and decaying boards. They weren’t there! The floor was strong. It was plywood. I laughed in the face of decaying boards! Ahahahah-AHHHH! Yup. The plywood gave out. Dad and grandpa were nowhere around, and I was stuck with one leg through a barn floor sprawled out amongst a pile of shattered glass. ‘Cause of course I had been holding glass. It wouldn’t have been nearly intense enough if I hadn’t been holding glass.

So, I’m chilling there with one leg through the floor, wondering how on earth I’m going to extract myself, when the total absurdity of the situation hits. Seriously, how many people get to achieve a lifelong dream TWICE? TWICE!!?!?! And I’m still young. Think about it. At this rate I am falling through a barn once every ten years. Actually it is freakishly close to being exactly ten years. Assuming that my penchant for freakish accidents will continue, I will fall through barns an estimated six more times. This experience was significantly less traumatic than before, so theoretically I will survive all six falls and perish of more natural causes. That is achieving my dream an anticipated 8 times over the course of my life! Can you believe that? Talk about a goal! Man, I am so lucky!