coping and moping.

Most of my social interactions revolve around me:

 

1. Hastily building a facade of calm so that I don't look like a total spaz.

2. Failing immediately at that venture.

3. Asking about a million questions to take the pressure off of myself.

(4) And/or drinking quite a lot and hastily skipping from topic to topic with much passion and enthusiastic hand gestures for each, albeit fleetingly, as I no longer have any semblance of an attention span.

 

 

 

Which is probably why sitting on my front porch yesterday evening, after the horrifying debacle of losing quite a bit of my current writing, with a novel whilst (on an empty stomach, of course) consuming approximately eight cans of leftover cheap beer from my recent camping weekend was, basically, a perfect night.

 

Until Matt got home from working a very long day around 7:45 to find me quite drunk and not at all packed for the weekend away we're departing on in approximately three hours. Two of which will be spent at my desk, at work.

 

God love him.

 

sorry i'm not sorry.

This morning I was typing a response email to one of my best friends when I realized it was becoming a bit of a rant. Now let me be clear, I am the queen of the rant. Give me a subject and I will find a way to go on and on about it forever. So,  that part was not alarming or unusual- But as I skimmed back over my response I realized this was a rant centered at the wrong person and somewhat misplaced.

 

And I think one of the reasons why I'm so incredibly frustrated right now finally hit me.

 

Guilt.

 

I feel it acutely, about everything. Almost constantly.

 

Let me also point out that I am also one of the most empathetic, considerate, understanding people I know. I am accommodating. Yes, I will listen to your side of the story even if I'm running late. Sure, let's take care of your to-do list first. I can make mine up later. NO, don't worry about it, I don't want to inconvenience you.

 

It wasn't until after I typed these couple of paragraphs that I realized this may be a problem. or I may be onto something:

 

 

I'm looking forward to moving to Montana and being my own boss without guilt. Without guilt from my parents, from my siblings, my friends, from Matt, from random people I know that I see around randomly, etc. FUCK everyone. I feel guilty every second of every day for things I do and things I don't do, and for just BEING. For wanting what I want. For needing what I need.

I need to get away from whatever is causing me to feel this way, and right now, it's everyone.

Yesterday I almost didn't put an Obama sticker that I got for free on my car because I got to thinking and I didn't want to offend anyone at work or my parents or Matt. Why do I feel any guilt whatsoever for what I believe is right? I'm not being abrasive about it. It's a stupid sticker! I support this person! Why can't I express that? They sure as fuck don't feel any guilt about cutting my ideas down. I have worked for that man tirelessly the past TWO ELECTIONS and I'm educated and informed and I give a fuck. Why should I ever, EVER feel guilty? Still. I do. For being different. For not being able to see what they see. For caring and getting upset when they tell me I'm wrong.

Sorry, I'm getting kind of emotional.

But honestly, one of the top three emotions I feel daily is guilt. And I'm so tired. It exhausts me.

So you know, Montana won't solve all my problems. But I think it will let me mend myself. I think it will let me DO THINGS and think things and live without being totally overwhelmed around every corner by guilt. I hope so much that it will teach me that I am okay. I am fine. I am not wrong for being the way that I am. I need to learn how to pursue my own interests again for the sake of enjoyment. I need to learn that my own enjoyment isn't something that should make me feel guilt.


Somehow, even when I'm not religious I'm still so goddamn Catholic.

 

Sure, sometimes I make decisions are are stupid and I deserve to feel guilty about them. As compassionate as I am capable of being, I am equally able to be selfish and bitchy when the mood strikes.

 

But I feel like I have to squelch who I am and apologize for that person almost constantly.

 

In truth, I like the person that I am.

 

I like myself. I said it. I'm not sorry.

 

That said, as much as I hate admitting I'm wrong, I know when I do something inconsiderate. At those times, feeling guilty is a mechanism that helps bring me back to myself, it's a meter of how far I've strayed from the person I strive to be. It's uncomfortable, but it's a feeling that reminds me that I care, that I'm human, that I made the wrong decision. In those times, I'm grateful for my ability to feel guilt. For the way I can reel myself back.

 

 

But right now, the meter is broken. Constant guilt is making me question the person that I am and doubt the person that I've always tried to be. And in turn, I feel guilty for doubting myself. So what we have is one overflowing, steamy, disgusting pile of guilt.

 

And I don't know what to do about it.

 

vanity.

No one is on gchat and I still have an hour left at work and I'm about to do something drastic. (after work, of course)

 

With my hair.

 

So I mean, hair can really only be so drastic unless you're Britney Spears circa 2007, but still.  And by then did anyone really care anymore anyway? I know I didn't. Sorry Brit.

 

By drastic I mean I'm possibly going to get a very unflattering bob-type short cut. It's flattering on other people, but the chances it will be flattering on me are what I'm more concerned about. Which, I know I've been growing my hair out for two fucking years or whatever and it's a waste and it looks really goddamn good in a fishtail braid these days, like viral on pinterest good, but come on. my hair is not growing. Maybe it's not meant to be long. It certainly doesn't want to be any longer than it is now. I've tried. I'm sick to death of trying. I want a change. Pronto. 

 

So you now, a shaggy bob would be a change. I know I'm not really thin enough to pull off this kind of hair cut for the most flattering effects and I lament that fact, but I can only care so much when I've basically already made up my mind. Plus being thin is never really one of the drives for any choices that I make in life. Honestly. I can convince myself that it will be motivation to starve or eat healthier or something but that's not really the point. Since it's not really something I'm ultimately worried about.

 

The point is that I'm bored with my hair and I'm going to possibly do something drastic.

 

I'm at the point right this second where I hate literally everything that I have to wear on top of that. It's normally not an issue but today it's an issue. It's because I'm a spoiled brat, probably, but it's a little late to change at this point.

 

I'm sincerely tempted to go home and place all of my clothes in trash bags and drop them off at Goodwill. Except for my 'Hank Williams Jr Tour 1984' tee shirt that I bought at some hispter thrift store in Wicker Park on credit for waaaaaay too much money even though I couldn't afford it. Because it was an investment and it's a conversation piece and I'm keeping that shit forever. I'll also probably keep several dresses, including a vintage Dolce and Gabbana that I found in a tiny boutique up near our old lake house that I've worn to every occasoin that requires thurough gussying up ever since. That shit was expensive too and it hugs my curves perfectly whether I'm ten up or ten down on the 'feel good about myself' scale. Consequently both garments are black, which coincides well with my new years resoluations for the year. I've also drank spectacular amounts of champagne in both items, which I take as another sign that they need to stay.

 

 

But everything else has to go. Even that turquiose fleece with the bright yellow zipper pull that's two sizes too large in men's, which I practically camp out in all winter. I love that thing. To death. But today, I would toss it into a trashbag with the rest.

 

I sincerely hope matt has the good sense to hide the trashbags before I get home. And actually hide them so I can't find them by just looking in a different cabinet or maybe even lock them in his car or something. because today I'm not fucking around. I want to purge my entire closet.

 

And I can't really afford to buy new clothes and the Dolce dress will only be acceptable so many days in a row and it's probably frowned upon to show up to work in old ratty tshirts or nothing at all.

 

Plus. i'm already going to look whacked out enough after I get through chopping my hair to hell.

how to piss yourself off.

 Ponder the compartmentalization of your emotions in the shower. Wonder if you actually feel anything for anyone. Lament the fact that no one you've ever been super close to has died tragically. Feel instant guilt.

 

Compartmentalize it.

 

Remember yesterday in your cubicle. The married dude with the new baby walked by your desk. Remember the instant you realized this had spurred you to fix and fuss over your hair. You don't even like that guy. And he didn't even look over at you.  He probably listens to Dave Matthews.  And remember that time he showed up in front of you with an ultrasound picture like a year ago and thrust it at you without saying anything?

 

Awkward.

 

He never makes a fresh pot of coffee when he pours himself the rest. Rude. Annoying.

 

You don't want to be the type of woman who primps because people are looking at her. Or even at the prospect of someone looking at you.

 

No one is looking at you.

 

Wonder if catching yourself in the act makes you more or less self aware than the people around you. Arrive at the conclusion of more.

 

Feel a little pleasure at this conclusion.

 

Realize you've just wasted your time thinking about this, when you should have been thinking about any of the 2383897 more pressing issues in your life.

 

Worry instead about the wrinkles you contributed to by squinting the way you always do when thinking about yourself unfavorably.

 

Arrive at yet another conclusion, you're vain.

 

And you annoy yourself.

 

Happy Thursday.

 

 

irrational hatred!

If you've read my blog for any amount of time, you've probably been able to surmise that my life is basically a constant struggle of finding a way to accept how fucking weird it is to be human while simultaneously taking everyone for what they have to offer with that idea in mind.... with a positive attitude. Basically, I'm shooting to be an accepting type.

 

 

Work in progress. 

 

 

Key word : PROGRESS. 

 

 

But that in no way means that I'm not a total asshole (um, duh) and so today I'm going to embrace that fact by sharing five things that I have an irrational hatred toward. Don't get me wrong, I hate lots and lots more things, but I'm going for irrational things, so basically stuff most people aren't bothered by or actually like.... sorry if I offend. But if you're offended, you're also wrong in my eyes, so there's that.  

 

 

 

1. Lenny Kravitz.

 

 

When I originally decided to write this post, it was because "American Woman" came on the radio on my drive home last night and I punched the power button as fast as I could, but I was already seething. That's how quickly Lenny Kravitz can ravage a decent mood.  Why? Because I hate the fuck out of Lenny Kravitz. For no reason, which only makes my loathing even stronger. Irrational hatred doesn't need a tether like 'cause' because it is self sustaining and viral.

 

 

2.  Emoticons

 

 

I'm an emotional person who believes in displays of sentiment. Yet, my hatred for emoticons knows no bounds. There is no logical explanation for me visibly shuddering every time I get a winky face via text/email/facebook, yet there is no escaping it. I mind this transgression most at work where it's totally unprofessional and unnecessary and least when it's by one of my friends doing it on purpose to get a rise out of me. But generally, I feel a low-grade revulsion toward it at all times.

 

 

3. Raisins

 

 

I have not eaten a raisin in 15 years, a fact of which I am perversely proud. Around age ten, I started spreading the word that I was 'allergic' to raisins among my friend's parents every time I was offered them as a snack. Being a generally unfussy child in the eyes of most of my friend's parents, this claim was never questioned or disputed and I still have no idea why. Who the hell is allergic to raisins?! In reality, I simply hate them.  I refuse to eat anything that wrinkly and shriveled and that's probably the basis for my hatred for raisins.

 

 

4. Running into people I know, even most of my friends, in public.

 

 

There are probably five people I could run into in public without warning that I'd be genuinely happy to see. Mostly, I fucking hate it. It's not that I don't love my friends, but because honestly, I'm really, really awkward and anxiety-laden in the public setting. Like, if I'm at Target, I know what every person in a twenty foot radius is looking at and I'm hyper-aware if they so much as glance at me. It's kind of pathetic. So when I run into someone I know,  I go through this internal battle of whether or not to say hi, then if we should hug or shake hands or awkwardly side-wave- and then if we actually engage, how long we should talk, what if they're in a hurry? Am I in a hurry? What if one of us is buying something embarrassing? Why are we not here together? Is this the place I want to catch up? No.  If I'm not included in this plan, seeing them and engaging feels like some sort of intrusion for us both, even if I was going to tell them about it later. I don't know what's wrong with me. I swear I'm charming in social settings. But chance encounters with people I know? I hate them.

 

 

 

5.  The "What do you want for dinner?" conversation

 

 

Holy hell do I hate this question, and it happens almost five days a week between 5:03 and 5:15. As soon as I hear it come out of Matt's mouth, the entire tone of the conversation changes in my mind. Because honestly, I don't give a rat's ass what's for dinner as long as I'm not the one making it. This conversation has been known to cause prolonged silences and ruin entire evenings. I get it, to most people it's a really considerate question, but to me it has become a call to battle that becomes a stand-off with neither one of us willing to make a concrete suggestion or decision. I just don't want to pick. I will eat literally everything (except raisins, teehee) and Matt is the pickiest eater known to man, so why would this decision ever, EVER fall on me? Yes, I realize it's totally irrational and bitchy for me to get this upset about a polite question, but it's SO MUCH MORE than just a question to me, and also, this is a list of irrational hatred, obviously. If it was up to me, I'd throw together a salad or eat toast and eggs or a fucking hot pocket every night. That's right, a hot pocket. There, I said it.

 

 

 

for shame.

I hit a door last night. The linen closet door.

In frustration.

I mean, I really smacked the fuck out of that thing.

I've got a bit of a temper, but usually it takes a a lot to get me worked up, and then I start hollering and carrying on nonsensically. Occasionally, I cry. Frustration is one of the only things that makes me cry.

But I never hit things.

I've been known to bust bottles and tip things over for fun, to blow off some steam. Not because I'm pissed,  but because I'm being rebellious, because I don't give a damn, because it thrills me. Because it makes me feel young.

Hitting things, there's no thrill in that. Just impact. The sound is not even as impressive as busting glass. Hitting things doesn't make me feel less frustrated, I found out. It makes me feel even less in control.

I'm on a short fuse lately.

It takes nothing to set me off.

You know why I threw that tantrum? Because that's what it was, a tantrum. I threw it, I hit that damn door because Matt was taking out his contacts and I told him I had to go to the bathroom. I told him and told him and he thought I was playing around, which I wasn't. So he decided to trim his mustache.

Slowly.

Really rub it in that he was taking as long as possible. Messing around with me. He thought it was all just fun and games.

And I had to pee.

And I was not in the opinion that this was fun and games.

I maybe could have held it. Probably, I'm not a toddler.

But instead, I couldn't get him to take me seriously in my pleas, so I took out my aggression on a door frame.

Hard.

And last night we went to bed not speaking to one another. Over something so incredibly stupid that I cannot even make sense of it.

 

I need to get a grip.

i guess i'm home.

When I moved back to Indianapolis, I knew in my heart it was totally temporary.

I never planned to stay. I didn't bother establishing a routine, try to make more friends than I already had scattered around the city, learn any new ways to get around,  find any cool spots to hang out, or get involved with anything bigger than my 9-5, getting drunk with my girlfriends, and hanging out with my family.

I was essentially one step away from vacation mode, a stranger, a passerby.


And that was fine, because I never had any intention of staying, I had no reason to establish more roots, create a network (professional or social) or get myself involved in ventures I'd just have to walk away from when I figured out where I was going, because I WAS going SOMEWHERE else, damn it.

Except that was my life for two years prior to that move to Indianapolis.

And I've been here a year and a half.

Now, this isn't a rant against being a tourist in your own town, exploring places you've never been, eating at new restaurants, or wandering some hidden suburb- those things are wonderful.

This is about just passing through a place every day without acknowledging and accepting that this pit stop is actually your home now- and that even scarier, that big move to somewhere more exciting could just not come anytime soon.

Over a year ago now, four months into my move to Indy, I wrote a very long, desperate, and heart felt letter to my best friend, essentially begging him to give us a shot. That I was finally really ready, after all those years of waiting and waiting and being patient with me and giving up, that it was basically the only thing that really made sense to me anymore. It was fucking draining and humbling to get down on paper. Then I sent it, got extremely drunk, and avoided checking my email for a few days.

What I didn't realize then was that was the moment that the tables also started to turn, I was just ignoring them and choosing to eat on the floor or in front of the tv, or throwing a blanket over some grass and calling it a picnic. Because, fuck tables.

He may have taken me with open arms, but it took months until I realized I was still living in tourist mode, but with a relationship, and it wasn't working too well.

I sat back and realized that now all those things I'd been avoiding? They were happening anyway, I just didn't realize it because I was wearing my "I'm getting the FUCK out of here ASAP" badge so proudly, and it was starting to hurt the people in the HERE and NOW.

So I forced myself to stop researching every other city that seems great in the US and abroad and started paying a little  more attention to my own, which is good because I feel less like my eyes are constantly darting every which way trying to figure out where I can flee to next. I started running, finding new places and paths to run that I'd never tried before. I chewed my lips and hemmed and hawed, but finally allowed myself to move all my belongings to one central location, a home, instead of thrown carelessly about here and there in various locations.  I got involved in local politics and I'm signing up for art classes at a studio near where I live.

And I'm mentoring girls for an organization I've fallen in love with. My first session is today and I'm excited and nervous and decidedly... content.


I'm still not sure what I want to be when I grow up or where I'll land when I figure it out, but I think maybe I was getting it wrong with my vagabond state of mind, maybe I need a bit of stability to help me figure out where I'm going. Maybe I need to be involved in a community, to really love it, to become the kind of person that another community wants to have.


So Indianapolis, I'm home, and you're stuck with me for now.


Maybe you need to be the one to tell me when my time here is up and not the other way around.



Touche.


Xo Sara 

stuck.

Sorry about the lack of posting and all.

 

I've just been tearing through every word Tana French has ever written (that I can feasibly get my hands on) and doing everything I possibly can to avoid tackling the ever-growing mountain of my clothes piling up on the bedroom floor since Manfriend and I kicked Hally out of the master bedroom and moved our stuff in.

 

Yeah, we were sleeping in the tiny second bedroom. It's a long story. The fact of the matter is that the closets aren't switched over yet, and hopefully I'll get a gust of energy this week that forces me to take care of it. I'm not a betting woman, either way.

 

In an effort to keep the restlessness bubbling up inside me from boiling over and scorching everything in sight, I've been a flurry of nesting and thrifting and antiquing. It's getting expensive, but I'll fill your head with another empty promise of pictures soon. Pictures, soon. I promise. I'm trying. It's just that we don't exactly have internet right now. Yes, we have satellite, but no internet. I have to go back to casa del parentals for that kind of luxury.

 

We DO have a washer and dryer now, though!!!!!!!! YAY DOMESTIC THINGS.

 

 

I don't cook.  

 

The meat and potatoes of it is that I feel weird. Yes, I always feel weird, but I guess I feel weirdly off.

 

 

Not long ago, I felt like I couldn't go one night a week without seeing one of my girlfriends for one reason or another. Impromptu cook-outs, a quick drink after work, a jog or a trip to the store- it seemed like there was always a posse around.

 

 

Not anymore.

 

 

Now, it's official.

 

 

Erin and I are the only two left in this city, including the greater outlying area, and to be honest I never imagined I'd be one of the last two standing.

 

I've got a gal pal in Korea, one in Kenya, two gone to the east coast and even more that have shipped out west. We're spreading, exactly what I always expected to happen with any group of friends I made. I've always been ready and willing to deploy the shards of my heart to all the corners of the world in the name of a grand adventure for the ones I love, and now it's happened in spades and I don't quite feel like myself.

 

I'm grateful to be able to surround myself (even at the distance) with women who aren't just unafraid to pack a bag and raise their face to the breeze and set off to wherever the destination may be, but who crave it. I wouldn't have it any other way. But for me this time, watching it all happen and knowing I'm staying here, for however long it turns out to be until it's my turn for another grand run of the adventure track, just seems however TOO long.

 

Sure I can plan trips wherever, a weekend in Chicago, a few days back in the old college town, even a week in a place I've never been, but for me there's nothing as scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs wonderful as the rush of adrenaline that comes with watching everything you built your life around fade into the scenery. Those terrifying moments where the line between 'Too late to turn back now' and 'I could totally pretend I never really planned on doing this in the first place if I wanted to' start blurring into each other and in the back of your mind you can just see yourself falling. It's the moment when you're far enough away that suddenly everything coming into focus holds the immeasurable potential to shape the whole next segment of your life. Could this be the destination for this new adventure?

 

I can just see myself at that stage. Gas-station sunglasses, friendly-fighting with Manfriend over who has to eat the orange and green gummy worms, daring him to eat all the sugar at the bottom of the bag. My hand reaches out for the volume knob and I give him a devilish grin as I crank it up much higher than he deems necessary. It doesn't matter where we're going, we're on our way. Happy.

 

I'm not sulking, really I'm not. I know my chance will come whether it takes another 200 fitful nights of sleep or 20.

 

But it doesn't change the fact that it's simply not today, and that I'm the one who's been left this time with the usual, the routine, the familiar- and they're the one's who are getting the opportunity to have their minds blown wide-open with new.

 

Be back sooner than later.

 

XO Sare

 

in my defense.

I learned early on to stand up for myself. That I needed to defend myself, because no one else will.


I'm not saying that in a jaded or cynical way, I'm just saying that there comes a point when your mommy and daddy can't always swoop and and save you from that girl in the locker room telling anyone who will listen that you were flirting with her boyfriend in math class or even your teammates from alluding that you don't try hard enough at practice. Besides, I never really wanted that kind of help from my parents.


And in my family, everyone is constantly messing with one another in an attempt to get a rise out of them.


In a loving way?


Maybe sometimes. But honestly, most of the time it doesn't feel that way.


I wouldn't say I was raised by wolves, but I was certainly brought up in a way that encouraged thick skin and making your point louder than the other person.


I'm an incredibly defensive person.


It takes a precious little to put me on the defensive. And when I sense the other person pushing back, it's a full-on battle. I feel powerless to stop it once it starts. Once I'm taken from my easy-going world of quick laughter to explaining loudly every rational step in my own mind that lead me to this. exact. point. I can't go back and tell myself to just let it go.


I just can't.
I have done things in my life that have certainly merited explanation and being humbled. I've made choices that my parent's support can be described as begrudgingly at best. I've fallen on my face and been forced to learn hard lessons fast. Ideologically, I've gone against my ultra-conservative, proper, keeping-up-appearances, perfectly-manicured-lawn-in the-'burbs, Catholic upbringing by getting a Women's Studies degree, organizing labor unions, smoking and trying recreational drugs,  doing extensive liberal political campaign work, and getting a tattoo. But I've never really pushed the envelope past a certain point because I have my limits and I know who I am.


And all in all, I really, really like myself.


I'm not perfect, but I'm trying. I pay my bills, I eat vegetables, I water my flowers,  I read books, I blow-dry and curl my hair every morning. I'm not the beacon of responsibility, but I make it to work on time. I honor my commitments, I finish what I start.


The conversation that I had last night with my parents about moving in together with Manfriend didn't go over well, because from the start, they made jabs that put me on the defensive and made me feel like I was openly defying their best intentions for me. As if I don't know what works for me or what will make me happy. I'm still reeling from how disrespected I felt last night having this conversation, this argument that was more of a heads-up and less what I thought of as an opportunity for discussion, but turned into a roast session of my shortcomings in their eyes for the past ten years.


Today I feel tired.


And defensive.


And I'm still moving in with Manfriend.


As if that fact wasn't terrifying enough without their support.  


Xo Sara

my honest thoughts on being skinny

I've got a confession: I still buy and read Glamour if I feel any affinity to the lady on the cover when passing by in the grocery check-out line. I don't know any other woman in my life that still buys any magazines like it. Whatever. I love the pictures and the colors and its glossy play on a pretty life, what life could look like. If I was richer, skinnier, and had a smaller nose.

While I wish I'd turn to Time, or even Newsweek, the truth is that in my precious moments of alone time, I usually don't. Which is fine because although it's true that the media shapes how we feel about ourselves and what we think we should look like from our earliest pony-tailed, sticky-fingered memories, it's also kind of tells me "Fuck YEAH, you are powerful. This is right within your reach." And sometimes, feeling powerful and seeing the world as a place brimming with beauty is What. I. Need.

But the magazine thing is kind of problematic too, because, you see, I have a degree in women's studies. I am supposed to be a better feminist. I'm supposed to be leading the next women's movement into battle for reproductive rights, dealing a shattering blow to that ever-present glass ceiling, showing young girls that we can and SHOULD give those glossy beauty magazines the middle finger and CREATE a beautiful that is realistic and more importantly, truly who we are and what makes each of us feel beautiful. INDIVIDUALLY. No more boxes and unfair compartmentalizations 

Which I do make a conscious effort to do, most of the time.

And not to toot my own horn, but I'm kind of a babe, anyway. A curvy one, with brains, an unexplainable driving force toward politics and making the world less hateable and hate-filled, and a sometimes overbearing snark level. Usually,  I get quite a kick out of myself.

But truth is that even the days when I feel most powerful and smart and able revolve around when I also feel like I look the part. And the part is flawless, and skinny.  Neither of which is realistically attainable for my body. Which never made me feel less beautiful before, well, now.

What's happened here? I am five foot nine inches tall. I wear a size eight. Sooooooometimes, on a reaaaaalllllllly skinny day, I'll slide into those size sixes and strut the SHIT out of it. Safely, size eight. I've been known to delve into double digits, too. You know, when need be. Winter blues and the like.

I am also easily the heaviest, tallest, BIGGEST person in my core group of girlfriends. And as much as I hate to admit it, it's REALLY been fucking with my self-image lately. You see, because there's nothing like a slim size-two putting herself down and making self-loathing comments about every pictures of herself, when you yourself are six sizes larger. 


You begin to wonder, "Does that mean that I'm fat?"


'No darling, you're lovely, look at that hair today, and your ass, work itttt!',  would be the healthy response. But lately, I've got nothing but negative for myself. 

I was the kid who spent more time in a revolving door-spin of doctors and 'tests' than middle school dances, as a result of not being able to put on any weight despite eating everything in sight, I know that skinny isn't something we always get to choose. But it is what we are told is ideal, healthy, even when it's not, so being stuck as a stick will probably get you fewer judgy stank-eyes than being stuck being heavy. That said, I know that side of the spectrum, and I'm not ragging on svelte ladies or voluptuous ladies or anyone in between. I'm ragging on bad feelings at EVERY size. And how I hardly ever meet another woman who feels "Just right" about their weight. Not that I'm taking a survey.

Now that I'm older, things have thankfully worked themselves out in the health and weight department,  and I'm curvy. I've got boobs and an ass. And although what we see may never tell us this, boobs and ass equal not being stick thin unless you're a freak of nature, are willing to alter yourself, or have just hit puberty. Which would be fine,  if all we're ever shown as perfect wasn't unattainable for most of us.

Up until now, I've always been the indulgent, completely fine with my body, confident girl that doesn't own a scale, dresses for myself, and gives a chagrined chuckle when someone snaps a picture that captures me with multiple chins. Because I've always known and just accepted that this is what I'm working with. That I'm more than a bad picture, or my thighs in that skirt, or those two extra pads of butter I throw on my mashed potatoes- and that I like the woman I am and the appearance of that person that is reflected outward, for the world to see.


Except lately, doubt has been creeping in, and I've grown paranoid, and critical.

Recently a friend of mine posted a picture of me on Fbook, which I looked at and actually cringed. My first thought was hand-to-Christ, "Ohmygod, is she mad at me?" My disappointment at the way I looked in that single picture has managed to tarnish my entire memory of the incredible amount of fun I had that night with my girlfriends.

Because I thought I looked fat. And because around them,  I already feel fat. Why am I so  negative? Where's that obnoxious self-confidence now?


I later mentioned it to her jokingly, something along the lines of, "You're a total dick for posting that picture.... etc." And you know what she said?


"REALLY? I love that picture of you! It was like I captured the entire night. You're laughing and sitting on the porch and just so relaxed, pretty."


So I looked back on that picture, searching for something I've somehow missed. And I still hate it. *&#*(*#$&(#$fuckinghateit.  And I can't for the life of me get the feeling from that night, at the moment of the snapshot, back.

 Man, this is bullshit.

I thought I'd made it safely and relatively unscathed past the point of constant self-scrutiny and self-hatred. But apparently, I've never been more wrong. Midtwenties angst or something has got a hold on me.

I used to trust that my body would just inherently know, send messages to my brain when I was tired or not eating right, or getting too heavy. I trusted this fact above everything, held it higher than those glossy photographs could ever hope to reach. In return, I've never said no to a dessert I wanted, been tempted to throw up anything I consciously put into my body, or weighed myself only to feel my stomach drop below the scale instantaneously. Instead, I've rocked high heels despite my already-ample height, wandered bikini-clad for miles down a busy beach-scape, and cheesed it for pictures without considering the chance of a double chin.


So why do I suddenly feel so fat?

I know that my body needs exercise and healthy foods instead of greasy breakfast croissants and sunscreen instead of nicotine. I'm happy to have discovered these facts and I'm happy to comply. Shouldn't I be just as apt to embrace my juicy curves and trade in my size-two aspirations?


So, I'm making a pledge. To myself. 


To stop seeing 'realistic' as a dirty word and a challenge. So stop being romanced by bright colors and glossy covers that will ultimately only leave me wanting. To listen to those who love me that tell me I look GREAT. To not lose an entire evening of perfect harmony with a group of people who surround and protect my heart because of one measly picture.  


I promise, self, that I'm going to stop trying to channel celeb bodies, even you Kim K!, when I'm sludging through my workouts, daily grind, and big nights out. Instead, I will start channeling myself again. 


The self that licks the brownie batter bowl and eats bell peppers sun-warmed right off the plant, and grins instead of smirks in those obligatory girl-group photos. 






Fat? Skinny!? 




What bullshit, nonsense, vague constructs. I'd rather be a warrior than a waif, any day. 


Xo Sara

time to burn a bridge

Wanna hear about a large error in judgement?




At the beginning of this month, Katherine, Jessica, and I let an old friend from high school a random move in with us. Some may not call this person a "rando," but since I hadn't hung out with them in over five years and didn't know a lick about what was going on in their life up to the point they were moving into my personal space and haven of safety from the cruel, hard, world, they're a random to me.


As I've mentioned before, our house is kickass and plenty big for four people. We're swimming in square-footage over here. It's honestly a really odd phenomenon, and kind of sickening when I think about the box I rented in Chicago. We already don't pay an arm and a leg in rent every month, so we figured ANOTHER $75 off rent a month would be pretty badass,. AKA, we'd all only be paying $225. A month. WHAT IS THIS? (Read: the neighborhood is patchy... but whatevs, we know our neighbors and I've never felt unsafe.)


So, this person had just moved back into town and was for whatever reason looking for some place to live, a shoulder to cry on, way to generate income, ride everywhere, drinking buddy, etc. This person is what normal people would label as a "drain" or a "red-flag." However, being that we're softies and somewhat non-immune to sob-stories and charity cases, this person was ushered into our lives after an extended absence. AKA periodically disappearing for years at a time.


I've come to realize recently that between high school and age 25, people have to find a way to survive now that we're expected to pick up and go off and survive largely on our own. A lot of people, such as myself, fuck this up several times, but continue to struggle and claw towards independence and hold themselves accountable for the decisions they make. Other people just start sucking, badly.


Welp, fourth roomie is the latter.






EXTREME.






After discovering some unsavory things about said person, aka they're shady and untrustworthy and OMG I will shit a brick if they steal anything from me...... we get to have the "UM, you need to move out NOW because we've all been deliberating behind your back about how uncomfortable you've made our living situation since you moved in three weeks ago," chat.


Yippee!




It's happening tomorrow. Which means I will effectively be a jumble of nerves and stress until the confrontation occurs. And then until fourth roomie aka Shadeball vacates the premises and I have the house keys clenched tightly in my grimey little hands.


Man, it's just so disheartening how some people change for the worse and really show their true colors at the worst possible time, like after you've invited them into your home. I'm not even the one who's lost the most- Jessica and Katherine were better friends with this person. Katherine found this person a job where she worked. She lent them her bike to get around. (Which this person promptly wrecked.) Sometimes putting yourself out on a limb for someone just doesn't work out. This is one of those times.


I'm not a bad person, but I don't typically put myself into situations with people where I can be let down or made to feel like I'm being taken advantage of. It bums me out that this person got a break, and a pretty sweet deal if I do say so myself, in living with us and now has probably squandered the last good option for them to live.


And part of me feels totally quilty about the conversation we're going to have tomorrow, and the tone I willl inevitably be forced to take to get my point across. The cut-and-dry, you're out, this is non-negotiable tone.  The you're-a-fuck-up-and-I-won't-have-you-around-to-take-me-down-with-you voice. Because as much as I hate using it, nothing seems to be as effective. And as much as I may not always appreciate the fact that I have that voice, it sure does seem to get the point across.

I don't know where they're going to go, and maybe it makes me a shitty human being, but it's not my problem anymore. I'm on my way up, and nothing is going to slow my route.

XO Sare

a rant for thursday.

Le Sigh.


It's times like this when I wish Manfriend didn't read what I write here, because I really need to sort out some feelings and stuff. Thanks for the support honey, skip this one? See you tonight!


Anyway, yesterday was a day. I went to the dentist. Yes, it was terrifying. Yes, I survived. No, I didn't have any actual dental work done, because my appointment time wasn't long enough. Yes, the bill estimate is more than I'd like to pay, but I'll suck it up and pay it because it's work that I need done, and I've been putting it off for too long.


Yesterday was one of those afternoons that taste like chocalate after you've given it up for lent and have watched everyone around you enjoy it for the past forty days; magnificent. I left work at two and headed to the dentist with the windows down, it was warm and sunny. I love driving by myself in weather like yesterday. I feel light, I crank the volume on some shitty 90s music on the radio, and I just enjoy the day. By the grace of some power higher than myself I was done at the dentist by three. I didn't have to be at dinner with my family for the brother's 18th birthday until 5:30. I never thought I'd relish the idea of spending time by myself, doing whatever I wanted for two and a half hours so much, but two and a half hour spans like that just don't seem to happen for me much anymore, so I did.




I LOVE SPENDING TIME BY MYSELF.


You know why? Because I don't have to fucking worry about pleasing anyone else other than ME. I can give into whims and drive out of my way just to go the scenic route if I choose. I can decide AT TARGET that I need to organize and file all the bullshit paper floating around in my life and buy file folders and binders and Rubbermaid boxes. I can map out plans for an inspiration binder, because it's what I want and no one is around to deter or make fun of me for it. I can plan an evening by myself after dinner and be antsy to get home and get down to it. Starting a project, making a huge mess and filing it all back together, like a game of 52 card pick-up.


Yes, I had a lovely two and a half hours of solitude, reflection, and listening to my inner voice.


I was in a terrific mood when I pulled into the restaurant. Manfriend pulled in not too long after I did and we moseyed inside to order a drink while we waited for the rest of my family to arrive. There were nine of us total, and it was a lovely and delicious dinner with a great vibe. I had a lemon-drop martini, I made wildly hilarious self-depreciating jokes, I bestowed a gift AND some cash upon my brother, I ate steak and held Manfriend's hand under the table.


AND THEN IT ALL CAME TO A GRINDING HALT.

I indicate to the table that I'm planning on heading downtown to, you know, WHERE I LIVE, after the conclusion of the meal. And my mother looks at me as if I've just kicked a puppy. A really, really cute puppy. Because if I go downtown, and not to my parents house, which will add over an HOUR of extra driving time to my night, then I will not get to see my now EIGHTEEN year old brother OPEN HIS GIFTS and EAT CAKE.

Andddddddd....cue my mood plummeting for the rest of the night.

I love my family, they're the best. But you know what else? I see them all. the. time. More than twice a week. I'm no stranger, so I get to call bullshit on my mother for this one. As it turns out, my brother and his girlfriend LEAVE DINNER EARLY, so my brother can go give up uplifting speech at church or something and they will "probably beat us to the house," so it "won't even be that long of a delay," for me to completely uproot my plans for the evening to go to my parents house in the BFE to partake in the rest of the birthday hoopla. So, you'll imagine perhaps how frustrating it was when they still hadn't showed up at the house almost TWO HOURS later.

Because in that time, I had locked my keys in my car, driven 25 minutes from the restaurant to my parents house after getting car unlocked, unsuccessfully gone for a run that ended in a fucking asthma attack ten minutes in, and dicked around my parents house impatiently for 40 minutes. Waiting for the guest of honor to open his birthday presents.

All I wanted to do was go home and start organizing my life.

It was like tunnel vision. As soon as that plan was thwarted, my mood would not come back. DONZO.

So, when I FINALLY get to leave, it's nine thirty and I am officially inconsolable. I have an interview in the morning and I NEED to get to bed at a decent hour and review material. There is now absolutely NO POINT in trying to start ANYTHING tonight, and thus, no reason for me to drive all the way downtown, because I have already shifted my organizational extravaganza plans to TONIGHT and heaven forbid I spend two nights in a row away from Manfriend.

Granted, I love the man, I love spending time together, and I love sleeping together. We get along like peas and carrots. Truly kindred and all that heartwamring shit. But often I feel our OODLES of time together are spent at the expense of what I also want and need to do. For the sake of my own happiness. And sanity.

So, I decide, while I'm driving, to just go to Manfriend's and leave my now seemingly VERY lofty goals for tomorrow...aka tonight. I'm on the phone with Manfriend, he's driving right behind me. I'm SO FRUSTRATED with the turn of the evening and he's just not getting it. In fact, he's kind of being an asshole about it, and not understanding at all. Which is fine, I DO NOT need to be caudled, but dude, don't be a dick about it.

So then I'm heading FAST to a place called 'Complete Neurotisism.' And it's a one-way ticket. 

There is no going back once I start thinking about everything that I can't control, or made me put what I actually want on the back-burner, and bums me out about life. And since Manfriend is the one I'm on the phone with, I'm fixating on him. 

We're literally two minutes from his house and he's insistently asking "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" Over and over again. And not in a kind and reassuring way. In a I'm-at-my-wits-end-with-you-right-now-so-I'm-going-into-total-dick-mode way.


And that's exactly what happened leading up to the revelations below.


What do I want? I want to not being living between two places out of my car. AGAIN.  What else? I want to fucking have a shower in my life that doesn't either have SHITTY water pressure, or completely fail to drain. What else? I want to not be so allergic to the place that I sleep at night that I wake up at bare minumum three times during the night to hit my inhalor and in the morning my eyes are swollen and bloodshot. I'd also like to NOT being spending what I SHOULD be saving in gas money driving back and forth back and forth. (He can't stay at my house because he has a work truck with a GPS in it that shows if he deviates from his route.  It would be an extra hour commute time with the dog for him to stay at my house.Plus, his dog is not allowed at my house anymore.)  I'd like to spend time with my friends that I don't feel guilty about. I'd like to not worry about him 'worrying' about me when I'm with my friends, because in the end I'll ALWAYS do whatever I fucking feel like doing, and I'd actually like some credit for making good decsions for myself. I'd LOVE if Manfriend would CLEAN ANYTHING without me saying something first.

Anything.

I started a little experiment a few weeks ago; I stopped constantly cleaning everything in sight at Manfriend's. The result? Disgusting. I'm done with that. I"m done being in a place that makes my skin crawl. I refuse to be the person that has to constantly follow him around the house, pointing out chores that need to be done, and I also REFUSE to do them all on my own. I can't always be the one reminding him thirty times to do common sense things like spaying his dog and changing his headlight.

This man loves me more than anything in life and I'm crazy about him too. He cooks me dinner, he puts up with my crazy, he waited for me to see what was right on front of me for SIX YEARS until I finally gave him a fair try. He'd walk through fire for me without expecting anything in return. But, I'm not happy. I'm miserable and stuck. I may not be perfect, or a grown-up; I'm terrible with money, I procrastinate at times. BUT I'M TRYING. I read my mail. I pay my bills on time. I live off of a budget. I take care of problems that require immediate attention. I go to the doctor when I need to. I've been doing this for seven years now, I have a basic grasp on living my life independently.

He just doesn't see squalor. Or filth. Or apparently piles of laundry. I've been MORE THAN up front with him about how deathly allergic I am to the dog, and nothing has improved. NOTHING. I don't know what to do. One swipe of the vacuum over carpet every three months doesn't do it, and I guess that's more than he was already vacuuming.

I'm done being nit-picky and pointing out little things that drive me nuts. It's one big thing. It's a lazy thing. And a respect thing. And MOSTLY, a ME thing.

It's unbelieveably tough for me to do this, but I won't be staying at his house I any weeknights anymore. I can't. I'm not a crazy neat-freak, but I have standards, and they're not even coming close to being met. We currently spend most nights together. It will be tough, I love him and I love rolling over and cuddling into him in the middle of the night.. But, it will also be easy, because I love breathing and not having an allergy rash every day of my life. The thing is, I partially feel like I've been forced into this. I've been forced into a drastic measure to either wake him up, or push him away. I honestly have no idea which one it is, and I'm scared. Which is why I haven't put my foot down and done it sooner.

I love this man, but I'm terrified of what the future holds for us, because I can't even imagine moving in together at this point. I can't even imagine it. It will not get better just because it's a new place. It will not. I have serious health issues, and I HAVE to take care of myself. It's non-negotiable.

I'll be back to the slap-stick and ridiculous tomorrow, but today, I need this. Oh, and now I'm off to my interview and I've done nothing to prepare because I was totally focused on getting this out of my body. Soooo, wish me luck! (I'll need it)

Xo Sara

the first thaw

***Updated: I just re-read this and Ii'm moderately embarrassed by the number of spelling and grammar errors in this post... it's worse than normal. I'm sorry. And also, we got dumped with four inches of snow and ice last night, so despite my assertion that I'll be running in shorts outside.... I won't be. I'm practically illiterate and also a liar. Fuck.


Gotta confession.


And it's not exactly one brimming with pride, so hang in there.


In the winter I'm a sloth.



I don't exersize, I rarely return phone calls, I go to bed earlier than the Golden Girls; that is, if the Golden Girls go to bed any later than nine pm. I'm generally a waste of space and kind of a buzz-kill to be around... unless I'm given a bottle of either champagne or Jim Beam, and then I'm just kind of an annoying drunk. It's really disappointing to me that I'm as downright lame as I am for a quarter of the year. I sometimes make feeble attempts at cheer, such as planning mini-trips, purchasing a multitude of items I can't afford and/or don't need, and attempt to convince myself that I'm not as cold as I think I am... but for the most part, I suck. I just..... can't.
 

BUT WAIT, that's not even the confessional part.

Every year, without fail, at the first thaw I get annoying. Like, real fucking annoying.

About FITNESS.

As soon as the temperature guage tips over forty degress, even for one ever-loving day, I'm all gun-ho about making life changes, eating right,  putting my best foot forward, and never spending another unecessary moment indoors ever again.

I'm not even unhappy with my body... It's like I just HAVE to be moving all the time... I've got all this frigging pent-up energy that apparently sex and yelling at terrible winter drivers didn't expell. AND I MUST EXERSIZE. And encourage ALL of my friends to join me, because I get incredibly bored running by myself.

It's almost the end of February, that first thaw has come and gone, my friends. I'm practically engineering the fitness train, and I can palpably feel my pitiful mental state shedding the thick outter crust of winter bitterness.

It's like I'M A CAGED BEAST and I'm ripping the chains off my body.

Now I've been tempted with more livable temperatures.... and I'm going to be right pissed if I wake up in the morning and there's snow on the ground. Mr. Local Weatherman says we're getting snow tonight, and I bite my thumb at him. I'm not buying it.

But I know what's going to happen anyway, because every year we get AT LEAST one more snow storm/bout of frost-bite inducing cold that threatens to send me over the edge... almost  forces me to desert the midwest for sunnier climates... FOREVER.  It's like trudging around the mall all fucking day, and feeling completely exhausted and finding NOTHING to wear to this huge party you've been looking forward to FOR MONTHS where you're trying to impress someone, but everything looks cheap on you and your skin looks all sallow in the flourescent lights and you decide to give up and go home, and then you agree to try on one more thing apiece with your friends and you come out of the dressing room wearing the most PERFECT fucking pair of jeans, and you know they look fucking bomb on you and you start dancing around in the changing room all excitedly and your friends look sort of chagrined that YOU were the one to find something perfect... and then you notice the price tag says "Don't even fucking think about charging that to your Dad's credit card because he will skin you alive and you know full well that you will NOT make rent this month if you buy these with your own money."

And then you leave the mall all downtrodden and pissed off because you're SURE no pair of jeans will ever look that good on you again. And you actually feel physically ill thinking about how you just left them there, in the store, when they were CLEARLY meant for your ass. And you borrow a shirt from one of your friends and end up wearing some old skirt you had in the back of your closet, and you still look really good at the party but you totally don't go home with that hot guy, probably because you didn't have the perfect outfit.

But then like six weeks later your mom offers to buy you a new pair of jeans, so you hurry back to the exact store where you found THE pair and yep! they still look fucking hot on you, but you didn't get to wear them to the party....... but it's still awesome... and you'll have a good run together for several months until something happens to damage them irrepairably.... I'm getting a little carried away here... but this is how Spring is for me.

It's like it's playing Just The Tip with me.

And I'm over it.

This first thaw has tempted and teased me, shown me fifty degrees and threatened to take it all away with a blanket of snowfall, the way that it does year in and year out and this year I'm rebelling.

I WILL run in shorts OUTSIDE, by god, and nothing is going to stop me.

At least until next November.

The ultimate battle.





Spring = LIFE



VS



Winter= Death



SPOILER:

SPRING ALWAYS PREVAILS.

And so will I.... hopefully.

XO Sare