This post is going to be about things I've learned from watching roughly 15 episodes of "A Baby Story" on TLC in the past month. But first, did you know there's another show on this same cable channel called "Face-Eating Tumor"? (They spell it without the hyphen, but I just can't omit a perfectly necessary bit of punctuation in good conscience.) I've not actually seen "Face-Eating Tumor," but I have seen it cheerily advertised right alongside "Bringing Home Baby" and "The Adam Corolla Project." I can't quite believe it each time I see the words "Face-Eating Tumor" flash up on the screen against the red TLC background, with a jaunty TLC tune playing all the while. I mean, even the Fox network would stop short of actually naming a show "Face-Eating Tumor," wouldn't they?
Anyway, on to Things I've Learned From Watching Roughly 15 Episodes of "A Baby Story" on TLC in the Past Month:
1. Water births are not for me.
2. Figuring out a Diaper Genie is harder than learning calculus.
3. The typical new-mom short haircut is just as frumptastic as I thought. Keep those scissors away from my head.
4. Babies look pretty gross when they first come out.
5. They set that slimy, greasy baby right in your arms after you deliver it, without washing it first.
6. The OB always assumes Dad wants to cut the umbilical cord. (S's thoughts on this event: "Let's just leave it to the medical professionals.")
7. The epidural is like heaven in a needle: "Oh, did I have a contraction just now? Huh! I didn't even feel it!"
8. Babies delivered by C-section have rounder, prettier heads.
9. If you turn the TV picture off but keep the sound on during any "A Baby Story" delivery scene, you'll swear you're listening to porn.
10. Seriously, a water birth is NOT FOR ME.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Taut, Like a Drum
So, for those of you wondering what a five-months-pregnant belly looks and feels like, let me try to describe mine for you.
For starters, I'd say its radius, if I may use a mathematical term without knowing for sure whether I'm using it correctly, is about four to five inches. In other words, my belly sticks out that many inches from my body. When I look down in the shower, I can't see my lady parts. I can still, thankfully, see my knees.
It's very round. Not quite round enough that any stranger on the street would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there's a fetus in there as opposed to, say, several thick insulating layers of fat (although there is some of that, too), but still, quite round indeed. I think it's the roundness that lends a degree of cuteness to the pregnant belly. Round, roly-poly things are sort of cute, generally speaking. (Hello Kitty's head comes to mind.)
My navel has not popped out, exactly. But it's shallower than normal, and flatter. Not quite flush with the rest of my abdomen, but getting there. This was sort of fun to watch until the skin around my navel ring began to get red and irritated. Now I'm worried and want the ring removed, but I don't know how to do that. (It's the bar kind with a jewel on one end.) I'll ask the doctor about it when I see him in a week and a half. (What will remain when the ring is removed, though? Holes? That's weird. I've read you can insert a bit of fishing line where the ring used to be, to keep the holes open. That's not a bad idea. Not that I have any fishing line handy, and not that I would relish threading it through my flesh if I did.)
The funniest part of the five-months-pregnant belly is the tautness. Taut like a drum, I'd say. S finds this amusing, as do I. Also kind of reassuring, because it proves there's a big old uterus in there, expanding as it should. (By the end of pregnancy, I read, the uterus has grown so huge that it butts up against the rib cage. Whoa.) It does make bending over difficult, however. And you should see the sorry state of these pants I have on today. They're my old, regular pants, from like, twelve pounds ago or whatever. They are SO STRAINING. They're like, gasping for breath. Sweating from the effort of staying buttoned, practically. And they are so freaking tight around my butt (which is totally bootylicious and shelf-like now, I might add) that they're almost obscene. I've been keeping my coat on all day to cover it. Oh! That's another thing: My coats and jackets don't zip up now. That's one mild bummer about being preggers in the winter: I guess you have to go buy new coats! And coats aren't cheap, of course.
So, that's the Belly Report. I got a BabyCenter.com update yesterday in my e-mail that starts with, "You're 19 weeks pregnant! Think you're big now? Wait till you see how fast you grow over the next several weeks!" And really, I almost soiled my drawers reading that, because YIKES. I mean, how will my belly skin accommodate all the added poundage that's to come? How much farther out can my butt travel? Will the girth of my thighs increase threefold?
??
Ah, well. As far as I know, all seems OK with Baby of M at this point, so that's the important thing! (Of course, I'm still waiting on blood-test results that were supposedly ready on Monday...)
For starters, I'd say its radius, if I may use a mathematical term without knowing for sure whether I'm using it correctly, is about four to five inches. In other words, my belly sticks out that many inches from my body. When I look down in the shower, I can't see my lady parts. I can still, thankfully, see my knees.
It's very round. Not quite round enough that any stranger on the street would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there's a fetus in there as opposed to, say, several thick insulating layers of fat (although there is some of that, too), but still, quite round indeed. I think it's the roundness that lends a degree of cuteness to the pregnant belly. Round, roly-poly things are sort of cute, generally speaking. (Hello Kitty's head comes to mind.)
My navel has not popped out, exactly. But it's shallower than normal, and flatter. Not quite flush with the rest of my abdomen, but getting there. This was sort of fun to watch until the skin around my navel ring began to get red and irritated. Now I'm worried and want the ring removed, but I don't know how to do that. (It's the bar kind with a jewel on one end.) I'll ask the doctor about it when I see him in a week and a half. (What will remain when the ring is removed, though? Holes? That's weird. I've read you can insert a bit of fishing line where the ring used to be, to keep the holes open. That's not a bad idea. Not that I have any fishing line handy, and not that I would relish threading it through my flesh if I did.)
The funniest part of the five-months-pregnant belly is the tautness. Taut like a drum, I'd say. S finds this amusing, as do I. Also kind of reassuring, because it proves there's a big old uterus in there, expanding as it should. (By the end of pregnancy, I read, the uterus has grown so huge that it butts up against the rib cage. Whoa.) It does make bending over difficult, however. And you should see the sorry state of these pants I have on today. They're my old, regular pants, from like, twelve pounds ago or whatever. They are SO STRAINING. They're like, gasping for breath. Sweating from the effort of staying buttoned, practically. And they are so freaking tight around my butt (which is totally bootylicious and shelf-like now, I might add) that they're almost obscene. I've been keeping my coat on all day to cover it. Oh! That's another thing: My coats and jackets don't zip up now. That's one mild bummer about being preggers in the winter: I guess you have to go buy new coats! And coats aren't cheap, of course.
So, that's the Belly Report. I got a BabyCenter.com update yesterday in my e-mail that starts with, "You're 19 weeks pregnant! Think you're big now? Wait till you see how fast you grow over the next several weeks!" And really, I almost soiled my drawers reading that, because YIKES. I mean, how will my belly skin accommodate all the added poundage that's to come? How much farther out can my butt travel? Will the girth of my thighs increase threefold?
??
Ah, well. As far as I know, all seems OK with Baby of M at this point, so that's the important thing! (Of course, I'm still waiting on blood-test results that were supposedly ready on Monday...
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Let's Do the Time Warp
Have you ever been suddenly, unexpectedly presented with a bit of information about someone you went to high school with a zillion years ago (or maybe just twelve), and it sort of snaps you back to your teenaged self for a moment and gets your mind thinking about things it doesn't normally spend much time on, like your past and your future and the life you've created for yourself and the nature of time and aging?
That happened to me this morning. I was sitting here in my cube editing, as we editors are wont to do, still kind of stewing over the fact that S and I had just been closed out of an apartment we'd visited last night and liked, but which we found out this morning doesn't take cats, despite the property manager's original claim that it did. I was also contemplating what I might have for lunch. That type of thing. Coworker A appeared in my cube with a Sports Illustrated clipping being circulated by Coworker J, about misspellings of player and team names on sports jerseys. It was an amusing if ridiculous little article, and I was getting a good chuckle out of the player whose Anaheim Angels jersey said "Angees" by mistake but who wore it anyway, and by the guy whose last name was Smith---spelled "Smiht" on his jersey.
Then, I came to the bit about Jon Busch, a professional soccer player for a team called Columbus Crew (presumably in Ohio). Both his first and last names have been repeatedly misspelled on his jerseys, and he's quoted as saying something like, "By this time, you'd think they’d get it right." And then it clicked: Jon Busch. Star goalkeeper for my high school soccer team. Always really tan, with spiky brown hair, arrogant but friendly, worshipped by all for his phenomenal athletic talent. I googled him, and sure enough, it was him. (Also turns out he was born precisely one year and one day after I was. Kind of funny.)
I barely recognized him in his current photo. He looked...well...old. Older, anyway. And not as good-looking as I'd remembered, frankly. (I guess even big-time professional athletes lose their youthful cuteness over time.) But it was definitely him, and his biographical stats confirmed it.
That sent me into the aforementioned timewarp-mindspin. Thinking about Jon got me thinking about high-school soccer games, and my high school's soccer fields, set on a few lovely, green, rural acres. Sometimes my cheerleading practices were held on those fields, or near them. It got me thinking back on my high school's soccer program, which was quite good, versus my high school's football program, which was quite sucky. That got me thinking about Friday night football games, under the lights, with tons of people I knew in the stands. And then I got to thinking about being young, and full of energy, and relatively carefree, and all of that. The world was so much smaller back then, wasn't it?
I felt a slight pang of envy that this guy Jon is doing what he loves for a living, as I always do when I hear of the successes of former friends or acquaintances. But mostly I felt inspired, and sort of weirdly energized. It's nice to know that not everyone winds up hunched over a computer in a cubicle five days a week to earn a paycheck. And I always feel refreshed when I learn of people who are, in some way or another, pursuing something they love. It pulls me out of myself and my immediate concerns for a bit and helps me gain a broader perspective on life in general.
So anyway, here's a little shout-out to Jon Busch of the Columbus Crew. Congrats, dude.
That happened to me this morning. I was sitting here in my cube editing, as we editors are wont to do, still kind of stewing over the fact that S and I had just been closed out of an apartment we'd visited last night and liked, but which we found out this morning doesn't take cats, despite the property manager's original claim that it did. I was also contemplating what I might have for lunch. That type of thing. Coworker A appeared in my cube with a Sports Illustrated clipping being circulated by Coworker J, about misspellings of player and team names on sports jerseys. It was an amusing if ridiculous little article, and I was getting a good chuckle out of the player whose Anaheim Angels jersey said "Angees" by mistake but who wore it anyway, and by the guy whose last name was Smith---spelled "Smiht" on his jersey.
Then, I came to the bit about Jon Busch, a professional soccer player for a team called Columbus Crew (presumably in Ohio). Both his first and last names have been repeatedly misspelled on his jerseys, and he's quoted as saying something like, "By this time, you'd think they’d get it right." And then it clicked: Jon Busch. Star goalkeeper for my high school soccer team. Always really tan, with spiky brown hair, arrogant but friendly, worshipped by all for his phenomenal athletic talent. I googled him, and sure enough, it was him. (Also turns out he was born precisely one year and one day after I was. Kind of funny.)
I barely recognized him in his current photo. He looked...well...old. Older, anyway. And not as good-looking as I'd remembered, frankly. (I guess even big-time professional athletes lose their youthful cuteness over time.) But it was definitely him, and his biographical stats confirmed it.
That sent me into the aforementioned timewarp-mindspin. Thinking about Jon got me thinking about high-school soccer games, and my high school's soccer fields, set on a few lovely, green, rural acres. Sometimes my cheerleading practices were held on those fields, or near them. It got me thinking back on my high school's soccer program, which was quite good, versus my high school's football program, which was quite sucky. That got me thinking about Friday night football games, under the lights, with tons of people I knew in the stands. And then I got to thinking about being young, and full of energy, and relatively carefree, and all of that. The world was so much smaller back then, wasn't it?
I felt a slight pang of envy that this guy Jon is doing what he loves for a living, as I always do when I hear of the successes of former friends or acquaintances. But mostly I felt inspired, and sort of weirdly energized. It's nice to know that not everyone winds up hunched over a computer in a cubicle five days a week to earn a paycheck. And I always feel refreshed when I learn of people who are, in some way or another, pursuing something they love. It pulls me out of myself and my immediate concerns for a bit and helps me gain a broader perspective on life in general.
So anyway, here's a little shout-out to Jon Busch of the Columbus Crew. Congrats, dude.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
I’m Not an Ungrateful Jerk
(Honest)
It occurred to me that my Debbie Downer post makes me out to be an ingrate, and I want to make it clear that I'm not. After six solid months of precisely timed trying, S and I are quite delighted and over the moon about being preggers. By about May or so, we'd kind of resigned ourselves to the idea that maybe we weren't ever going to be able to make a baby without some sort of assistance, and we'd gotten pretty down (and, of course, anxious) about it. So please don't think we're all, "Shit! A baby! Damn it!" That's totally not it. We're more like, "Oh my god, it finally happened! We've made a teeny person together! We're going to be a family! Is this too good to be true? Can we really pull this off?"
So, I'd like to share some of the things about which I'm very excited, with regard to the lil' fetus and his or her future (assuming all goes well).
1. Can't wait to see what this wee little lad/lass looks like. I'm guessing Baby of M will have S's deep-set blue eyes and strong browbone. Perhaps my nose (gah!), which I'd characterize as "very British" as opposed to, say, "really huge." Obviously, bright blond hair. And for Baby of M's sake, let's hope he or she gets S's thighs.
2. Really curious about Baby of M's personality. Will he or she be happy-go-lucky, always grinning and laughing? Or, will he or she be more guarded and introspective and contemplative?
3. What kinds of things will Baby of M be good at, later on down the line? Where will his or her talents and interests lie? Will he or she love to read, like Mom and Dad do? One might think Baby of M might take an interest in writing. Perhaps he or she will be lucky enough to inherit Dad's talent for cartoon-style sketching. Will Baby of M love school and all things academic, or will he or she be more of a daydreamer? Will Baby of M be athletic? Musical? Creative? Logical? Mathematical? Ambitious? Laid-back? A smattering of everything?
4. Family vacations! Can't wait to show Baby of M my favorite places: the Northeast, London, the beach...
5. Teaching Baby of M compassion and respect for others. I want him or her to care about other people, and animals.
6. Just generally taking Baby of M out and about. You know, on little outings about town.
7. Watching S interact with Baby of M. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'll be a tremendous dad.
So, these are the types of things I let myself think about, on occasion, when I’m feeling relatively relaxed, calm, and confident.
It occurred to me that my Debbie Downer post makes me out to be an ingrate, and I want to make it clear that I'm not. After six solid months of precisely timed trying, S and I are quite delighted and over the moon about being preggers. By about May or so, we'd kind of resigned ourselves to the idea that maybe we weren't ever going to be able to make a baby without some sort of assistance, and we'd gotten pretty down (and, of course, anxious) about it. So please don't think we're all, "Shit! A baby! Damn it!" That's totally not it. We're more like, "Oh my god, it finally happened! We've made a teeny person together! We're going to be a family! Is this too good to be true? Can we really pull this off?"
So, I'd like to share some of the things about which I'm very excited, with regard to the lil' fetus and his or her future (assuming all goes well).
1. Can't wait to see what this wee little lad/lass looks like. I'm guessing Baby of M will have S's deep-set blue eyes and strong browbone. Perhaps my nose (gah!), which I'd characterize as "very British" as opposed to, say, "really huge." Obviously, bright blond hair. And for Baby of M's sake, let's hope he or she gets S's thighs.
2. Really curious about Baby of M's personality. Will he or she be happy-go-lucky, always grinning and laughing? Or, will he or she be more guarded and introspective and contemplative?
3. What kinds of things will Baby of M be good at, later on down the line? Where will his or her talents and interests lie? Will he or she love to read, like Mom and Dad do? One might think Baby of M might take an interest in writing. Perhaps he or she will be lucky enough to inherit Dad's talent for cartoon-style sketching. Will Baby of M love school and all things academic, or will he or she be more of a daydreamer? Will Baby of M be athletic? Musical? Creative? Logical? Mathematical? Ambitious? Laid-back? A smattering of everything?
4. Family vacations! Can't wait to show Baby of M my favorite places: the Northeast, London, the beach...
5. Teaching Baby of M compassion and respect for others. I want him or her to care about other people, and animals.
6. Just generally taking Baby of M out and about. You know, on little outings about town.
7. Watching S interact with Baby of M. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'll be a tremendous dad.
So, these are the types of things I let myself think about, on occasion, when I’m feeling relatively relaxed, calm, and confident.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Debbie Downer
I'd like to explain why my preggers experience is fraught with panic and nervousness. There are a few reasons.
1. I am a worrier. It is an inherited trait. I fret like crazy when given the opportunity.
2. Being pregnant makes me feel out of control. I can't see what's going on in there! There's no little window into my uterus through which I can peek to monitor what's happening on the fetal front. And there's only so much I can do to try to make a healthy baby. I can avoid heroin, for example, and cut back on the thrice-daily Long Island iced teas. (Kidding.) But really: beyond feeding myself adequately and following the general do's and dont's of pregnancy, there just isn't a whole lot I can do to affect the outcome---or to guarantee a positive one. It's an exercise in faith, I guess. Don't smoke, don't drink, don't eat sushi, and cross your fingers. This is not my style. I like to have CONTROL.
3. I read too much. I'm not the kind of gal who reads one chapter of What To Expect When You're Expecting per month, the way you're supposed to. No no, I devour the whole damn thing the weekend I buy it. So one little month into my pregnancy, I was already reading about the Stages of Labor and Potential Complications at Each Stage, and making myself sick with anxiety. And then there's the Internet. A few days after learning I was pregnant, I could have given you a pretty thorough description of preeclampsia, ectopic pregnancy, placenta previa, and anencephaly, to name a few. In an effort to be an Informed Pregnant Woman, I read too much. I learn about every potential problem and become convinced that I will get it. Even my doctor tells me to knock it off with the Googling. I'm trying.
And now, as if this post hasn't been tedious enough, I present to you M's Many Worries of Pregnancy. (Have I driven you away yet?)
Miscarriage
Ectopic pregnancy
Alcohol I drank before I knew
Meds I took before I knew
Fetal deformities
Neural-tube defects (spina bifida and the like)
Down's syndrome
Mental retardation
Autism
Mercury poisoning
Toxoplasmosis
Lysteria
High blood pressure
Too-fast weight gain
Not getting enough folic acid
Inadequate nutrition (read: "too many Fritos, not enough lettuce")
Inadequate finances?
We don't own a house
Day care versus staying home
How to find good daycare
Lame-ass maternity leave benefits
Figuring out breastfeeding
Will cats hate baby?
Will cats claw baby in jealous rage?
Should I have gotten pregnant younger?
Should I get pregnant again?
...and finally, will the baby get my ginormous nose?
That last one's a joke (although I do wonder), but the rest of 'em sure as hell aren't. This is the kind of stuff that whips me into a frantic lather. I'm amazed at pregnant women who are relaxed and normal and excited and happy and picking out cribs and Diaper Genies and tra la la, because how do they do it? How do they not worry?
To come: A post that doesn't involve my wearing my neuroses on my sleeve. And a post that isn't about pregnancy! I promise.
1. I am a worrier. It is an inherited trait. I fret like crazy when given the opportunity.
2. Being pregnant makes me feel out of control. I can't see what's going on in there! There's no little window into my uterus through which I can peek to monitor what's happening on the fetal front. And there's only so much I can do to try to make a healthy baby. I can avoid heroin, for example, and cut back on the thrice-daily Long Island iced teas. (Kidding.) But really: beyond feeding myself adequately and following the general do's and dont's of pregnancy, there just isn't a whole lot I can do to affect the outcome---or to guarantee a positive one. It's an exercise in faith, I guess. Don't smoke, don't drink, don't eat sushi, and cross your fingers. This is not my style. I like to have CONTROL.
3. I read too much. I'm not the kind of gal who reads one chapter of What To Expect When You're Expecting per month, the way you're supposed to. No no, I devour the whole damn thing the weekend I buy it. So one little month into my pregnancy, I was already reading about the Stages of Labor and Potential Complications at Each Stage, and making myself sick with anxiety. And then there's the Internet. A few days after learning I was pregnant, I could have given you a pretty thorough description of preeclampsia, ectopic pregnancy, placenta previa, and anencephaly, to name a few. In an effort to be an Informed Pregnant Woman, I read too much. I learn about every potential problem and become convinced that I will get it. Even my doctor tells me to knock it off with the Googling. I'm trying.
And now, as if this post hasn't been tedious enough, I present to you M's Many Worries of Pregnancy. (Have I driven you away yet?)
Miscarriage
Ectopic pregnancy
Alcohol I drank before I knew
Meds I took before I knew
Fetal deformities
Neural-tube defects (spina bifida and the like)
Down's syndrome
Mental retardation
Autism
Mercury poisoning
Toxoplasmosis
Lysteria
High blood pressure
Too-fast weight gain
Not getting enough folic acid
Inadequate nutrition (read: "too many Fritos, not enough lettuce")
Inadequate finances?
We don't own a house
Day care versus staying home
How to find good daycare
Lame-ass maternity leave benefits
Figuring out breastfeeding
Will cats hate baby?
Will cats claw baby in jealous rage?
Should I have gotten pregnant younger?
Should I get pregnant again?
...and finally, will the baby get my ginormous nose?
That last one's a joke (although I do wonder), but the rest of 'em sure as hell aren't. This is the kind of stuff that whips me into a frantic lather. I'm amazed at pregnant women who are relaxed and normal and excited and happy and picking out cribs and Diaper Genies and tra la la, because how do they do it? How do they not worry?
To come: A post that doesn't involve my wearing my neuroses on my sleeve. And a post that isn't about pregnancy! I promise.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Interstitial: Feed Me
For your entertainment, here are my pregnancy cravings to date, in order of how bizarre they are, listed from least bizarre to most.
Bagels
Pizza
Hamburgers on the grill
"Chili Cheese" Fritos
Mustard
Mustard on tuna-fish sandwiches
"Easy Cheese," which is that spray cheese that comes in a pressurized can, doesn't need refrigeration, and features such baffling flavors as "bacon cheddar"
You'll notice that healthful food is conspicuously absent from this list. Nary a green to be found. Apparently Baby of M isn't interested in lettuce or broccoli. This is perhaps why, when I went to see the doctor this morning and asked about my weight gain, he agreed that I'm gaining a bit too fast and need to rein things in a bit if I don't want to be staring down a 40-pound weight gain at Month 8. A-hem.
Suffice it to say I'll be visiting the gym this evening. And keeping away from the rest of the "Ralph's fudgy chocolate bundt cake" that's in the fridge.
Bagels
Pizza
Hamburgers on the grill
"Chili Cheese" Fritos
Mustard
Mustard on tuna-fish sandwiches
"Easy Cheese," which is that spray cheese that comes in a pressurized can, doesn't need refrigeration, and features such baffling flavors as "bacon cheddar"
You'll notice that healthful food is conspicuously absent from this list. Nary a green to be found. Apparently Baby of M isn't interested in lettuce or broccoli. This is perhaps why, when I went to see the doctor this morning and asked about my weight gain, he agreed that I'm gaining a bit too fast and need to rein things in a bit if I don't want to be staring down a 40-pound weight gain at Month 8. A-hem.
Suffice it to say I'll be visiting the gym this evening. And keeping away from the rest of the "Ralph's fudgy chocolate bundt cake" that's in the fridge.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Time To Let It All Hang Out
Part II: I'm Pregnant. Both My Pee and My Blood Say So
The same day that I took my second pee-stick test, I made a covert call to my doctor from work to schedule a blood test. My understanding was that, while pee-stick tests are pretty accurate, a blood test is always needed to confirm a positive result. And I should mention here that it's always great fun making personal, private calls from my office building, which offers NO PRIVACY ANYWHERE. I always have to either whisper as articulately as possible into the phone that's in my cubicle, or take my cell phone out of the office suite into the corridor, which feels a little more private but sees plenty of foot traffic thanks to the restrooms and elevators located there. You never know when someone's going to step off the elevator and overhear you on your cell scheduling a Pap smear or describing the color of your cat's diarrhea to the vet.
Aaaaaanyway, I found a relatively quiet, solitary corner and made the call. When the receptionist asked for the type of appointment I needed, I whispered, "I think I might be pregnant" into the phone, to which she of course replied, "What?"
"I think I might be pregnant!"
"OK. So you want a blood test?"
"Yes."
"OK. Hm. We could fit you in in two weeks."
That killed me. I mean, two weeks? A whole fortnight? Who on earth has that kind of patience?
"Are you sure you don’t have anything sooner? I mean, like, this week, even?"
"Oh. Well, we could squeeze you in this Friday."
Even that sounded like an eternity, as I was calling on a Wednesday, but it sure as hell beat two weeks, so I took it.
Two days later, sitting across from Dr. A in her office, I learned that pee-stick tests are, in fact, extremely accurate. False positives are very, very rare, she told me. If I took two tests and both told me I was pregnant, then I was. She agreed to do the blood test as a formality, but in Dr. A's mind, I was pregnant beyond a doubt, and that was final.
"But what about all the alcohol I drank before I knew I was pregnant?" I asked.
"Don't worry about it."
"But also the ibuprofen and the Claritin-D."
"Don't worry about it."
"But..."
"M, did you smoke any crack recently?"
(First time a doctor's ever asked me that.)
"No."
"OK then. Stop worrying."
Well, OK. But that's easier said than done. More on THAT later.
On the drive back to work from Dr. A's, I first called S. He was excited, but he didn't want to do any celebrating of any kind until the blood-test result was in. That wasn't supposed to be until Monday, so we were in for a long, suspenseful weekend. After I called S, I caved and called my parents. I'd told myself I wouldn't do that until I knew absolutely, positively for sure, but the temptation was just too strong. I called and told them what the doctor had told me: the pee stick doesn't lie. They were, predictably, happy and supportive. It reduced my anxiety a tad. I was still feeling more terrified than anything else. They agreed not to share the news with any other family till that damn blood test was in.
Mercifully, Dr. A received the blood-test results from the lab the following day, a Saturday, and called us that day to let us know. "Break out the champagne!" she trilled into my voice mailbox, "Or in your case, M, the sparkling cider! You're pregnant!"
At which point, the REAL panic set in.
The same day that I took my second pee-stick test, I made a covert call to my doctor from work to schedule a blood test. My understanding was that, while pee-stick tests are pretty accurate, a blood test is always needed to confirm a positive result. And I should mention here that it's always great fun making personal, private calls from my office building, which offers NO PRIVACY ANYWHERE. I always have to either whisper as articulately as possible into the phone that's in my cubicle, or take my cell phone out of the office suite into the corridor, which feels a little more private but sees plenty of foot traffic thanks to the restrooms and elevators located there. You never know when someone's going to step off the elevator and overhear you on your cell scheduling a Pap smear or describing the color of your cat's diarrhea to the vet.
Aaaaaanyway, I found a relatively quiet, solitary corner and made the call. When the receptionist asked for the type of appointment I needed, I whispered, "I think I might be pregnant" into the phone, to which she of course replied, "What?"
"I think I might be pregnant!"
"OK. So you want a blood test?"
"Yes."
"OK. Hm. We could fit you in in two weeks."
That killed me. I mean, two weeks? A whole fortnight? Who on earth has that kind of patience?
"Are you sure you don’t have anything sooner? I mean, like, this week, even?"
"Oh. Well, we could squeeze you in this Friday."
Even that sounded like an eternity, as I was calling on a Wednesday, but it sure as hell beat two weeks, so I took it.
Two days later, sitting across from Dr. A in her office, I learned that pee-stick tests are, in fact, extremely accurate. False positives are very, very rare, she told me. If I took two tests and both told me I was pregnant, then I was. She agreed to do the blood test as a formality, but in Dr. A's mind, I was pregnant beyond a doubt, and that was final.
"But what about all the alcohol I drank before I knew I was pregnant?" I asked.
"Don't worry about it."
"But also the ibuprofen and the Claritin-D."
"Don't worry about it."
"But..."
"M, did you smoke any crack recently?"
(First time a doctor's ever asked me that.)
"No."
"OK then. Stop worrying."
Well, OK. But that's easier said than done. More on THAT later.
On the drive back to work from Dr. A's, I first called S. He was excited, but he didn't want to do any celebrating of any kind until the blood-test result was in. That wasn't supposed to be until Monday, so we were in for a long, suspenseful weekend. After I called S, I caved and called my parents. I'd told myself I wouldn't do that until I knew absolutely, positively for sure, but the temptation was just too strong. I called and told them what the doctor had told me: the pee stick doesn't lie. They were, predictably, happy and supportive. It reduced my anxiety a tad. I was still feeling more terrified than anything else. They agreed not to share the news with any other family till that damn blood test was in.
Mercifully, Dr. A received the blood-test results from the lab the following day, a Saturday, and called us that day to let us know. "Break out the champagne!" she trilled into my voice mailbox, "Or in your case, M, the sparkling cider! You're pregnant!"
At which point, the REAL panic set in.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Interstitial: Welcome, Jack!
My brother and his wife had their baby! The little spud was born on September 11 and weighed in at 3 pounds, 11 ounces. He's a preemie but can breathe on his own just fine. Once he's put on a bit of body fat (wish I could lend him some of mine), he'll be able to go home.
Congrats, Brother of M and Sis-in-Law T!
Congrats, Brother of M and Sis-in-Law T!
Monday, September 12, 2005
Time to Let It All Hang Out
...of my ever-straining, overworked, stretched-to-the-breaking-point, no longer adequate, wee little size-six pants
Part I: Holy Crap, I'm Pregnant
All righty. The time has come to bore you all with Tales of Pregnancy, M-Style. Now that everyone at my work knows that I'm befetused, I'm feeling ready and willing to blog about it. It ain't pretty, I'm warning you. Seriously, Scott and Brother of M and any other male readers I might have out there in the cyber-ether, you may want to take a collective manly vacation from Waxing Prosaic and just totally tune out for the next five months, you know? It's football season, right? Go watch some.
OK, then, girls. Here's the scoop. Having just returned from a whirlwind trip to Albany, NY (my hometown), where I'd attended my very bestest friend's wedding and visited the fam for the fourth of July holiday, S and I threw our suitcases into the living room, stripped to our skivvies, tossed some affection our cats' way, and climbed into bed. (It was past midnight, we were exhausted, and we both had to work the next day.) As per usual, S fell asleep instantly, damn him. I, on the other hand, lay awake feeling odd and unsettled. With sore knockers, I might add. (Again, Brother of M and Scott: Somewhere, in some stadium or another, someone's kicking the winning field goal. Right now. You don't want to miss it. Go grab a beer and some Doritos and make your way to the couch, immediately. Step away from Waxing Prosaic before somebody gets hurt.) So I decided I needed to take a pregnancy test RIGHT NOW, just to rule that crazy idea right out. Some nagging little feeling was really insisting that I stumble into the bathroom and pee on a stick, and it just couldn't wait till daybreak.
So, I blindly made my way through the dark to the bathroom and fumbled around for a test stick in the full-of-crap cupboard beneath the sink. Found one. Peed on it. Put the cap on the wrong way. Yanked it off and reattached it, correctly. Set the stick on the sink. Waited, with Toonces at my feet, for the result, feeling utterly certain that "Not Pregnant" would pop up on the little display, as it always had.
But sweet Jesus oh dear god: "Pregnant" appeared immediately. Immediately. Like, not even fifteen seconds after I got that freaking cap on right. I know it sounds theatrical, but I truly did rub my eyes and come in for a closer look, because I COULD NOT BELIEVE WHAT I WAS SEEING. I was utterly paralyzed and frankly, confused. I went cold and started shivering. I was just wholely unprepared for this result, and I so hate to be unprepared. Denial set in pretty fast, and I came up with the notion that the result was wrong because I had fumbled with the cap and put it on wrong the first time. That had to be it. That was the only logical explanation. I'd take another test first thing in the morning, being sure to attach that stupid cap the right way right from the get-go.
Regardless, this was such a baffling, freaky event that I had to tell S about it that minute. It couldn't wait. I slunk back to the bedroom and propped myself on my knees right next to where he lay sleeping. I hovered over him, staring at his face. (This is an effective, if spooky, way to wake him up without actually shaking him or making noise or hissing "S! S!" into his ear.) His eyelids started quivering and sure enough, he woke up and barked "What happened?" all disoriented-like. I told him what had just occurred. He stared at me. I stared at him. He broke out in a half-smile. I didn't. I was still convinced the result was wrong, and I told him so. "You're definitely re-taking it in the morning, then?" he asked, not sure how to react to this maybe-true, maybe-not news; appearing a little frightened by my intensity; and not seeming to want to jinx anything. "Yes," I stated. "And I'm sure it will be negative."
Hours passed. Not much sleep on my side of the bed. Waves of anxiety. Etc.
Took it again in the morning, bright and early, cap accurately positioned. "Pregnant." Unbelievable! What the hell?!
I know my first reaction should've been sheer joy, but I have to admit, that wasn't it. At all. I was utterly panicked and terrified, not because I didn't want to be pregnant (I did), but because it caught me so off-guard. S and I had been trying for SIX MONTHS---very precisely, I might add---to no avail whatsoever. We'd been getting worried that something was wrong, actually. And then, besides the slightly sore knockers, there'd been no indication that a wee little M + S zygote had finally been created and was floating around in my lady parts. So I felt like my body had played a huge trick on me: "Ha ha! You're pregnant, M! Surprise! Try not to feel too panicked by all the white wine, vodka-cranberry cocktails, Amstel Light, ibuprofen, and Claritin-D you ingested back in Albany, ‘kay?"
To be continued.
Part I: Holy Crap, I'm Pregnant
All righty. The time has come to bore you all with Tales of Pregnancy, M-Style. Now that everyone at my work knows that I'm befetused, I'm feeling ready and willing to blog about it. It ain't pretty, I'm warning you. Seriously, Scott and Brother of M and any other male readers I might have out there in the cyber-ether, you may want to take a collective manly vacation from Waxing Prosaic and just totally tune out for the next five months, you know? It's football season, right? Go watch some.
OK, then, girls. Here's the scoop. Having just returned from a whirlwind trip to Albany, NY (my hometown), where I'd attended my very bestest friend's wedding and visited the fam for the fourth of July holiday, S and I threw our suitcases into the living room, stripped to our skivvies, tossed some affection our cats' way, and climbed into bed. (It was past midnight, we were exhausted, and we both had to work the next day.) As per usual, S fell asleep instantly, damn him. I, on the other hand, lay awake feeling odd and unsettled. With sore knockers, I might add. (Again, Brother of M and Scott: Somewhere, in some stadium or another, someone's kicking the winning field goal. Right now. You don't want to miss it. Go grab a beer and some Doritos and make your way to the couch, immediately. Step away from Waxing Prosaic before somebody gets hurt.) So I decided I needed to take a pregnancy test RIGHT NOW, just to rule that crazy idea right out. Some nagging little feeling was really insisting that I stumble into the bathroom and pee on a stick, and it just couldn't wait till daybreak.
So, I blindly made my way through the dark to the bathroom and fumbled around for a test stick in the full-of-crap cupboard beneath the sink. Found one. Peed on it. Put the cap on the wrong way. Yanked it off and reattached it, correctly. Set the stick on the sink. Waited, with Toonces at my feet, for the result, feeling utterly certain that "Not Pregnant" would pop up on the little display, as it always had.
But sweet Jesus oh dear god: "Pregnant" appeared immediately. Immediately. Like, not even fifteen seconds after I got that freaking cap on right. I know it sounds theatrical, but I truly did rub my eyes and come in for a closer look, because I COULD NOT BELIEVE WHAT I WAS SEEING. I was utterly paralyzed and frankly, confused. I went cold and started shivering. I was just wholely unprepared for this result, and I so hate to be unprepared. Denial set in pretty fast, and I came up with the notion that the result was wrong because I had fumbled with the cap and put it on wrong the first time. That had to be it. That was the only logical explanation. I'd take another test first thing in the morning, being sure to attach that stupid cap the right way right from the get-go.
Regardless, this was such a baffling, freaky event that I had to tell S about it that minute. It couldn't wait. I slunk back to the bedroom and propped myself on my knees right next to where he lay sleeping. I hovered over him, staring at his face. (This is an effective, if spooky, way to wake him up without actually shaking him or making noise or hissing "S! S!" into his ear.) His eyelids started quivering and sure enough, he woke up and barked "What happened?" all disoriented-like. I told him what had just occurred. He stared at me. I stared at him. He broke out in a half-smile. I didn't. I was still convinced the result was wrong, and I told him so. "You're definitely re-taking it in the morning, then?" he asked, not sure how to react to this maybe-true, maybe-not news; appearing a little frightened by my intensity; and not seeming to want to jinx anything. "Yes," I stated. "And I'm sure it will be negative."
Hours passed. Not much sleep on my side of the bed. Waves of anxiety. Etc.
Took it again in the morning, bright and early, cap accurately positioned. "Pregnant." Unbelievable! What the hell?!
I know my first reaction should've been sheer joy, but I have to admit, that wasn't it. At all. I was utterly panicked and terrified, not because I didn't want to be pregnant (I did), but because it caught me so off-guard. S and I had been trying for SIX MONTHS---very precisely, I might add---to no avail whatsoever. We'd been getting worried that something was wrong, actually. And then, besides the slightly sore knockers, there'd been no indication that a wee little M + S zygote had finally been created and was floating around in my lady parts. So I felt like my body had played a huge trick on me: "Ha ha! You're pregnant, M! Surprise! Try not to feel too panicked by all the white wine, vodka-cranberry cocktails, Amstel Light, ibuprofen, and Claritin-D you ingested back in Albany, ‘kay?"
To be continued.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Down With Circus Peanuts
So I'm reading this book called Candyfreak, by Steve Almond, and it's got me thinking a lot about, well, candy. The book is a thoroughly delightful bit of nonfiction that is part humorous personal narrative and part history of candy manufacturing in America. Best of all, it's well-written AND funny. Finally. I'd been reading books that were either one or the other, and it was getting me down.
Anywho, the author's obsession with All Things Small and Sugary is rubbing off on me, I'm afraid. (I think I'm especially susceptible now that I'm PREGNANT! PREGNANT! PREGNANT! More on THAT soon.) Lately I've been tempted to buy candy bars, which really aren't anything I'd normally purchase or eat, I guess because my parents raised me to expect them on Halloween only, which always seemed pretty reasonable to me. (Good work, Watsons!) But the way Steve Almond describes the Clarke Bar, for example, borders on the pornographic. I find myself indescribably aroused by the thought of crispy peanut-butter filling "enrobed" (industry term) in rich chocolate.
You get the idea.
But today's topic is Candy That Never Should've Been. You know, those decades-old drugstore staples that make you ask, "Why?" They look gross. They sound gross. They taste gross. What's the attraction? Who keeps these brands in business? What gives?
I present to you my list:
-Necco Wafers
-Mentos (no offense to the Foo Fighters)
-Boston Baked Beans
-Good 'n' Plenty
-White jelly beans
-Black jelly beans
-Circus Peanuts
-Those miniature soda bottles made of wax that contain colored syrup
Just thinking of most of these makes me almost gag. Yet they've all been around forever.
Why?
These all need to be cleared permanently from the drugstore shelves so that more room can be made for the illustrious Snickers, Twix, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Hey, that reminds me: According to Candyfreak, most Americans "hadn't even heard of chocolate," let alone eaten it, before 1893. That astounds me, for some reason. You'd think our European forebears would've introduced it to us long before then.
Anywho, the author's obsession with All Things Small and Sugary is rubbing off on me, I'm afraid. (I think I'm especially susceptible now that I'm PREGNANT! PREGNANT! PREGNANT! More on THAT soon.) Lately I've been tempted to buy candy bars, which really aren't anything I'd normally purchase or eat, I guess because my parents raised me to expect them on Halloween only, which always seemed pretty reasonable to me. (Good work, Watsons!) But the way Steve Almond describes the Clarke Bar, for example, borders on the pornographic. I find myself indescribably aroused by the thought of crispy peanut-butter filling "enrobed" (industry term) in rich chocolate.
You get the idea.
But today's topic is Candy That Never Should've Been. You know, those decades-old drugstore staples that make you ask, "Why?" They look gross. They sound gross. They taste gross. What's the attraction? Who keeps these brands in business? What gives?
I present to you my list:
-Necco Wafers
-Mentos (no offense to the Foo Fighters)
-Boston Baked Beans
-Good 'n' Plenty
-White jelly beans
-Black jelly beans
-Circus Peanuts
-Those miniature soda bottles made of wax that contain colored syrup
Just thinking of most of these makes me almost gag. Yet they've all been around forever.
Why?
These all need to be cleared permanently from the drugstore shelves so that more room can be made for the illustrious Snickers, Twix, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Hey, that reminds me: According to Candyfreak, most Americans "hadn't even heard of chocolate," let alone eaten it, before 1893. That astounds me, for some reason. You'd think our European forebears would've introduced it to us long before then.
Monday, August 22, 2005
I, Slacker
Hi. Sorry! It's been way too long, I realize. I plan to do a nice, thick, meaty post very soon...like perhaps this week, since my work schedule looks a little more forgiving than it has the past two weeks or so.
For now, here are some highlights:
1. I've turned 30. It was considerably less tragic than I'd imagined.
2. I've bought an iPod, scheduled to arrive this Thursday, 8/25, and I SERIOUSLY CANNOT WAIT. More on this on my next post, for sure. The excitement, it is consuming me.
3. I'm fat. Not really a highlight, but noteworthy.
4. S and I are starting the whole look-for-a-new-apartment thing again. AGAIN. After some brief and discouraging research, we have concluded that we can't yet afford a condo or house here in L.A.
All righty. That's all for now. More soon! Thanks for being patient.
For now, here are some highlights:
1. I've turned 30. It was considerably less tragic than I'd imagined.
2. I've bought an iPod, scheduled to arrive this Thursday, 8/25, and I SERIOUSLY CANNOT WAIT. More on this on my next post, for sure. The excitement, it is consuming me.
3. I'm fat. Not really a highlight, but noteworthy.
4. S and I are starting the whole look-for-a-new-apartment thing again. AGAIN. After some brief and discouraging research, we have concluded that we can't yet afford a condo or house here in L.A.
All righty. That's all for now. More soon! Thanks for being patient.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
"Give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle"
This tap class is so very fun. We're now at the point where we're learning a combination of steps to the song "Razzle Dazzle" (sung by Richard Gere) from the Chicago soundtrack. It's so shmaltzy! I feel like I should be dancing in a top hat and fishnets instead of my too-small, wrinkly yoga pants and various faded tank tops. It's like some sort of twisted, amateur cabaret. I love it! KK, the instructor, has us doing the silliest, goofiest moves, such as seven flaps in a circle with arms outstretched and total jazz hands. We also do a flap-ball-change, flap-ball-change, pivot, pivot move that I like to embellish with a little pop of the hip at the top of each pivot, because I am a dork who feels compelled to ham it up in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
The first week, KK kept admonishing everyone to lighten up and try smiling, for god's sake, because we were all concentrating so hard, furrowing our respective brows, and appearing more or less constipated. Now we're all grins and giggles, because who can resist smiling when she's toe-heeling across the floor while Richard Gere sings "Give 'em the ol' flim-flam flummox"? During class two weeks ago, someone actually spontaneously shouted, "This is fun!" as we were practicing our combination to music.
One of the best parts of class is returning home afterward and showing S what we've learned that day. I can't $#@%ing find my Chicago CD, of course, so I have to sing the lyrics myself while dancing the moves for S. S gets this delightfully horrified-amused-entertained-disbelieving look on his face, and slowly shakes his head back and forth as I make my way through the combination. I can tell he's like, "Dear god, who is this freaky woman I married?" It's fabulous.
The first week, KK kept admonishing everyone to lighten up and try smiling, for god's sake, because we were all concentrating so hard, furrowing our respective brows, and appearing more or less constipated. Now we're all grins and giggles, because who can resist smiling when she's toe-heeling across the floor while Richard Gere sings "Give 'em the ol' flim-flam flummox"? During class two weeks ago, someone actually spontaneously shouted, "This is fun!" as we were practicing our combination to music.
One of the best parts of class is returning home afterward and showing S what we've learned that day. I can't $#@%ing find my Chicago CD, of course, so I have to sing the lyrics myself while dancing the moves for S. S gets this delightfully horrified-amused-entertained-disbelieving look on his face, and slowly shakes his head back and forth as I make my way through the combination. I can tell he's like, "Dear god, who is this freaky woman I married?" It's fabulous.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Happy Feet
Hello there. I guess I should start off by announcing that the much trumpeted "8 in 8" plan is on hold for the time being. I currently weigh 128 pounds, and my doctor advises me to stay put at that number because it's apparently just right for me. Well, OK. I'm happy to know I'm not officially overweight, and I'll just keep on with the moderate working-out and mindful eating. I just won't actively try to lose any additional weight. Too bad, though, because I do love saying "8 in 8." It's catchy.
Right then. Now that the boring stuff is out of the way, I'm eager to tell you about my fun little community-college extension-program tap-dance class, which began last night. Of course, not surprisingly, I started off on the wrong foot (ha!) by arriving to the studio shod in rubber-soled Pumas, which---how could I have forgotten this?!---is a dance-class no-no. Whoops! No rubber-soled shoes, ever! The kindly instructor gently suggested I find some leather-soled shoes (read "ballet or jazz slippers") or some tap shoes (duh), or that I just dance in my socks or with bare feet (eeew). Hmm. I mean, I didn't want to get all crazy and go buy real-deal tap shoes for a freaking five-week, low-key, adult-ed. tap class, but it seems that's the best option of those offered me by the instructor. So, OK. Except, they cost money! And they seem like such a frivolous purchase for someone who's just casually dabbling in tap. Also, were I to own a pair of tap shoes, I'd be super-tempted to wear them around our all-hardwood-floors apartment for fun, which would really, really annoy the neighbor (and scare the bejesus out of my cats.) But, whatev. I might try to score a used pair on Craig's List.
Aaaaaaaaanyway, last night's class! It got off to a slow start, since the ballet class beforehand ran late. (Hey, no fair!) Speaking of which, can I just say THANK GOD I exercised good judgment (for once) and refrained from signing up for ballet. I watched the last few minutes of last night's class, and it was sort of funny-sad-pitiful. I know I would feel ridiculous, elephantine, and clunky trying to run lightly on my toes across the studio, arms outstretched, as if I'm "trying to catch a train," as the instructor put it. It was clear from their self-concious giggling that many of those courageous ballet students felt a bit ridiculous, too.
So the ballet class ended late, and my class started late. Regardless, it was mildly thrilling walking into a dance studio for the first time since last winter’s ballroom-dance class/fiasco. I love the worn hardwood floors, the smooth ballet barre along the back wall, the side-to-side mirrors along the front...even the mild stink of sweat and feet. It's comforting and takes me back to the many happy afternoons I spent in Miss Barb's dance studio back in the day. My class includes ten women of varying ages and ethnicities, and no men. It's a very diverse group (except for the no-men thing): a couple of women have no tap experience whatsoever, and several took a couple of years of it as kids, like me. One woman also practices Romanian dance as a hobby, which she says is similar to tap.
We first stood at the barre and practiced flapping one foot repeatedly, over and over, using our thigh muscles to perform most of the action. After practicing and more or less perfecting the flap on each foot, we tried it moving across the floor. She had us moving really slowly, which was kind of excruciating. Flaps are one thing I remember clearly, and they're much easier to do fast than slowly.
After flapping, we learned flap-ball-changes, which are fun and easy. Some of my classmates were having trouble finding the beat of the music, which was of course exacerbated by the din of clacking tap shoes. When people in tap shoes are off beat, it's painfully obvious. Errrgh! Our instructor, being very sweet and nice and all, encouraged those of us who were off-rhythm to "practice finding the beat in popular music" the next time we're listening to the radio. (Sigh.) I have to say, a person could be as athletic and strong and agile as hell, but without rhythm, that person will never be a decent dancer, I'm afraid.
After flap-ball-change, the instructor mixed things up a bit and had us heel-toe across the floor several times. I couldn't help but swing my arms a bit, which ended up looking rather hoe-down when I caught a glipse of myself in the mirror. Hee. We then toe-heeled, which is not as easy as it sounds, because, to do it right, you must place all your body weight on the foot that's toe-ing. If you just try to imagine that for a minute, you'll maybe see what I mean. Also, it's not a natural movement, since regular walking is always heel-toe, not the opposite.
Finally, at the end of class: flap-ball-change-ball-change! Man, was that ever fun! It actually felt like real tap dancing and was just challenging enough to make me feel accomplished once I got it down.
Today, in an effort to make P and J at work laugh, I tried flapping my way over to P's cubicle with some work. I stupidly caught my feet on the office carpeting and almost did a face-plant, which actually made for a more dramatic entry into P's cube than I had planned.
Right then. Now that the boring stuff is out of the way, I'm eager to tell you about my fun little community-college extension-program tap-dance class, which began last night. Of course, not surprisingly, I started off on the wrong foot (ha!) by arriving to the studio shod in rubber-soled Pumas, which---how could I have forgotten this?!---is a dance-class no-no. Whoops! No rubber-soled shoes, ever! The kindly instructor gently suggested I find some leather-soled shoes (read "ballet or jazz slippers") or some tap shoes (duh), or that I just dance in my socks or with bare feet (eeew). Hmm. I mean, I didn't want to get all crazy and go buy real-deal tap shoes for a freaking five-week, low-key, adult-ed. tap class, but it seems that's the best option of those offered me by the instructor. So, OK. Except, they cost money! And they seem like such a frivolous purchase for someone who's just casually dabbling in tap. Also, were I to own a pair of tap shoes, I'd be super-tempted to wear them around our all-hardwood-floors apartment for fun, which would really, really annoy the neighbor (and scare the bejesus out of my cats.) But, whatev. I might try to score a used pair on Craig's List.
Aaaaaaaaanyway, last night's class! It got off to a slow start, since the ballet class beforehand ran late. (Hey, no fair!) Speaking of which, can I just say THANK GOD I exercised good judgment (for once) and refrained from signing up for ballet. I watched the last few minutes of last night's class, and it was sort of funny-sad-pitiful. I know I would feel ridiculous, elephantine, and clunky trying to run lightly on my toes across the studio, arms outstretched, as if I'm "trying to catch a train," as the instructor put it. It was clear from their self-concious giggling that many of those courageous ballet students felt a bit ridiculous, too.
So the ballet class ended late, and my class started late. Regardless, it was mildly thrilling walking into a dance studio for the first time since last winter’s ballroom-dance class/fiasco. I love the worn hardwood floors, the smooth ballet barre along the back wall, the side-to-side mirrors along the front...even the mild stink of sweat and feet. It's comforting and takes me back to the many happy afternoons I spent in Miss Barb's dance studio back in the day. My class includes ten women of varying ages and ethnicities, and no men. It's a very diverse group (except for the no-men thing): a couple of women have no tap experience whatsoever, and several took a couple of years of it as kids, like me. One woman also practices Romanian dance as a hobby, which she says is similar to tap.
We first stood at the barre and practiced flapping one foot repeatedly, over and over, using our thigh muscles to perform most of the action. After practicing and more or less perfecting the flap on each foot, we tried it moving across the floor. She had us moving really slowly, which was kind of excruciating. Flaps are one thing I remember clearly, and they're much easier to do fast than slowly.
After flapping, we learned flap-ball-changes, which are fun and easy. Some of my classmates were having trouble finding the beat of the music, which was of course exacerbated by the din of clacking tap shoes. When people in tap shoes are off beat, it's painfully obvious. Errrgh! Our instructor, being very sweet and nice and all, encouraged those of us who were off-rhythm to "practice finding the beat in popular music" the next time we're listening to the radio. (Sigh.) I have to say, a person could be as athletic and strong and agile as hell, but without rhythm, that person will never be a decent dancer, I'm afraid.
After flap-ball-change, the instructor mixed things up a bit and had us heel-toe across the floor several times. I couldn't help but swing my arms a bit, which ended up looking rather hoe-down when I caught a glipse of myself in the mirror. Hee. We then toe-heeled, which is not as easy as it sounds, because, to do it right, you must place all your body weight on the foot that's toe-ing. If you just try to imagine that for a minute, you'll maybe see what I mean. Also, it's not a natural movement, since regular walking is always heel-toe, not the opposite.
Finally, at the end of class: flap-ball-change-ball-change! Man, was that ever fun! It actually felt like real tap dancing and was just challenging enough to make me feel accomplished once I got it down.
Today, in an effort to make P and J at work laugh, I tried flapping my way over to P's cubicle with some work. I stupidly caught my feet on the office carpeting and almost did a face-plant, which actually made for a more dramatic entry into P's cube than I had planned.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Lip-Huggers
Hey, everyone! My friend Kate has a hi-LAR-i-ous essay in Salon today. I'm not sure which serves as better evidence of her truly inspired writing: calling ultra-low-rise jeans "lip-huggers" or comparing her belly to the infamously corrupt and pock-marked General Noriega. Regardless, Kate's essay is a must-read for any woman who's got a bone to pick with the retail fashion industry...
...which reminds me: this rant on Tomato Nation, aimed at the likes of Old Navy, The Gap, Banana Republic, Limited Express, and J. Crew, is funny as hell.
...which reminds me: this rant on Tomato Nation, aimed at the likes of Old Navy, The Gap, Banana Republic, Limited Express, and J. Crew, is funny as hell.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
TomKat Repels Me
I'm so grossed out by Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Seriously. There's just something so unnatural about their weird-ass, sped-up, overly publicized, creepily intense relationship. I found this on Fametracker, and really, I couldn't have said it better.
Sigh.
"TomKat." Please.
Did you know I was once an extra on Dawson's Creek? This was back in the day, when S was interning for the show down in Wilmington, NC. S did an excellent and hilarious job of placing me oh-so-conspicuously in nearly every scene; if you were to see the episode (I should find out which number it is), you would laugh at the Where's Waldo quality of my frequent appearances. "Hey, there she is walking on the sidewalk! And now she's at a table in the restaurant! Oh, here she comes out the door of the university classroom!" etc. I'm everywhere in that episode, and it's a damn funny sight. And the thing is, this was years ago, maybe six or seven years, even, and I remember thinking the cast and most of the crew were really cool and friendly (with the exception of the props woman who gave me the ol' Evil Eye when I accidentally walked off a set with the notebook or whatever it was I had been holding), Katie Holmes included. I think maybe they're being in laid-back, small-townish Wilmington rather than dog-eat-dog LA had something to do with it. But I think it was also a matter of Dawson's Creek being this cool, kind of smart WB show starring a bunch of fresh unknowns. And now, here we are bunches of years later, and we've got a raw, chapped kissy-mouthed, overexposed "Kate" Holmes devoting herself both to Tom Freaking Cruise and his crazy Scientology. And he's so effing weird and manic, and she's sixteen years his junior, and it's all just unsettling. I don't like it.
I know I shouldn't care. But, tragically, I find myself irresistibly drawn to celebrity goings-on. More so now that I live in LA, where I actually see big-time celebs out and about fairly often. (Most recent sighting: James Spader at Westside Pavilion mall, with a woman (his wife?) and a child (theirs?). He was wearing a Panama hat, and he was short and a bit stocky.)
OK then. Later.
Sigh.
"TomKat." Please.
Did you know I was once an extra on Dawson's Creek? This was back in the day, when S was interning for the show down in Wilmington, NC. S did an excellent and hilarious job of placing me oh-so-conspicuously in nearly every scene; if you were to see the episode (I should find out which number it is), you would laugh at the Where's Waldo quality of my frequent appearances. "Hey, there she is walking on the sidewalk! And now she's at a table in the restaurant! Oh, here she comes out the door of the university classroom!" etc. I'm everywhere in that episode, and it's a damn funny sight. And the thing is, this was years ago, maybe six or seven years, even, and I remember thinking the cast and most of the crew were really cool and friendly (with the exception of the props woman who gave me the ol' Evil Eye when I accidentally walked off a set with the notebook or whatever it was I had been holding), Katie Holmes included. I think maybe they're being in laid-back, small-townish Wilmington rather than dog-eat-dog LA had something to do with it. But I think it was also a matter of Dawson's Creek being this cool, kind of smart WB show starring a bunch of fresh unknowns. And now, here we are bunches of years later, and we've got a raw, chapped kissy-mouthed, overexposed "Kate" Holmes devoting herself both to Tom Freaking Cruise and his crazy Scientology. And he's so effing weird and manic, and she's sixteen years his junior, and it's all just unsettling. I don't like it.
I know I shouldn't care. But, tragically, I find myself irresistibly drawn to celebrity goings-on. More so now that I live in LA, where I actually see big-time celebs out and about fairly often. (Most recent sighting: James Spader at Westside Pavilion mall, with a woman (his wife?) and a child (theirs?). He was wearing a Panama hat, and he was short and a bit stocky.)
OK then. Later.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
8 in 8: Day 2
Hi there. So, today is Day 2 of my goal to drop eight pounds in eight weeks, so that I might embrace my thirtieth birthday feeling healthier, fitter, and less mopey than I would otherwise. Good idea, no?
As promised, here's what the scale at my new gym said I weighed yesterday:
130.5
Yeah, that seemed low to me, too. The last few times I went to the doctor's office, it was more like 134-ish. Hell, even S (cautiously) guessed "138" last night, when I decided to come clean with the number. (I'd never told him my weight, ever. It's just not something I normally go around broadcasting. Naturally, he was frightened to hazard a guess. I think he expected some sort of tearful overreaction on my part...and wondered aloud whether I'd be more offended by a too-high guess or a too-low one. I wasn't sure, but I was impressed that his number, while high, was more or less "in the ballpark," so to speak. And I didn't have any emotional response whatsoever to his guess.) Maybe the low number was a result of my not having eaten since lunch, which, by the time I weighed myself, had come and gone six hours ago. Maybe I was also dehydrated? Working in an over-air-conditioned office will do that to you.
I'm about to head out to the drugstore, and while I'm there I might pick up a scale. If I do, I'll weigh myself again and report any discrepancy in numbers between the new and old scales.
I hope I'm not displaying tacky exhibitionist tendencies, here, by sharing my numbers with you. I hope it's not unseemly. I'm normally sort of modest to a fault about this type of thing, I think. This feels a little grotesque, to tell you the truth.
Oh! Another thing. Each time I go to the gym, I deposit five bucks into my new online savings account, set up specifically for this purpose. (I recommend the ING Direct Orange Savings Account, by the way. It's currently paying 3.00% interest. Not too shabby!) Anyway, each time I work out I get five bucks, until I have enough dough saved to buy an MP3 player. It sucks not having music to listen to in the gym. I think this little incentive plan just might work! As S will quickly confirm if you ask him, I've been lusting after MP3 players for some time now. I want one SO BAD.
As promised, here's what the scale at my new gym said I weighed yesterday:
130.5
Yeah, that seemed low to me, too. The last few times I went to the doctor's office, it was more like 134-ish. Hell, even S (cautiously) guessed "138" last night, when I decided to come clean with the number. (I'd never told him my weight, ever. It's just not something I normally go around broadcasting. Naturally, he was frightened to hazard a guess. I think he expected some sort of tearful overreaction on my part...and wondered aloud whether I'd be more offended by a too-high guess or a too-low one. I wasn't sure, but I was impressed that his number, while high, was more or less "in the ballpark," so to speak. And I didn't have any emotional response whatsoever to his guess.) Maybe the low number was a result of my not having eaten since lunch, which, by the time I weighed myself, had come and gone six hours ago. Maybe I was also dehydrated? Working in an over-air-conditioned office will do that to you.
I'm about to head out to the drugstore, and while I'm there I might pick up a scale. If I do, I'll weigh myself again and report any discrepancy in numbers between the new and old scales.
I hope I'm not displaying tacky exhibitionist tendencies, here, by sharing my numbers with you. I hope it's not unseemly. I'm normally sort of modest to a fault about this type of thing, I think. This feels a little grotesque, to tell you the truth.
Oh! Another thing. Each time I go to the gym, I deposit five bucks into my new online savings account, set up specifically for this purpose. (I recommend the ING Direct Orange Savings Account, by the way. It's currently paying 3.00% interest. Not too shabby!) Anyway, each time I work out I get five bucks, until I have enough dough saved to buy an MP3 player. It sucks not having music to listen to in the gym. I think this little incentive plan just might work! As S will quickly confirm if you ask him, I've been lusting after MP3 players for some time now. I want one SO BAD.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Eight Pounds, Eight Weeks
Guess what today is? Guess! Guess! Can you? Can you? Huh? Can you?
You can't?
Oh.
OK, well, it is exactly two months before my thirtieth birthday. Thirty. THIR-TEE. Unbelievable, really. I'm really sort of suddenly surprised that the blur that was my Twenties is about to vanish for good. I'm not ready to reflect on that first decade of my (supposed) adulthood just yet, but stay tuned. A long-winded, self-centered, self-indulgent, self-pitying post on What I've Decided My Twenties Were All About is eminent, I'm sure. Lucky you, Mr. or Ms. Beleaguered reader! Good times.
So, I have re-joined a gym. But not just any old gym, mind you. I have left the overcrowded, noisy, utterly undercleaned Bally's behind in my quest for more exercise. I have joined Spectrum Health Club, people. And so far, so good.
I'd taken a hiatus from the gym after finding myself just plain sick of it. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I became so very tired of Bally's, of which I'd been a member for five sweaty years. And it's not that Bally's has disgusting horrible gyms all around; on the contrary, the Culver City and West L. A. and Hollywood branches are all large, decently equipped facilities. It's that they're just not well maintained. Equipment is always broken, the air is always fetid, the locker-room floors are coated with grime and curly hairs. And oh, the crowding. It was never, "What cardio machine do I want to use today?" but rather, "Well, which machine is free?" Or worse yet, "OK, all the machines are taken. I'll wait here in this line and adopt the vigilance of a Buckingham Palace guard to ensure no one snags a treadmill out of turn."
But now, Spectrum Health Club. For starters, membership is month to month, so I'm not trapped in any kind of labyrinthine multi-year contract like I was with Bally's. I can honest to god quit AT ANY TIME. And good thing, too, because the dues are expensive! This is how they keep from overcrowding the facility, it seems. It's elitist, it's snooty, it goes against my vaguely Socialist ideals, and it makes me feel slightly fraudulent, since I'm not rich like many of the members ... but I do appreciate being able to show up at 5:45, during peak after-work hours, and have my pick of cardio machines, no waiting. I should mention here that my work reimburses me forty bucks' worth of my dues each month, which makes membership doable for me. Otherwise? No way in hell.
So. Eight weeks, eight pounds. I realized on the elliptical trainer yesterday that today, June 17th, marks the beginning of my Eight-Week Countdown to 30. And I thought, Oh, that's funny, I happen to be eight pounds overweight. And then I recalled that a pound-a-week weight loss is supposed to be healthy and feasible, and then I thought, Hey! Why don't I try to lose one pound per week, every week, 'til my thirtieth birthday? That works out to eight pounds in eight weeks, see? So. That's the plan. I'm not really going to diet, per se, since clearly I ain't the dieting type. But I am going to work out regularly, which I need to do anyway, to lower my cholesterol (189) and increase my muscle strength and cardiovascular capacity. And I'm going to forego many of my usual foodie treats: cookies, cake, tortilla chips, huge burritos full of cheese, that type of thing. Basically, I'm going to eat and workout the way I know I should, for eight weeks. It would be nice to welcome The Big Three-Oh feeling healthier and more fit. I think it would help me feel better about getting older.
As for the DVD home workouts that I love so much: I'm not doing away with those. I love 10-Minute Solution Pilates! I'm going to do my home workouts every so often, for variety, when I need a reprieve from the gym. Maybe once a week or so.
So, today before I work out, I'll weigh myself. Then, this weekend, I'll gather up all my little scraps of pride, work them into a tight ball, punt that ball out my living-room window, and post the number here, on this blog. And I'll update my progress each week. Probably a bit boring and tedious for you, but strangely motivating for me. OK?
You can't?
Oh.
OK, well, it is exactly two months before my thirtieth birthday. Thirty. THIR-TEE. Unbelievable, really. I'm really sort of suddenly surprised that the blur that was my Twenties is about to vanish for good. I'm not ready to reflect on that first decade of my (supposed) adulthood just yet, but stay tuned. A long-winded, self-centered, self-indulgent, self-pitying post on What I've Decided My Twenties Were All About is eminent, I'm sure. Lucky you, Mr. or Ms. Beleaguered reader! Good times.
So, I have re-joined a gym. But not just any old gym, mind you. I have left the overcrowded, noisy, utterly undercleaned Bally's behind in my quest for more exercise. I have joined Spectrum Health Club, people. And so far, so good.
I'd taken a hiatus from the gym after finding myself just plain sick of it. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I became so very tired of Bally's, of which I'd been a member for five sweaty years. And it's not that Bally's has disgusting horrible gyms all around; on the contrary, the Culver City and West L. A. and Hollywood branches are all large, decently equipped facilities. It's that they're just not well maintained. Equipment is always broken, the air is always fetid, the locker-room floors are coated with grime and curly hairs. And oh, the crowding. It was never, "What cardio machine do I want to use today?" but rather, "Well, which machine is free?" Or worse yet, "OK, all the machines are taken. I'll wait here in this line and adopt the vigilance of a Buckingham Palace guard to ensure no one snags a treadmill out of turn."
But now, Spectrum Health Club. For starters, membership is month to month, so I'm not trapped in any kind of labyrinthine multi-year contract like I was with Bally's. I can honest to god quit AT ANY TIME. And good thing, too, because the dues are expensive! This is how they keep from overcrowding the facility, it seems. It's elitist, it's snooty, it goes against my vaguely Socialist ideals, and it makes me feel slightly fraudulent, since I'm not rich like many of the members ... but I do appreciate being able to show up at 5:45, during peak after-work hours, and have my pick of cardio machines, no waiting. I should mention here that my work reimburses me forty bucks' worth of my dues each month, which makes membership doable for me. Otherwise? No way in hell.
So. Eight weeks, eight pounds. I realized on the elliptical trainer yesterday that today, June 17th, marks the beginning of my Eight-Week Countdown to 30. And I thought, Oh, that's funny, I happen to be eight pounds overweight. And then I recalled that a pound-a-week weight loss is supposed to be healthy and feasible, and then I thought, Hey! Why don't I try to lose one pound per week, every week, 'til my thirtieth birthday? That works out to eight pounds in eight weeks, see? So. That's the plan. I'm not really going to diet, per se, since clearly I ain't the dieting type. But I am going to work out regularly, which I need to do anyway, to lower my cholesterol (189) and increase my muscle strength and cardiovascular capacity. And I'm going to forego many of my usual foodie treats: cookies, cake, tortilla chips, huge burritos full of cheese, that type of thing. Basically, I'm going to eat and workout the way I know I should, for eight weeks. It would be nice to welcome The Big Three-Oh feeling healthier and more fit. I think it would help me feel better about getting older.
As for the DVD home workouts that I love so much: I'm not doing away with those. I love 10-Minute Solution Pilates! I'm going to do my home workouts every so often, for variety, when I need a reprieve from the gym. Maybe once a week or so.
So, today before I work out, I'll weigh myself. Then, this weekend, I'll gather up all my little scraps of pride, work them into a tight ball, punt that ball out my living-room window, and post the number here, on this blog. And I'll update my progress each week. Probably a bit boring and tedious for you, but strangely motivating for me. OK?
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Three Months to Three Years
Last night I met a couple of friends at a tapas bar in Los Feliz for drinks and superfluous food. Superfluous because all three of us had eaten dinner already and were full, but we had to order something to justify our sitting at a table while other would-be diners waited to be seated. Nothing like putting the contents of "Six-Piece Cheese Plate" and "Flourless Chocolate Cake" on top of a belly full of Italian food...yeesh. Anyway, at one point in the evening Friend 1 mentioned someone she knew who is "dying of cancer," specifically mouth cancer, and has a prognosis of "three months to three years" to live. This startled me right out of my food coma because, presumably, the woman is around my age: late twenties, early thirties.
At the time Friend 1 mentioned this woman, I felt alarmed and very sad. Then the conversation turned to other things and I lightened up again. On the long drive back home, however, I was caught in a traffic jam on Vermont and found myself pondering the stark bleakness of people dying young. I wondered what I would do if I were terminally, gravely ill and given a prognosis of "three months to three years" to live---a range of time which, incidentally, strikes me as grotesquely cutesy and tidy, and weirdly meaningless. People sometimes talk hypothetically on long car trips and during late-night conversations about what they'd do if they knew they had only a limited time left to live, and it's kind of a game and an amusing way to pass the time. "I'd have sex with as many people as possible," someone might say, or "I'd travel to China" or what have you. But in the isolation of my dark car last night, when I tried to imagine what I'd do, I became panicky and a bit hysterical. I also despaired at the huge number of mundane details that would require my attention were I to prepare for my own death. Never mind bungee-jumping off The Great Wall---what would become of my 401(k), and to what extent would I clean out my closet, my end table, and my overstuffed Box of Important Papers? I wouldn't want to leave a mess behind. But would I have the physical and emotional energy to do these chores? I can barely face them right now.
I decided I would quit my job---I wouldn't want to waste a single second of my dwindling remaining days trapped in a gray cubicle doing unimportant work. But then, without benefits, would I get on S's health insurance so I could continue receiving whatever treatment I was prescribed? Would that be financially burdensome? Would the subtraction of my income force S and I to move to a smaller apartment? Would the stress of moving further ruin my poor health? Would I even stay in Los Angeles? One thing I knew was that I'd want to be with my family as much as possible. Part of me immediately concluded I'd move back to NY to live with my parents in the home I grew up in. But then, would S be stuck in LA without me? He'd miss me, and I'd miss him. Maybe I'd stay out here but fly home often. Would I eventually become too sick and frail to travel? In that case, would my family fly out to spend time with me? I wondered, too, about getting pregnant. Would that still be feasible? Would it be irresponsible to knowingly conceive a child under the circumstances? But I think S would want a child---our child---anyway, if it were possible.
I think I'd have to sit down and make a list of Things to Do, People to See, and Places to Go in my remaining days. I'd have to brainstorm, then I'd have to narrow down and prioritize and consider what was practical and possible. Would I wish for trips to exotic places? I've wanted to go to Australia since I was eight. Or would I simply want to return to favorite, comfortable spots that define who I am...like my grandma's front porch, or childhood vacation spots like Cape Cod? I'd definitely want to spend lots of time with good friends, old friends, and my parents, brother, aunt, uncles, and grandmothers. And then, of course, there's S's family, too. I'd want to be with them as well.
I feel as though I wouldn't be interested in being online a whole lot...sitting in front of a computer making my way around the Internet is a nice way to pass the time but also confining and sometimes depressing. I think I'd feel differently about movies, though. I might rewatch old favorites and keep seeing whatever interested me in the theater. No bars, no clubs---well, maybe somewhere with dancing.
And that's about as far as I got, thinking it all through in the car last night. The whole exercise of imagining this situation was upsetting, certainly. But mostly it was inconceivable. I mean, try as I might, I of course could not truly put myself in the place, mentally, of someone who is dying. It's impossible, and futile, and foolish, really, to try to imagine you're living in a way that you're not. But I tend to always try: What would being in a major car crash feel like? What if S died? What will it be like when Mom and Dad are in their eighties? And then I concentrate on trying to summon these things in my imagination such that I can "rehearse" living through them. I read somewhere that this is actually a thing certain people do as sort of a defense mechanism---we don't like the feeling of being unprepared, so we try to imagine, in detail, what some event would be like, so that if or when it ever happens, we can say, "Come on now, Self. We've mentally prepared for this! We can handle it."
Strange.
At the time Friend 1 mentioned this woman, I felt alarmed and very sad. Then the conversation turned to other things and I lightened up again. On the long drive back home, however, I was caught in a traffic jam on Vermont and found myself pondering the stark bleakness of people dying young. I wondered what I would do if I were terminally, gravely ill and given a prognosis of "three months to three years" to live---a range of time which, incidentally, strikes me as grotesquely cutesy and tidy, and weirdly meaningless. People sometimes talk hypothetically on long car trips and during late-night conversations about what they'd do if they knew they had only a limited time left to live, and it's kind of a game and an amusing way to pass the time. "I'd have sex with as many people as possible," someone might say, or "I'd travel to China" or what have you. But in the isolation of my dark car last night, when I tried to imagine what I'd do, I became panicky and a bit hysterical. I also despaired at the huge number of mundane details that would require my attention were I to prepare for my own death. Never mind bungee-jumping off The Great Wall---what would become of my 401(k), and to what extent would I clean out my closet, my end table, and my overstuffed Box of Important Papers? I wouldn't want to leave a mess behind. But would I have the physical and emotional energy to do these chores? I can barely face them right now.
I decided I would quit my job---I wouldn't want to waste a single second of my dwindling remaining days trapped in a gray cubicle doing unimportant work. But then, without benefits, would I get on S's health insurance so I could continue receiving whatever treatment I was prescribed? Would that be financially burdensome? Would the subtraction of my income force S and I to move to a smaller apartment? Would the stress of moving further ruin my poor health? Would I even stay in Los Angeles? One thing I knew was that I'd want to be with my family as much as possible. Part of me immediately concluded I'd move back to NY to live with my parents in the home I grew up in. But then, would S be stuck in LA without me? He'd miss me, and I'd miss him. Maybe I'd stay out here but fly home often. Would I eventually become too sick and frail to travel? In that case, would my family fly out to spend time with me? I wondered, too, about getting pregnant. Would that still be feasible? Would it be irresponsible to knowingly conceive a child under the circumstances? But I think S would want a child---our child---anyway, if it were possible.
I think I'd have to sit down and make a list of Things to Do, People to See, and Places to Go in my remaining days. I'd have to brainstorm, then I'd have to narrow down and prioritize and consider what was practical and possible. Would I wish for trips to exotic places? I've wanted to go to Australia since I was eight. Or would I simply want to return to favorite, comfortable spots that define who I am...like my grandma's front porch, or childhood vacation spots like Cape Cod? I'd definitely want to spend lots of time with good friends, old friends, and my parents, brother, aunt, uncles, and grandmothers. And then, of course, there's S's family, too. I'd want to be with them as well.
I feel as though I wouldn't be interested in being online a whole lot...sitting in front of a computer making my way around the Internet is a nice way to pass the time but also confining and sometimes depressing. I think I'd feel differently about movies, though. I might rewatch old favorites and keep seeing whatever interested me in the theater. No bars, no clubs---well, maybe somewhere with dancing.
And that's about as far as I got, thinking it all through in the car last night. The whole exercise of imagining this situation was upsetting, certainly. But mostly it was inconceivable. I mean, try as I might, I of course could not truly put myself in the place, mentally, of someone who is dying. It's impossible, and futile, and foolish, really, to try to imagine you're living in a way that you're not. But I tend to always try: What would being in a major car crash feel like? What if S died? What will it be like when Mom and Dad are in their eighties? And then I concentrate on trying to summon these things in my imagination such that I can "rehearse" living through them. I read somewhere that this is actually a thing certain people do as sort of a defense mechanism---we don't like the feeling of being unprepared, so we try to imagine, in detail, what some event would be like, so that if or when it ever happens, we can say, "Come on now, Self. We've mentally prepared for this! We can handle it."
Strange.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
If You're Happy and You Know It...Shake Your Head in Puzzlement
Today I am inexplicably happy. I don't get it at all. For starters, last night I did nothing but sit on the couch and neglect the myriad household chores that needed attention. I worked on a few word puzzles and watched a couple hours of television. That's it. That kind of evening usually depresses me. Secondly, I ate so poorly today——consuming hundreds and hundreds of calories, and several plates full of miniature cookies——that I now feel bloated and sluggish, not to mention a bit guilty and ashamed. Again, this type of behavior normally plunges me into a deep, dark funk. But today? I just seem to be buoyed by feelings of contentment and mild joy, and nothing will bring me down. Weird!
I can only guess this la-dee-da-dee-da feeling is related to one or more of the following:
1. Ndugu is on yet another round of meds which seem to be working, for now. This means that the stress of waking up in the morning to foul-smelling poo stains hidden in hard-to-reach places has, for now, been eliminated.
2. My workload in the office this week has been juuuuuust right, with a dash of——gasp!——variety thrown in for added satisfaction.
3. I have, after a month-long hiatus, restarted my little Pilates and yoga home workouts.
4. Our tax refund has spruced up the appearance of our checking account a bit.
5. S and I finally bought a new couch (to arrive in a few weeks).
6. It's finally getting sunny and warm-ish outside, and the winds that have been blowing us around the past couple of weeks seem to have died down, finally.
7. Hormones?
So, while none of these things is particularly momentous or thrilling, perhaps the
combination of them is enough to perk me up and make me cheery.
Who knows?
I can only guess this la-dee-da-dee-da feeling is related to one or more of the following:
1. Ndugu is on yet another round of meds which seem to be working, for now. This means that the stress of waking up in the morning to foul-smelling poo stains hidden in hard-to-reach places has, for now, been eliminated.
2. My workload in the office this week has been juuuuuust right, with a dash of——gasp!——variety thrown in for added satisfaction.
3. I have, after a month-long hiatus, restarted my little Pilates and yoga home workouts.
4. Our tax refund has spruced up the appearance of our checking account a bit.
5. S and I finally bought a new couch (to arrive in a few weeks).
6. It's finally getting sunny and warm-ish outside, and the winds that have been blowing us around the past couple of weeks seem to have died down, finally.
7. Hormones?
So, while none of these things is particularly momentous or thrilling, perhaps the
combination of them is enough to perk me up and make me cheery.
Who knows?
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
I Still Like Lots of Things About This Country, Even Though Our President Is Crap
So, first off, I apologize for not yet responding to Brother M's comment about my Terry Schiavo post. In the frenzy of preparing for my trip to Ireland, my poor little Waxing Prosaic blog was neglected. And now that so much has happened between my last post and now, I've got other things I'd like to write about. For now, though, I'd just like to say that I hope Terry Sciavo's family is able to find some peace now that the political circus that had made her their headlining act has left town (for the time being, anyway). And, my personal lesson learned: Put down in writing what my wishes are for my own medical treatment should I ever suffer brain trauma that severe.
OK then! Let's transition awkwardly from personal tragedy exploited for political gain to M's return to the good old U.S. of A. two Tuesdays ago! S and I had a marvelous time in Ireland and thoroughly enjoyed all the food, sight-seeing, exploring, and time spent with my parents. I returned home so filled up on puréed vegetable soup, brown bread, Cadbury chocolate, and salmon that I'm near to bursting, and my newly ill-fitting pants are the proof. Sigh. I'm just so resentful of the positive correlation between overeating and gaining weight.
As for the sight-seeing, the highlights for S and I were the Cliffs of Moher on the west coast, Giant's Causeway on the northeastern coast, Donegal Town, and the town of Westport. We also found the day we spent in Derry (site of The Troubles and Bloody Sunday) in Northern Ireland educational and quite worth the visit. Exploring Westport, Donegal Town, and Galway with S was lots of fun, especially considering our good luck with the weather. Sunshine! Blue sky! Mild temperatures!
Spending time in Ireland and learning about its history (rocky) and status quo (economically booming) was refreshing and stimulating, but coming back home to the States was nice, too. Some bits of my American life that I missed while on the Emerald Isle included public-toilet-seat protectors, robust plumbing, racial diversity (my mom on Day 7 of our trip: "I think I've only seen, like, three black people total since we've arrived here!"), Starbucks...and unfashionable people. Like most Europeans, I suppose, the Irish are so stylishly dressed, it intimidates me. No one, anywhere, looks frumpy. It made me self-concious to be trekking around in what I thought were cool Adidas trail-running shoes when everyone around me had on sleek, narrow, minimalist urban casual shoes that weren't quite trainers but weren't quite something you'd wear to work. (One of my first orders of business upon returning home was to pick up a couple of pairs of sleek, narrow, minimalist urban casual shoes myself: I've now got a cute pair of Pumas in ecru suede and a pair of Adidas made of Asian-style embroidered satin. Hooray!) In Ireland, everyone's jeans were darker, crisper, and better tailored, and I saw no one---I mean, no one---in anything oversized.
Getting back to the U.S. was bittersweet, because while our vacation was over (boooo!), the California sunshine was strong and brilliant, and everything in Los Angeles was in bloom. I've been marvelling at the green trees and richly colored flowers ever since. I even bought some potted tulips for our front stoop. I'm trying hard not to kill them.
About three days after returning from Ireland, I hiked with some coworkers in a poppy preserve in the Antelope Valley (two hours north of L.A.). The scenery was so breath-takingly beautiful, it almost seemed fake, like a Hollywood creation. Rolling hills were covered in wildflowers: Goldfield, clover, and California poppies. Snow-capped mountains served as a backdrop. It rivalled even the most gorgeous scenery I saw in Ireland, and it made me proud that, while this country is definitely going through a rough patch on political, governmental, and socioeconomic levels, it's still got plenty of stunning natural beauty to admire.
OK then! Let's transition awkwardly from personal tragedy exploited for political gain to M's return to the good old U.S. of A. two Tuesdays ago! S and I had a marvelous time in Ireland and thoroughly enjoyed all the food, sight-seeing, exploring, and time spent with my parents. I returned home so filled up on puréed vegetable soup, brown bread, Cadbury chocolate, and salmon that I'm near to bursting, and my newly ill-fitting pants are the proof. Sigh. I'm just so resentful of the positive correlation between overeating and gaining weight.
As for the sight-seeing, the highlights for S and I were the Cliffs of Moher on the west coast, Giant's Causeway on the northeastern coast, Donegal Town, and the town of Westport. We also found the day we spent in Derry (site of The Troubles and Bloody Sunday) in Northern Ireland educational and quite worth the visit. Exploring Westport, Donegal Town, and Galway with S was lots of fun, especially considering our good luck with the weather. Sunshine! Blue sky! Mild temperatures!
Spending time in Ireland and learning about its history (rocky) and status quo (economically booming) was refreshing and stimulating, but coming back home to the States was nice, too. Some bits of my American life that I missed while on the Emerald Isle included public-toilet-seat protectors, robust plumbing, racial diversity (my mom on Day 7 of our trip: "I think I've only seen, like, three black people total since we've arrived here!"), Starbucks...and unfashionable people. Like most Europeans, I suppose, the Irish are so stylishly dressed, it intimidates me. No one, anywhere, looks frumpy. It made me self-concious to be trekking around in what I thought were cool Adidas trail-running shoes when everyone around me had on sleek, narrow, minimalist urban casual shoes that weren't quite trainers but weren't quite something you'd wear to work. (One of my first orders of business upon returning home was to pick up a couple of pairs of sleek, narrow, minimalist urban casual shoes myself: I've now got a cute pair of Pumas in ecru suede and a pair of Adidas made of Asian-style embroidered satin. Hooray!) In Ireland, everyone's jeans were darker, crisper, and better tailored, and I saw no one---I mean, no one---in anything oversized.
Getting back to the U.S. was bittersweet, because while our vacation was over (boooo!), the California sunshine was strong and brilliant, and everything in Los Angeles was in bloom. I've been marvelling at the green trees and richly colored flowers ever since. I even bought some potted tulips for our front stoop. I'm trying hard not to kill them.
About three days after returning from Ireland, I hiked with some coworkers in a poppy preserve in the Antelope Valley (two hours north of L.A.). The scenery was so breath-takingly beautiful, it almost seemed fake, like a Hollywood creation. Rolling hills were covered in wildflowers: Goldfield, clover, and California poppies. Snow-capped mountains served as a backdrop. It rivalled even the most gorgeous scenery I saw in Ireland, and it made me proud that, while this country is definitely going through a rough patch on political, governmental, and socioeconomic levels, it's still got plenty of stunning natural beauty to admire.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
That Guy and That Cat Walk Into a Bar...
So, today coworker-friend J sent me a very funny excerpt from the Frolic and Detour blog, written by Miss Alli, a recapper on one of my favorite Web sites, Television Without Pity. In her blog post, Miss Alli and her friend and fellow recapper, Sars, discuss the hundred or so permutations of That Guy. For example, there's That Guy Who Wears His Hat Backwards and Goes "Woooo!" There's Gore-Tex Vegetarian With Bicycle Guy. There's I'm Sensitive But Only So I Can Get Laid Guy, Defensive About Not Finishing College Guy, and Self-Conciously Offbeat Guy. Here in Los Angeles, we are all too familiar with Screams "Make It Happen!" Into His Cell Phone In Quiet Restaurants Guy, Talks Only About His Latest Acting Gig And Nothing Else Guy, and Wears Trucker Caps and Aviators Because Ashton Kutcher Wears Them Guy.
It all got me thinking: there's also That Cat. You know, That Cat Who Finds You Excruciatingly Boring, for instance. Or maybe That Cat Who Always Rubs Against Your Legs For So Long It Becomes Creepy. And of course, Kills All The Birds In The Neighborhood And Leaves Their Carcasses Lying About Cat. Here, for your reading pleasure (I hope), are various other That Cats, as categorized by J and me this afternoon:
Put Down the Claw Trimmer Before Someone Gets Hurt Cat
I Am in Love With This Magical Bathtub Cat
Do Not Mock My Hunger, Woman, Just Give Me the Goddamn Food Cat
Maybe If I Look Very Calm, No One Will Notice Me Walking on the Stove Cat
Only Fascinated by the Computer Keyboard When You Actually Want to Type on It Cat
It's 4:41 AM, Why Aren't You Awake and Playing With Me? Cat
Don't F-cking Wake Me Up From a Nap Ever Again Cat
Hooray! I Love Your Lap! Cat
Oops! I Accidentally Leaked A Bit of Poo Onto Your Comforter, But It's Cool 'Cause I'm So Cute, Right? Cat (that's our Ndugu!)
I Suppose You May Approach Me Now, But I Might Change My Mind And Bite You Cat (that's our Toonces!)
I Am So Over Playing With The Feather Wand Cat
Sweet Jesus, Is That A Cardboard Box Over There? I Must Jump Into It Immediately! Cat
Readers (all three or four of you), your additional contributions to this list are welcome!
In the meantime, I'll be working on my That Coworker list...
It all got me thinking: there's also That Cat. You know, That Cat Who Finds You Excruciatingly Boring, for instance. Or maybe That Cat Who Always Rubs Against Your Legs For So Long It Becomes Creepy. And of course, Kills All The Birds In The Neighborhood And Leaves Their Carcasses Lying About Cat. Here, for your reading pleasure (I hope), are various other That Cats, as categorized by J and me this afternoon:
Put Down the Claw Trimmer Before Someone Gets Hurt Cat
I Am in Love With This Magical Bathtub Cat
Do Not Mock My Hunger, Woman, Just Give Me the Goddamn Food Cat
Maybe If I Look Very Calm, No One Will Notice Me Walking on the Stove Cat
Only Fascinated by the Computer Keyboard When You Actually Want to Type on It Cat
It's 4:41 AM, Why Aren't You Awake and Playing With Me? Cat
Don't F-cking Wake Me Up From a Nap Ever Again Cat
Hooray! I Love Your Lap! Cat
Oops! I Accidentally Leaked A Bit of Poo Onto Your Comforter, But It's Cool 'Cause I'm So Cute, Right? Cat (that's our Ndugu!)
I Suppose You May Approach Me Now, But I Might Change My Mind And Bite You Cat (that's our Toonces!)
I Am So Over Playing With The Feather Wand Cat
Sweet Jesus, Is That A Cardboard Box Over There? I Must Jump Into It Immediately! Cat
Readers (all three or four of you), your additional contributions to this list are welcome!
In the meantime, I'll be working on my That Coworker list...
Dear Brother M,
Thank you for posting a comment. It's always nice to know someone out there is reading Waxing Prosaic!
I am currently crafting a response and will post it by the end of this week.
Love,
M
I am currently crafting a response and will post it by the end of this week.
Love,
M
Friday, March 18, 2005
Outrage: a rant
Does anyone else feel downright appalled by the Republican members of Congress who are trying to subpeona Terry Schiavo and bring her to Washington for a bogus hearing to "review health care policies and practices relevant to the care of nonambulatory persons such as Mrs. Schiavo"? I'm just stupefied that federal legislators would flagrantly make this desperate, transparent effort to intervene in a situation over which they have NO JURISDICTION. They are not the interpreters of the law in this country! This is clearly a judicial matter! And on top of this total, unabashed overstepping of bounds, these same individuals are making these totally wild, maniacal proclamations about keeping this woman---who they don't even know, of course---alive and protecting her from the "barbaric" act (Tom DeLay's word) of removing her feeding tube, "no matter what her husband says" (also Tom DeLay). I mean, could this jackass listen to himself? "No matter what her husband says"?! DeLay is essentially dismissing the legal fact of the Schiavos' marriage and Mr. Schiavo's inherent say in this situation.
What's happening here is that a family's tragic personal experience is being transformed into a theatrical political circus by these members of Congress and by the dramatic protesters outside Terry Schiavo's nursing facility. These people who have a zealous, maniacal reverence for "life" are showing blatant disrespect for the sensitivity of the Schiavos' situation and turning her into their unwitting emblem.
It's interesting and upsetting that these people (both the members of Congress and the protestors) seem to have chosen Ms. Schiavo as the poster child for their extreme beliefs about the supposed sanctity of "life." Why, then, don't they display the same outrage over the young men and women killed in Iraq every day? The ones who aren't even engaged in combat? All those lives wasted? What of the tragic human deaths that occur in this country every year at the hands of criminals armed with illegally obtained handguns? What about the loss of all of THAT life? Why choose the very sad, personal, private tragedy of this woman who has been in a persistent vegetative state for fifteen years to get hysterical over?
The protesters are robbing Terry Schiavo of her dignity, and the Republican members of Congress are pandering to the protesters. It's sickening. I'm just so appalled. I don't know what this country is about anymore.
What's happening here is that a family's tragic personal experience is being transformed into a theatrical political circus by these members of Congress and by the dramatic protesters outside Terry Schiavo's nursing facility. These people who have a zealous, maniacal reverence for "life" are showing blatant disrespect for the sensitivity of the Schiavos' situation and turning her into their unwitting emblem.
It's interesting and upsetting that these people (both the members of Congress and the protestors) seem to have chosen Ms. Schiavo as the poster child for their extreme beliefs about the supposed sanctity of "life." Why, then, don't they display the same outrage over the young men and women killed in Iraq every day? The ones who aren't even engaged in combat? All those lives wasted? What of the tragic human deaths that occur in this country every year at the hands of criminals armed with illegally obtained handguns? What about the loss of all of THAT life? Why choose the very sad, personal, private tragedy of this woman who has been in a persistent vegetative state for fifteen years to get hysterical over?
The protesters are robbing Terry Schiavo of her dignity, and the Republican members of Congress are pandering to the protesters. It's sickening. I'm just so appalled. I don't know what this country is about anymore.
Workin' It On Out
Two posts in one week! This is highly unusual, isn't it? There are three explanations for this. The first is that I've had a very light workload here in my cubicle this week (for practically the first time since the new year), and the second is that I'm reading Anne Lamott's wonderful and inspiring book on writing, Bird by Bird. I'm only a couple of chapters into it, and already I'm feeling motivated and rejuvenated. The third reason for the increased blogging frequency is that I've also been reading the Bad Mother blog, written by Ayelet Waldman (Michael Chabon's wife and a novelist herself). She stopped writing in February but all her old posts are still available online. I really enjoy her blogging style. She comes across as honest, genuine, funny, and thoughtful, which is how I'd like like my blogging to be.
So anyway, I'm writing today about my newfound love of the home workout, something to which I never, ever thought I'd take. I've always been a definite exercise-class person and have participated in such classes as yoga, Spinning, step aerobics, Latin dance, ballroom dance, Pilates, and something I'll call "faux bo" (fake boxing), because I can't remember the exact name. I enjoy working out within a group of like-minded exercisers under the tutelage of a living, breathing human being (as long as he or she is competent). There's something about the "we're all in this together" mentality that I find motivating. Most of the time, though, the class schedules don't quite jibe with my own, so I end up schlepping to the gym to work out independently on various pieces of equipment, which is just OK. I've been doing it for years, but lately I just can't tolerate it.
Maybe I'm getting old and crochety, but the entire gym experience is wearing on me, big time. Driving there, circling around for parking, keeping my membership card together with my water bottle and keys, waiting around to use sweat-soaked machines that don't always work, and witnessing way too much unsightly bare flesh in the locker room are among the lowlights. Also, my current gym features a red and black color scheme I find cold and depressing. Honestly, there's very little about the experience I'm not sick of.
So, when coworker-friend J first told me about a Karen Voigt yoga and Pilates DVD she'd recently received from her mom and started using, I asked her if maybe I could borrow it and give it a go. J had raved about how good the yoga had been making her feel, and I was familiar with Karen Voight's kick-ass, highly ripped self. She's been an exercise guru and icon for decades.
When I borrowed the DVD and gave it a whirl one weekend, there was the predictable awkwardness of trying to establish a suitable exercise space in my shoebox-sized living room combined with the constant repositioning of my yoga mat so that the television screen was always visible. Add to that a couple of curious felines nipping at my heels and fingertips whenever those body parts got within their range. Despite all of this, though, I enjoyed myself. Karen Voigt is not overly perky (hear that, Denise Austin?), her workout was doable but challenging, and I liked the yoga-Pilates combo. The music was quite cheesey and synthesized, but it seemed a small price to pay for the opportunity to stay out of the gym. And after my workout was over, I just rolled up my mat, dragged the coffee table back to the center of the room, and headed into the bathroom for a shower. The whole shebang was over and done with in one hour. Nice!
I returned the Karen Voigt DVD to J, ordered my own on Amazon, and wondered if Netflix had any fitness DVDs available that I could try. Sure enough, they do! I'm excited, because it means I can try out and experiement with various home workouts without having to actually purchase them, which means the potential for my becoming too bored with home workouts to continue is significantly reduced.
A couple of weeks ago I received "10-Minute Solutions: Pilates" from Netflix and ended up LOVING it so much that I bought it on Amazon, too. The disc cotains five 10-minute Pilates workout that you can do individually or all together for one fifty-minute session. You can also create your own workout by building a session from the 10-minute programs. I have to tell you, this whole "ten minutes" concept is genius. On a day when I'm tired, grumpy, or pressed for time, I need only pop the disc in for 10 minutes and still get the benefits of exercise. It's much less daunting than, say, a DVD that contains one 90-minute workout. Typically I do two workouts together, preceded by some walking in place and jumping jacks as a warmup, with some light stretching at the end. The whole bit is done in 30 minutes. On the weekends, when there's more time, I might do three of the workouts in a row, followed by a walk around the neighborhood.
I reeeeally like Pilates. I first took a Pilates class about two years ago at my gym and loved it right away. I went to maybe six or seven classes before reluctantly quitting because the class was at 1:00 p.m. on a Saturday---a most inconvenient time. Like yoga, mat Pilates helps you build strength without a bunch of boring weight-lifting and waiting around for equipment. There's a focus on trying to maintain a bit of grace as you perform the movements, which I appreciate. It's challenging and requires concentration, and it's so exciting to feel yourself start to improve. I also respect Pilates's history as a form of physical rehabilitation and medical treatment for soldiers wounded in war, and as a form of strengthening and muscle-lengthening poplular in the professional dance community.
So, I'm excited about working out at home and have been enjoying it immensely so far. It will be interesting to see whether I will choose to forego the gym for good or still get the urge to head over there on occasion. I do, after all, like the treadmill and the elliptical trainer. But now that the days are getting longer and the weather is gradually, tentatively getting warmer, I can't imagine wanting to relegate myself to the dank, cavernous gym anytime soon. Hooray for the home workout!
So anyway, I'm writing today about my newfound love of the home workout, something to which I never, ever thought I'd take. I've always been a definite exercise-class person and have participated in such classes as yoga, Spinning, step aerobics, Latin dance, ballroom dance, Pilates, and something I'll call "faux bo" (fake boxing), because I can't remember the exact name. I enjoy working out within a group of like-minded exercisers under the tutelage of a living, breathing human being (as long as he or she is competent). There's something about the "we're all in this together" mentality that I find motivating. Most of the time, though, the class schedules don't quite jibe with my own, so I end up schlepping to the gym to work out independently on various pieces of equipment, which is just OK. I've been doing it for years, but lately I just can't tolerate it.
Maybe I'm getting old and crochety, but the entire gym experience is wearing on me, big time. Driving there, circling around for parking, keeping my membership card together with my water bottle and keys, waiting around to use sweat-soaked machines that don't always work, and witnessing way too much unsightly bare flesh in the locker room are among the lowlights. Also, my current gym features a red and black color scheme I find cold and depressing. Honestly, there's very little about the experience I'm not sick of.
So, when coworker-friend J first told me about a Karen Voigt yoga and Pilates DVD she'd recently received from her mom and started using, I asked her if maybe I could borrow it and give it a go. J had raved about how good the yoga had been making her feel, and I was familiar with Karen Voight's kick-ass, highly ripped self. She's been an exercise guru and icon for decades.
When I borrowed the DVD and gave it a whirl one weekend, there was the predictable awkwardness of trying to establish a suitable exercise space in my shoebox-sized living room combined with the constant repositioning of my yoga mat so that the television screen was always visible. Add to that a couple of curious felines nipping at my heels and fingertips whenever those body parts got within their range. Despite all of this, though, I enjoyed myself. Karen Voigt is not overly perky (hear that, Denise Austin?), her workout was doable but challenging, and I liked the yoga-Pilates combo. The music was quite cheesey and synthesized, but it seemed a small price to pay for the opportunity to stay out of the gym. And after my workout was over, I just rolled up my mat, dragged the coffee table back to the center of the room, and headed into the bathroom for a shower. The whole shebang was over and done with in one hour. Nice!
I returned the Karen Voigt DVD to J, ordered my own on Amazon, and wondered if Netflix had any fitness DVDs available that I could try. Sure enough, they do! I'm excited, because it means I can try out and experiement with various home workouts without having to actually purchase them, which means the potential for my becoming too bored with home workouts to continue is significantly reduced.
A couple of weeks ago I received "10-Minute Solutions: Pilates" from Netflix and ended up LOVING it so much that I bought it on Amazon, too. The disc cotains five 10-minute Pilates workout that you can do individually or all together for one fifty-minute session. You can also create your own workout by building a session from the 10-minute programs. I have to tell you, this whole "ten minutes" concept is genius. On a day when I'm tired, grumpy, or pressed for time, I need only pop the disc in for 10 minutes and still get the benefits of exercise. It's much less daunting than, say, a DVD that contains one 90-minute workout. Typically I do two workouts together, preceded by some walking in place and jumping jacks as a warmup, with some light stretching at the end. The whole bit is done in 30 minutes. On the weekends, when there's more time, I might do three of the workouts in a row, followed by a walk around the neighborhood.
I reeeeally like Pilates. I first took a Pilates class about two years ago at my gym and loved it right away. I went to maybe six or seven classes before reluctantly quitting because the class was at 1:00 p.m. on a Saturday---a most inconvenient time. Like yoga, mat Pilates helps you build strength without a bunch of boring weight-lifting and waiting around for equipment. There's a focus on trying to maintain a bit of grace as you perform the movements, which I appreciate. It's challenging and requires concentration, and it's so exciting to feel yourself start to improve. I also respect Pilates's history as a form of physical rehabilitation and medical treatment for soldiers wounded in war, and as a form of strengthening and muscle-lengthening poplular in the professional dance community.
So, I'm excited about working out at home and have been enjoying it immensely so far. It will be interesting to see whether I will choose to forego the gym for good or still get the urge to head over there on occasion. I do, after all, like the treadmill and the elliptical trainer. But now that the days are getting longer and the weather is gradually, tentatively getting warmer, I can't imagine wanting to relegate myself to the dank, cavernous gym anytime soon. Hooray for the home workout!
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Damn you, cursed Val-Pak!
I like the idea of coupons. (Or "kewpons," as my Grandma W. calls them.) I'm drawn to the concept of cutting a few cents here and there from the overall grocery bill until BAM!—all those ten-cents-off and fifteen-cents-off have added up and added up and your total bill is ten bucks cheaper. Voila! And you can waltz happily out of Ralph's or Vons or Price Chopper or what have you, warm with the glow of triumphant penny-pinching.
However, there's a catch. Coupon cutters must be meticulously organized and sufficiently self-disciplined, two qualities of which I am utterly devoid. Let's begin with the organization part. After clipping the coupons, it's a bad idea to, for example, shove them into a remote kitchen drawer that's already choked with old mail, dead batteries, wrinkled take-out menus, and three-year-old birthday cards. Because if you do that, you'll forget all about them until your hand accidently grabs one the next time you're rummaging around that drawer for a battery. (Although, don't bother, because, like I said, only dead batteries are stored there.) By that time, the coupons will have expired, and you'll be left blinking at the expiration date trying to calculate what age you were when the coupon was still valid. (Twenty-six? Nineteen?) I can write all of this with authority because I am that unorganized person stuffing coupons into already overstuffed drawers. What you're supposed to do, I've gleaned from Grandma G. and a few everything-in-its-place–type friends over the years, is keep the coupons in a coupon organizer, which is like a narrow little accordian file folder. It's small enough to take up temporary, if not permanent, residence in a handbag, so that it may be quickly and easily retrieved the next time you're shopping. The contents of the organizer can be filed by expiration date, product type, whatever, so long as they're categorized somehow. Sadly, this type of coupon storage is, to me, admirable yet improbable. I just tend not to place a high priority on filing, or categorizing, or weeding out old documents to make room for the new. (You should see the wad of old Baja Fresh receipts in my purse. Shameful!) The coupon organizer ain't happenin' chez moi.
...and neither is the self-discipline required to cut out and save only the coupons that discount products you actually buy. Obviously, you're not saving money if you're using coupons to buy extra products you don't normally use. Duh. A simple enough concept to grasp, one would think. Not for me, though. I rip open the Val-Pak Coupons envelope (always the familar pale blue with the purple stripe), and (after frantically rummaging through to see if I've won "one of 500 hundred-dollar checks placed randomly in the envelopes") the next thing I know, I'm hoarding coupons for things like Mystic Tan, maid service, and brake jobs. I tend not to see the coupons as opportunities to save on things I need, but as reasons to give something new a try. Or, illogically, as chances to save a few bucks on something I might, someday, sometime, somewhere find myself wanting or needing, like said brake job. Of course, the coupon for the maid service, for instance, will expire long before I'm wealthy enough to afford a maid. So you see, I'm doing exactly what the merchants giving out the coupons WANT me to do! I'm viewing the coupons as opportunities to spend money rather than to save it. They've got me right where they want me, those clever local merchants! I'm their helpless little bitch! Unless, of course, I overcome the lure of the coupon next time the pale blue envelope arrives in the mail, if such a thing is possible. I'll show them! (Maybe.)
We shall see.
However, there's a catch. Coupon cutters must be meticulously organized and sufficiently self-disciplined, two qualities of which I am utterly devoid. Let's begin with the organization part. After clipping the coupons, it's a bad idea to, for example, shove them into a remote kitchen drawer that's already choked with old mail, dead batteries, wrinkled take-out menus, and three-year-old birthday cards. Because if you do that, you'll forget all about them until your hand accidently grabs one the next time you're rummaging around that drawer for a battery. (Although, don't bother, because, like I said, only dead batteries are stored there.) By that time, the coupons will have expired, and you'll be left blinking at the expiration date trying to calculate what age you were when the coupon was still valid. (Twenty-six? Nineteen?) I can write all of this with authority because I am that unorganized person stuffing coupons into already overstuffed drawers. What you're supposed to do, I've gleaned from Grandma G. and a few everything-in-its-place–type friends over the years, is keep the coupons in a coupon organizer, which is like a narrow little accordian file folder. It's small enough to take up temporary, if not permanent, residence in a handbag, so that it may be quickly and easily retrieved the next time you're shopping. The contents of the organizer can be filed by expiration date, product type, whatever, so long as they're categorized somehow. Sadly, this type of coupon storage is, to me, admirable yet improbable. I just tend not to place a high priority on filing, or categorizing, or weeding out old documents to make room for the new. (You should see the wad of old Baja Fresh receipts in my purse. Shameful!) The coupon organizer ain't happenin' chez moi.
...and neither is the self-discipline required to cut out and save only the coupons that discount products you actually buy. Obviously, you're not saving money if you're using coupons to buy extra products you don't normally use. Duh. A simple enough concept to grasp, one would think. Not for me, though. I rip open the Val-Pak Coupons envelope (always the familar pale blue with the purple stripe), and (after frantically rummaging through to see if I've won "one of 500 hundred-dollar checks placed randomly in the envelopes") the next thing I know, I'm hoarding coupons for things like Mystic Tan, maid service, and brake jobs. I tend not to see the coupons as opportunities to save on things I need, but as reasons to give something new a try. Or, illogically, as chances to save a few bucks on something I might, someday, sometime, somewhere find myself wanting or needing, like said brake job. Of course, the coupon for the maid service, for instance, will expire long before I'm wealthy enough to afford a maid. So you see, I'm doing exactly what the merchants giving out the coupons WANT me to do! I'm viewing the coupons as opportunities to spend money rather than to save it. They've got me right where they want me, those clever local merchants! I'm their helpless little bitch! Unless, of course, I overcome the lure of the coupon next time the pale blue envelope arrives in the mail, if such a thing is possible. I'll show them! (Maybe.)
We shall see.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens
Actually, raindrops on roses are NOT one of my favorite things, because when I think about raindrops on roses, the mental picture that forms is one of cheap fake flowers with faux plastic dewdrops on the petals. Have you seen those? You can find them at your local drugstore in the weeks leading up to Valentine's Day. They're the saddest thing I've ever seen.
I do like whiskers on kittens, though.
Anyway, I hope this isn't lame, but I thought I'd whip up a list of my (current) favorite things. That's very self-indulgent, isn't it? Well, this entire blog is by its very nature self-indulgent, so why fight it?
Food:
-The curry at Chan Darette
-Seedless grapes
-Baby carrots (They're like crack, these things! If I could smoke them, I would.)
-Apple sauce
-The carnitas street tacos at Rubio's
-Orange juice
-Jasmine green tea
-Pumpkin butter, something I found at Trader Joe's
Movies:
-Shaun of the Dead
-Ray
Books:
-The Okinawa Program
-Taking Charge of Your Fertility (just, you know, for future reference)
Television:
-Project Runway (which has inspired me to ask for a sewing lesson from my friend)
-Supernanny (oh, the horror!)
-Oprah
-Unscripted
-Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (Ty Pennington = cheesy like a radio deejay, yet so very pleasant to look at, and talented to boot)
-The brand spankin' new season of The Amazing Race, featuring a JMU alum (go Dukes!)
URLs:
-Rotten Tomatoes
-Margaret Cho's blog, which I just recently discovered
-Slate
-Television Without Pity, of course
-Wikipedia
-Good ol' Craig's List
Music:
-The Black-Eyed Peas
-The Black-Eyed Peas
-The Black-Eyed Peas
-Maroon 5
-The Black-Eyed Peas
Hobbies:
-Blogging, natch
-Journaling
-Knitting
-Cooking (nothing crazy, but I did make miso soup recently, and a baked chicken-and-root-vegetables thing with Tandoori marinade last weekend)
People:
-S
-Our vet
-Barbara Boxer
-Jamie Foxx
NEWSFLASH! NEWSFLASH! This just in! My wee little 26-year-old brother and his lovely wife T are preggers! It's all very exciting and mind-boggling...
My niece/nephew is due in November.
I do like whiskers on kittens, though.
Anyway, I hope this isn't lame, but I thought I'd whip up a list of my (current) favorite things. That's very self-indulgent, isn't it? Well, this entire blog is by its very nature self-indulgent, so why fight it?
Food:
-The curry at Chan Darette
-Seedless grapes
-Baby carrots (They're like crack, these things! If I could smoke them, I would.)
-Apple sauce
-The carnitas street tacos at Rubio's
-Orange juice
-Jasmine green tea
-Pumpkin butter, something I found at Trader Joe's
Movies:
-Shaun of the Dead
-Ray
Books:
-The Okinawa Program
-Taking Charge of Your Fertility (just, you know, for future reference)
Television:
-Project Runway (which has inspired me to ask for a sewing lesson from my friend)
-Supernanny (oh, the horror!)
-Oprah
-Unscripted
-Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (Ty Pennington = cheesy like a radio deejay, yet so very pleasant to look at, and talented to boot)
-The brand spankin' new season of The Amazing Race, featuring a JMU alum (go Dukes!)
URLs:
-Rotten Tomatoes
-Margaret Cho's blog, which I just recently discovered
-Slate
-Television Without Pity, of course
-Wikipedia
-Good ol' Craig's List
Music:
-The Black-Eyed Peas
-The Black-Eyed Peas
-The Black-Eyed Peas
-Maroon 5
-The Black-Eyed Peas
Hobbies:
-Blogging, natch
-Journaling
-Knitting
-Cooking (nothing crazy, but I did make miso soup recently, and a baked chicken-and-root-vegetables thing with Tandoori marinade last weekend)
People:
-S
-Our vet
-Barbara Boxer
-Jamie Foxx
NEWSFLASH! NEWSFLASH! This just in! My wee little 26-year-old brother and his lovely wife T are preggers! It's all very exciting and mind-boggling...
My niece/nephew is due in November.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Was I a long-lived Okinawan in my former life?
I ask this question because I am currently going through a personal mini-revolution of sorts, the cause of which is a book I am reading called The Okinawa Program. Listen, I don't mean to get all evangelical on anyone, but I feel passionately enthusiastic about this book. I'm five chapters into it, and already I'm a changed woman. I know I often speak (and write) in hyperboles, but I do mean it when I say this book has had a powerful effect on how I think about health, lifestyle, food, weight, and age. I want to recommend it to everyone I know who is interested in health, nutrition, Eastern thought, and science. It's that good.
Here's the deal: Earth's longest-lived human beings live on an island off of Japan called Okinawa. I believe it served as a U.S. base of operations in World War Two. (I'd better check that, though. I'd hate to be dead wrong about a key time in U.S. history. A-hem.) Anyway, this land was once the Kingdom of Ryuku, but now it is a territory of Japan that-I believe-is subject to Japan's rule. And while Japan boasts better life-span statistics than the United States, Okinawa's lifespan numbers are the best (i.e., highest) in the world. A significant percentage of Okinawans live to be 100 or older, and they maintain good quality of life into their nineties and beyond. So we've got a lot to learn from these people, obviously. They must be doing something, if not everything, right.
A group of science-medicine-academic types began formally studing elderly Okinawans more than 25 years ago, and their findings, plus recommendations for we Westerners who want a little of what the Okinawans have, are documented in this well-organized, fact-packed, readable book.
I am so impressed. For starters, I, like probably most Americans, tend to get my health and nutrition info in bits and pieces here and there from a variety of credible and not-so-credible sources: fitness magazines, national and local media, diet books, etc. It can be exhausting and frustrating trying to keep on top of it all and weed out the fact from the hype. One simple yet brilliant thing the authors of this book have done is to basically compile the latest and most-proven health and lifestyle information in one place and footnote it so that you can know exactly which studies produced which facts. Hooray! They've weaved all of this information in where appropriate; that is, where it relates to the Okinawan lifestyle and contributes to Okinawans' superior health and longevity. For instance, there's a wonderfully detailed (and admittedly frightening) section on trans fat, a nutrient that has just recently been examined by researchers and categorized as really, really bad. In explaining what trans fats are, how they affect one's health, and where they appear in popular American foods, the writers make the point that Okinawans don't eat trans fat, ever. Because it's a manufactured fat produced by food companies to keep food "fresh" (read: "preserved") without refrigeration for long periods of time, it's used mainly in convenience foods, the likes of which the older Okinawan generation has never even seen, much less ingested. (By the way, I am horrified to learn that trans fats show up in places I'd never expected, including powdered cocoa mixes-Damn you, Swiss Miss!-and microwave popcorn.)
Another appealing characteristic of the writing is its straightforwardness and total lack of author-promoting spin. (Anyone who's read the late Robert Atkins's The New Diet Revolution and hated it knows what I'm talking about. Ugh.) The authors of The Okinawa Program are clearly so excited about the findings of their research that they feel compelled to share it with the Western world, and they are careful to do it in a way that is direct, honest, and respectful. Where so many "hot" diet books insult their readership by taking a defiant tone and failing to provide scientific or medical evidence to back their claims, this book shows nothing but respect and concern for its readers by providing as much science-based, well-documented information as possible. I appreciate that immensely. And the result of all of this directness and honesty is powerful, influential writing. When the authors tell you your high saturated-fat intake and social isolation are slowly killing you, you know they're not playing around. They've footnoted that statement three times over, and they haven't minced words. Powerful stuff.
So, on to how The Okinawa Program is changing my life. Well, for starters, it's really reshaped my thinking about my health in general. Instead of seeing it as little individual compartments that I label "good," "bad," or "mediocre" (nutrition: bad, physical fitness: mediocre, emotional fitness: good, etc.), I'm seeing it more holistically. I'm also taking my health much more seriously, because the hard, cold truth is that I'm 29 years old, so playtime is over. People, I'm nearly 30. One can't afford to be effing around with one's arteries and bone density and whatnot at that age. And considering the amount of effing around (with my health, that is) I did in my teens and twenties, it's high time I made amends. There's no time to waste anymore. Each decision I make now will contribute to my overall cumulative health, and that's serious business. It's hard to explain, and I'm not doing a good job of expressing the fundamental shift in thinking I'm undergoing, but here are some specific changes I have made so far, and some that I plan to make over the next year:
So far, I have set a requirement for myself to eat five fruits and vegetables (total) per day. I'm starting with five, and I plan to work up to seven over the next several weeks. This is a big deal for me, as I have probably never eaten this many fruits and veggies on a per-day basis in my entire life. Fortunately, I'm enjoying the challenge! I have also increased my daily intake of flavonoid foods, which include soy products, tea, and cranberry juice. I am trying to eat fish once per week for now, be it in the form of sushi or a tuna-fish sandwich. I'm rarely eating mayonnaise. I'm cutting way the hell down on my baked-goods consumption. I'm shopping around for a vegetable steamer. I'm setting aside (more) time each week to knit and see friends. I'm taking walks often.
Over the next year, I will be experimenting with Asian cooking and ingredients. I wasn't born with a taste for tofu, but I'll acquire one! I've got friends to help me with this, thank goodness. (Hi, CL!) I'm also excited about incorporating miso into simple dishes and making stir-fry and curry. When I feel my ailing hip can handle it, I'll return to yoga and maybe give Tai Chi a try. I also plan to make keeping a clean, tidy, cozy home a priority. I'd also like to watch less television (gulp) and do more trying of new things.
I think the timing for all of this couldn't be better, since, as I mentioned, I'm turning 30 this year. Perhaps making healthful lifestyle changes will help me greet the Big Three-Oh with less trepidation and more acceptance. Hell, maybe I'll embrace it!
One step at a time, though.
Here's the deal: Earth's longest-lived human beings live on an island off of Japan called Okinawa. I believe it served as a U.S. base of operations in World War Two. (I'd better check that, though. I'd hate to be dead wrong about a key time in U.S. history. A-hem.) Anyway, this land was once the Kingdom of Ryuku, but now it is a territory of Japan that-I believe-is subject to Japan's rule. And while Japan boasts better life-span statistics than the United States, Okinawa's lifespan numbers are the best (i.e., highest) in the world. A significant percentage of Okinawans live to be 100 or older, and they maintain good quality of life into their nineties and beyond. So we've got a lot to learn from these people, obviously. They must be doing something, if not everything, right.
A group of science-medicine-academic types began formally studing elderly Okinawans more than 25 years ago, and their findings, plus recommendations for we Westerners who want a little of what the Okinawans have, are documented in this well-organized, fact-packed, readable book.
I am so impressed. For starters, I, like probably most Americans, tend to get my health and nutrition info in bits and pieces here and there from a variety of credible and not-so-credible sources: fitness magazines, national and local media, diet books, etc. It can be exhausting and frustrating trying to keep on top of it all and weed out the fact from the hype. One simple yet brilliant thing the authors of this book have done is to basically compile the latest and most-proven health and lifestyle information in one place and footnote it so that you can know exactly which studies produced which facts. Hooray! They've weaved all of this information in where appropriate; that is, where it relates to the Okinawan lifestyle and contributes to Okinawans' superior health and longevity. For instance, there's a wonderfully detailed (and admittedly frightening) section on trans fat, a nutrient that has just recently been examined by researchers and categorized as really, really bad. In explaining what trans fats are, how they affect one's health, and where they appear in popular American foods, the writers make the point that Okinawans don't eat trans fat, ever. Because it's a manufactured fat produced by food companies to keep food "fresh" (read: "preserved") without refrigeration for long periods of time, it's used mainly in convenience foods, the likes of which the older Okinawan generation has never even seen, much less ingested. (By the way, I am horrified to learn that trans fats show up in places I'd never expected, including powdered cocoa mixes-Damn you, Swiss Miss!-and microwave popcorn.)
Another appealing characteristic of the writing is its straightforwardness and total lack of author-promoting spin. (Anyone who's read the late Robert Atkins's The New Diet Revolution and hated it knows what I'm talking about. Ugh.) The authors of The Okinawa Program are clearly so excited about the findings of their research that they feel compelled to share it with the Western world, and they are careful to do it in a way that is direct, honest, and respectful. Where so many "hot" diet books insult their readership by taking a defiant tone and failing to provide scientific or medical evidence to back their claims, this book shows nothing but respect and concern for its readers by providing as much science-based, well-documented information as possible. I appreciate that immensely. And the result of all of this directness and honesty is powerful, influential writing. When the authors tell you your high saturated-fat intake and social isolation are slowly killing you, you know they're not playing around. They've footnoted that statement three times over, and they haven't minced words. Powerful stuff.
So, on to how The Okinawa Program is changing my life. Well, for starters, it's really reshaped my thinking about my health in general. Instead of seeing it as little individual compartments that I label "good," "bad," or "mediocre" (nutrition: bad, physical fitness: mediocre, emotional fitness: good, etc.), I'm seeing it more holistically. I'm also taking my health much more seriously, because the hard, cold truth is that I'm 29 years old, so playtime is over. People, I'm nearly 30. One can't afford to be effing around with one's arteries and bone density and whatnot at that age. And considering the amount of effing around (with my health, that is) I did in my teens and twenties, it's high time I made amends. There's no time to waste anymore. Each decision I make now will contribute to my overall cumulative health, and that's serious business. It's hard to explain, and I'm not doing a good job of expressing the fundamental shift in thinking I'm undergoing, but here are some specific changes I have made so far, and some that I plan to make over the next year:
So far, I have set a requirement for myself to eat five fruits and vegetables (total) per day. I'm starting with five, and I plan to work up to seven over the next several weeks. This is a big deal for me, as I have probably never eaten this many fruits and veggies on a per-day basis in my entire life. Fortunately, I'm enjoying the challenge! I have also increased my daily intake of flavonoid foods, which include soy products, tea, and cranberry juice. I am trying to eat fish once per week for now, be it in the form of sushi or a tuna-fish sandwich. I'm rarely eating mayonnaise. I'm cutting way the hell down on my baked-goods consumption. I'm shopping around for a vegetable steamer. I'm setting aside (more) time each week to knit and see friends. I'm taking walks often.
Over the next year, I will be experimenting with Asian cooking and ingredients. I wasn't born with a taste for tofu, but I'll acquire one! I've got friends to help me with this, thank goodness. (Hi, CL!) I'm also excited about incorporating miso into simple dishes and making stir-fry and curry. When I feel my ailing hip can handle it, I'll return to yoga and maybe give Tai Chi a try. I also plan to make keeping a clean, tidy, cozy home a priority. I'd also like to watch less television (gulp) and do more trying of new things.
I think the timing for all of this couldn't be better, since, as I mentioned, I'm turning 30 this year. Perhaps making healthful lifestyle changes will help me greet the Big Three-Oh with less trepidation and more acceptance. Hell, maybe I'll embrace it!
One step at a time, though.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Things That Are Meditative
I've done the type of meditation that comes to mind when you hear the word: the kind that involves sitting on the floor on a cushion or yoga mat, legs folded into the lotus position, palms resting upward on thighs, eyes closed. Each time I've been guided, along with yoga classmates, through the meditation by an instructor, and each time I've felt that I wasn't quite doing it "right." The repetitive, mindful breathing never fully "takes," I guess you'd say. I'm never able to lull myself into that sort of subconcious state of concentration; my mind wanders away from the pattern of the breathing, and the next thing you know, I'm rehashing old high-school relationships or wondering when I'll decide to have a baby and what I'll name it. That kind of thing.
Lately, though, I've started noticing the meditative qualities of other activities, things that aren't called "meditation" but for me result in what I know I'm supposed to achieve during those last fifteen minutes of yoga class. Here's an incomplete list:
-knitting
-running
-singing
-carving a pumpkin
-proofreading long, nontechnical articles
-tallying figures
-making lists
-vacuuming
-stretching
-driving on an empty, scenic road
When I try to determine what all of these activities have in common, I come up with two things: they are repetitious and they require moderate concentration. The key word in the latter characteristic being "moderate." So while adding up columns of numbers for me is pleasantly therapeutic because it requires attention and concentration but is not complicated, filling out a tax return or working through a word problem ("Two trains are coming at each other at different speeds...") is not. Likewise, driving on a country road or remote stretch of interstate is meditative; fighting traffic on La Cienega Boulevard during rush hour is not, because it requires intense concentration and is unpredictable.
Lately I've been hearing and reading (in everything from Newsweek to fiction) about the meditative qualities of knitting, and I can attest to those qualities now that I am an (admittedly novice) knitter myself. I've also heard and read about gardening as a meditative activity, and I could see how that would be true. I might like to take it up as a hobby once I own my own home.
What's intriguing is that it seems that current research indicates that meditative activities are beneficial for health. I've read a bit about super-healthy elderly people who regularly knit, or garden, or do crossword puzzles. The general gist seems to be that incorporating some meditative activities into one's life on a regular basis can contribute to both physical and mental health, which I think is neat. It's not often you hear that something enjoyable might also provide health benefits! (The recent exception being, of course, eating dark chocolate.)It'll be interesting to see where the research leads.
Lately, though, I've started noticing the meditative qualities of other activities, things that aren't called "meditation" but for me result in what I know I'm supposed to achieve during those last fifteen minutes of yoga class. Here's an incomplete list:
-knitting
-running
-singing
-carving a pumpkin
-proofreading long, nontechnical articles
-tallying figures
-making lists
-vacuuming
-stretching
-driving on an empty, scenic road
When I try to determine what all of these activities have in common, I come up with two things: they are repetitious and they require moderate concentration. The key word in the latter characteristic being "moderate." So while adding up columns of numbers for me is pleasantly therapeutic because it requires attention and concentration but is not complicated, filling out a tax return or working through a word problem ("Two trains are coming at each other at different speeds...") is not. Likewise, driving on a country road or remote stretch of interstate is meditative; fighting traffic on La Cienega Boulevard during rush hour is not, because it requires intense concentration and is unpredictable.
Lately I've been hearing and reading (in everything from Newsweek to fiction) about the meditative qualities of knitting, and I can attest to those qualities now that I am an (admittedly novice) knitter myself. I've also heard and read about gardening as a meditative activity, and I could see how that would be true. I might like to take it up as a hobby once I own my own home.
What's intriguing is that it seems that current research indicates that meditative activities are beneficial for health. I've read a bit about super-healthy elderly people who regularly knit, or garden, or do crossword puzzles. The general gist seems to be that incorporating some meditative activities into one's life on a regular basis can contribute to both physical and mental health, which I think is neat. It's not often you hear that something enjoyable might also provide health benefits! (The recent exception being, of course, eating dark chocolate.)It'll be interesting to see where the research leads.
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