A Bunny Trail, Not a Check In

I feel overwhelmed by quantifiable data right now (as a side note, I felt very impressed with myself that I spelled quantifiable right in the first try and even did that thing where you just slam the key board, like so aoishdfalhsdfh, to see if it's working).

What do I mean by that? Not that I am a scientist deep in research (that'd be cool if that's where this story was going). No, that I am constantly trying to gather numbers to support my worth and growth.

I obsess over:

How many clients I see a week.

How much money did I make seeing said clients.

How many views did my blog get.

How many papers did I grade.

How many likes did my Instagram post get.

How much weight have I lost.

How many inches.

Gather, gather, crunch, crunch, gather. Data. Data. Data. Data. Proof. Proof. Proof.

And, shockingly, it's never enough.

Cognitively, I know I could sit there and say, "I saw 522 clients today, made a najillion dollars, my blog and Instagram broke the internet with all my attention, and I lost 100 lbs," and still not feel good enough. Emotionally, I feel crippled by my imagined failure because the numbers just don't seem to say otherwise and I believe if I could just. get. one. more. I'd be able to rest in the knowledge that I'm enough.

I'm bruised and battered by my need to prove my value, my contribution, my goodness. I cut myself up with my scrambling to gather the data, and then rub lemon juice in the cuts with my mental agony when there just isn't enough proof.

It'd be nice to end this on a note of - "but it's okay e'rybody, value isn't quantifiable, it's qualitative and I'm a delightful human being." But, I'm not Barney (which would also be cool if that's where this post was heading), or any other childhood cheerleader. I'm a person, a person who struggles to know my inherent worth. A struggle many other's can relate to.

If you are feeling like I do, know that you are not alone. I'm sitting there in the mud with you, thinking, well hell, I won't ever be able to clean up enough.

But we will. We're delightful. And if I have to go all purple dinosaur on you and myself to be heard, I guess that is where this post is heading.

Oh! Unexpected twist. Go be awesome. Because you are. And so am I, numbers be damned. I, mean, I can spell quantifiable in one try. 

Week 1 Was No Fun

Continuing the theme of running around like a penguin with my ass on fire (if you get the reference, high five. If you don't, go get caught up on Doctor Who because the new companion, Bill, is everything), I'm late in posting my promised weekly update.

That actually is thematically appropriate with how the past ten days have gone - I'm making progress and sticking with the plan, but about every third step is a misstep.

OVERALL: I've never known true lust, until I was sitting in Panera enjoying my blessedly allowed coffee while making googly eyes at the bagels. The things I would have done to get a bagel are embarrassing. I get that these changes are suppose to be profound and deep, valuing the energy and life that carrots give you. I don't really care. Carrots will never stir in me what bagels do. Here's looking at you, Asiago Cheese.  

WINS: I stuck with my meal plan the whole work week, even in the face of wanting to throw it all away on Friday.

I went to the gym twice.

That's about it.

NOT SO MUCH WINS: Weekends man. I gotta get a new strategy. Or someone to walk behind me yelling at me about my choices. We had three parties this weekend, including one at my mom's house. And my mom can throw down in the kitchen. I had a tectonic struggle with the queso - words were said, insults thrown. I am proud to say that I won that particular scrimmage, but mostly because I was stuffing my face with tequila lime chicken wings.

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I can't even bring myself to tell you about the whooping I took from the margaritas. 

I went to the gym twice.

Based on the fact that I'm suppose to go six times a week (or work outs can be done from home, so really my excuse machine is real delusional), that's a solidly failing grade. 

I also had two EPIC melt downs. I was going to write about them (my mental issues around food are PROFOUND. I'm a professional, I can assess these things), but honestly it deserves it's own post. Just know that my husband is a saint and there's a 75% chance I'm severely unbalanced.

MOVING FORWARD: I'm being hard on myself above, mostly because I respond well to self-imposed criticism. While it's good to reflect, and mildly shame myself with Friends' memes, the important point is that it is about progress, not perfection. And I made progress dang it. All I can do is tackle each second as a new second.

And get a restraining order involving all things tequila. 

I bought adorable gym clothes as motivation - look how cute!

Day 1 - General Discomfort with Discussing Weight

Holy eight months of not blogging, Batman.

Between being gut wrenchingly busy externally, a ball of mess internally, and struggling with wicked writer's block, I've had nothing to say.

There's only so many times you can pop in and say, "hi! I'm a mess!" or "hi! I'm still a mess!" before it moves from transparent and endearing, to whiny, self-indulgent crap. So, I've been keeping to myself with said crap.

Additionally, let's be honest, there's not a lot that's funny in the world these days. Even in the darkest of times, I believe in the value of focusing on the light. That said, I've just personally not been up to the burden of trying to combat the dumpster fire of reality of the world right now with pithy stories of banana costumes and gas leaks (one day I'll tell that tale).

I'm not back at this point to regale you with my humorous retellings of stories (none of the above has changed), but because I'm fat.

GASP. Awkward silence. Uncomfortable mutterings, "oh no, don't say..."

Shut up. I can say what I want. And I have some things I need to say that involve facing the elephant in the room (no pun intended - no need to make this mean).

My blog is called "America Made Me Fat," largely because I'm large (ha! I am still pithy). I've written before about my struggle with weight, the ups and downs, the feelings, the shame, the hope, the embracing of self, blah blah blah. And, really, by blah blah blah, I mean those are good things to write about and process and share and I don't take them back. BUT ENOUGH.

I'M FAT. Full stop.

And I don't want to be anymore. I don't mind being curvy or having a rack that makes everyone envious. I don't need to be a fitness model. But I need to stop having to frame every picture around masking said fatness. I need to feel comfortable on airplanes. I need to feel fine sprinting up two flights of stairs. I need to not avoid the doctor because I know what they're going to say. I need to go on vacation without little girls shrieking with laughter and calling me, "La Gorda."

ENOUGH.

So. This blog is changing directions for awhile. It's going to be a documentation of a journey I'm embarking on. It probably won't be your cup of tea. But, I'm doing this for me.

I'm starting a program called "Fit Girls." Don't worry. I cringe every time I say it, too. It's equal parts endearing, inspiring, and silly. Which, let's be honest, is right up my ally. It's an easy to follow meal plan and exercise plan. It's all about self-love, and part of self-love being get your shit together because you deserve better.

SO! I'm starting with the 28 day jump start program. Today is day 1. I have a whole new Instagram that will also be part of documenting this. The whole point of over sharing all of this, weekly blogging and daily Instagraming (@fitinspiteofamerica if you'd like to follow), is for me to hopefully be accountable.

I wish I had some really on point wrap up paragraph that would make you laugh and inspire you. I don't. Wish me luck.  

The Ultimate Guide to Rocking Life

I’ve seen an inordinate amount of blog posts recently about hints and steps to optimize your life. This ranges from the “Most Perfect t Morning Routine Ever in 167 Easy Minutes” to “How to be a 50s Housewife in 27 Easy Daily Steps” to “How to Kick All the Ass at Work All the Time and Still Have Time for a Massage.” Needless to say, they overwhelm me, make me feel a smidge inferior, and end with me eating peanut butter by the spoonful. I’m really glad to know there are successful people out there, and I do hope those articles help people. I decided to make my own, possibly more realistic “How To” complete with examples.

  

My 10 Steps to a Successful Day:

11 .       Start on the Right Foot

Real Life Example: bargain with yourself in the mornings. How I execute this tricky step: I open my bleary eyes, look at the time on my phone, and then start a serious of calculations involving minutes until I have to leave, minutes per task that has to be completed, and other such factors and an epic internal debate to shame any scholar, and make mental health professionals question how many people live in my head.

“All right. If you don’t do your makeup, you can have seven and a half more minutes of sleep.”

“Pft. Please. Like that will convince me to get up.”

“Okay… if you drink coffee at the office instead of making it at home, you can stare blankly at the back wall of the shower for four minutes and 23 seconds. “

“Nope. Can’t make me.”

“How about if you wear the same thing you wore yesterday, with a spritz of Fabreeze, you can hold your dogs for three more minutes.”

“LALALALA. I can’t hear you.”

“FINE! Just get up and brush your teeth and you can watch a half episode of Buffy.”

“I just have to brush my teeth? That’s all I have to do today? Fine, deal.”

22.       Follow Through

Real Life Example: stare blankly at the back of the shower. Obviously, you must up hold whatever bargaining chips were utilized to complete step 1, else you will have no power the next day. I find this a particularly useful approach, because it’s basically like still being asleep with the added bonus of feeling like you are making progress.

33.       Eat a Nutritious Breakfast

Real Life Example: stare blankly at your refrigerator. Give up. Go to Starbucks. We all know balanced nutrition is a must for a successful life, and that packing your own food is always the better approach. I figure, A for effort really goes a long way for breakfast; additionally, coffee and nutritionally valueless sugar free syrup make a nice compromise to a home cooked meal.

44.       Execute a Daily Plan

 Real Life Example: bumble your way from task to task. My typical day involves at least three different work hats, at three different locations. I like to keep expectations nice and low, so making a screaming entrance and equally chaotic exit is essential. Try and forget important things as well, whether it be paperwork or tasks you were supposed to complete.  

55.       Keep Your Eye on the Prize

Real Life Example: be willing to sell your soul for a nap. It is important to know your heart’s desire and to work towards your goals.

66.       Utilize Your Commute

Real Life Example: Stare blankly at traffic. Finding that perfect balance is always the goal – this is a nice way to keep you morning and afternoons centered on the same theme.

77.       Practice Gratitude

Real Life Example: be so grateful to be home that you stay on the floor for 30 minutes. This example really only applies if you are an introvert. As I am the poster child for Introverts United, Separately and from our Own Homes, this step is crucial. You often have periods of time that you are not using to full potential. I encourage you to really look for those so you can fill them with tasks that are life giving, like lying on the floor crippled by the overwhelming feelings of angst of being around people all day and delight at being by yourself at home. The occasional groan pulled from your soul is encouraged.

88.       Cultivate Communication

Real Life Example: complain about all the things. It is important in our busyness to find time for the important relationships in our lives. I like to whine about everything in a big onslaught to my husband as soon as we are both home. Bonus if you are also whining via text message to other people. This is rounded out nicely if you end it with a half-hearted argument about what’s for dinner at the end.    

99.       Stay on Top of Chores

Real Life Example: rewash that load of laundry for the third time, since you aren’t sure if the last attempt was this week or the previous. ‘Nuff said.  

110.   Meditate on Your Day

Real Life Example: feel deep existential angst about your failings during the day, come up with elaborate plan how tomorrow will be different, go to sleep knowing it will totally work this time. 

I'm Not a Hot Mess, I'm a Mess Mess

First, and most importantly, if you're a Coloradan go here and read this, it's an important and necessary ballot initiative that people should learn about (and in my opinion, support)

 http://denver.cbslocal.com/2016/06/01/governor-hickenlooper-colorado-constitution-changes/

Any who, on to the meat of my story.

9 times out of 10 I am a hot mess. Or as I like to say, minus the hot, with extra mess. So... a mess mess.

Last Wednesday was no exception - I was in rare form. At my (very new) part time job, a chunk of our staff works remotely so every few months we have an on sight staff meeting. The day before the staff meeting, we got our agenda for the next day and a note that said casual dress was fine.

The agenda was: breakfast, rally for a ballot initiative, staff meeting, Rockies game. Got it. Rockies game and casual dress, that means Rockies' t-shirt. Check.

I show up at breakfast in beach capris, pig tails, and this shirt:

I look around and notice everyone else looks much more presentable and businessey.

Hm. I misunderstood casual. Awkward. That's all right, now I know for next time. 

Embarrassment level: 1.5 (for a girl who had to negotiate the fire department, police department, and a 300 person company during a gas leak while dressed in a 6ft banana suit, this is small potatoes)

After breakfast we load up to go to the rally.

Now. I hear rally... I think pom poms, signs, hot dogs, maybe a few high fives.

Nope. Not even close.

This was more... important politicians, news cameras, maybe a few firm hand shakes.

As we walk in to the Aurora City Hall, I notice I am now beyond misunderstanding about casual to woefully under-dressed for an important event.

Embarrassment level: 3.5 (banana suit fire drill aside, important, well-dressed people in echoy marble halls filled with flags up the ante)

Well, I'm uncomfortable. That's okay, I'll just hide here in the back.

As I'm doing my best to blend in with a sea of pant suits, in my neon purple shirt, I'm told that I need to go up front with the other staff members. Nope. No. Hard pass.

Apparently hard pass is not as strong as I think, because moments later I'm at the front of the hall, behind the podium. In front of the camera. Behind the mayor of Aurora, a senator, and other people whose shoes are so reflective I can see my own distorted face.

Embarrassment level: 5.5 (cameras. 'Nuff said)

I'm telling my co-worker that I'm rapidly descending in to the "I can't move" level of embarrassment, when someone walks by saying: "the Governor will be here in five."

Sure.

Suuuuuure.

Sure.

Embarrassment level: 7 (Sure)

So. Me. Purple shirt. Purple shirt that says "Purple Mondays." It's Wednesday. Cameras. Fancy marble hall. The Governor.

Sure.

So I do what any high functioning, level headed person would do. I hide behind tall people. Successfully, might I add.

And then take a derp selfie to document all of this.

Don't worry. This is my fancy derp face, you can tell from my double chin.

I've Heard it Both Ways

I've been watching the show Psych. And by watching I mean completely, unhealthily binging. Like all the time. I love it. One of the continuous bits is the plethora of jobs the main character has had. I was thinking to myself - haha, silly Shawn Spencer, no one has had that many jobs. Wait. I have. 

I've had many, many a job - partially since I started working right when I turned 16 and partially because I spent many a moon being a lost little ship.

I've decided to list the various life lessons I learned at some of my past places of employment.

My very first job was at a DRY CLEANERS:

- Humans are disgusting. Like, grosser than you could ever imagine. Like, clumps of downstairs hair in zippers gross. Shudder. Some things never leave you. 

I then moved on to work in the three year-old class room at a DAYCARE:

- If you can get 30 three year-olds into swimsuits and their 30 different sunscreens on, there's little that will intimidate you going forward in life. The saying should not be"herding cats" but "herding a gaggle of three year-olds hopped up on sugar and excited for swim time all greased up with sunscreen."

My first job in college was as a TELEMARKETER:

- This job sucks just as much on the making side as the receiving side. "THANKS FOR YOUR TIME AHOLE!" is an appropriate expression for a variety of settings. 

Spent a summer as a file clerk at a TRASH COMPANY: 

- The variety of trash related problems in the world are shocking. And the passion people feel about these trash related problems is much, much larger than you'd guess. Don't take not having trash problems for granted.

Another summer as a PERSONAL ASSISTANT:

- Me woken up at 6am: "Snergfhhh. Yup." Her: "I need a car charger for my phone in the next thirty minutes." Me: "Gah. Where are you? What kind of phone." Her: "Home. It's orange." Click. Yup. Devil Wears Prada is a real thing, but with less fashion and more confusion. If you speak with enough authority, apparently people will just do things for you.

Another summer as a DOG WALKER:

- I am not equipped for anything outside of man to man coverage when it comes for caring for things that are alive. Like dogs. They smell incompetence. 

I proceeded to spend most of my college years at a BURGER PLACE:

- I know how many 2 oz condiment cups it takes to empty a Crown Royal bottle between three people. I also know you shouldn't let three young adults be in charge of or left alone at an establishment.

Also in college I was a YOUTH INTERN:

- Despite the above life lesson, they let me work with impressionable young people... and I have never learned so much or felt so hopeful for the future as I did in that job.

My first job out of college was as an executive assistant at a NON-PROFIT THRIFT STORE:

- I actually learned a lot at this job, largely because my desk (and who I reported to) was between two married people who had a ... volatile... way of relating to each other. I learned how to hum loudly and lose myself in Farmville. Also, people are capable of much more than we give them credit for and organizations that strive to help people who are shunted by society are to be commended... regardless of how loud the executive assistant has to hum to not go bananas. 

My next job was as a HR ASSISTANT: 

- With great power comes great responsibility. Oh. The secrets you find out. The power. THE POWER. It was too much. Fade to black.

After we moved to Denver I started working at an OB/GYN:

- You CAN make this face for a year straight.

I then moved to NEUROLOGY:

- There are not many places or people where I don't feel like sass is appropriate - all sass all the time. However, neurosurgeons are the exception to this (and I include sassing rocket scientists in this statement). It's hard to argue with someone who operates on brains - successfully. However, McDreamy is a big, fat false advertisement. 

During grad school I worked at an INSURANCE COMPANY:

- Working with some of your best friends is a hootenanny. Working in a male dominated field, not so much. Making it rain every time proving all the sexists wrong, brings us back up to hootenanny level.   

I am now a THERAPIST (among other things):

- People are crazy. I'm crazy. We're all crazy. Isn't it glorious? 

Obviously, You're Single

An open letter to the man I met last week.

When you stated to me, "well, you're obviously single" and gestured up and down my body a la Hiccup's father from How to Train Your Dragon, you joined an illustrious group of people.

The lady at the grocery store who pulled me aside to ask, "do you need help picking out vegetables since you don't usually buy them?"

The doctor who stated, "you'd be so beautiful if you could just lose thirty pounds."

The dietitian that said, "it's a good thing your husband does not mind fat chicks."

As I sat across from you trying not to cry, because by George I have my pride if nothing else, many thoughts and feelings crossed my mind.

There's so much I could say that is empowering and truthful. I'm not attractive despite being overweight, I'm hot as hell. Period. I could site a plethora of empowering, body positive thoughts and mantras. I love myself. You don't get to take that away from me. I could tell you all about my supermodel eyebrows or my baby doll skin; that I don't just feel attractive a lot of the time, I am attractive.

I could wax poetic about how there's nothing wrong with my husband for thinking I'm spectacular,
even though, yes, I'm fat. Gasp! He loves me anyway! He'd choose me over any other woman, every time - the horror! Sorry. I descended into sarcasm there for a bit. Yes. My husband is an Adonis, the total package. He's handsome, successful, intelligent, humorous, and caring. And he's crazy for me. He thinks I'm the total package. Not despite my weight. Period.

We could journey down the long road that is a frustrating mixture of nature and nurture that has lead me to this hefty predicament: my slow metabolism, my poor coping skills, various cognitive distortions that have created an unhealthy dependency on food, America. There could be an explanation of if there was an easy fix (just stop it! stop eating!), I'd do it, damn it. I do worry about my health. I do care about my future. I'm not dumb.

I could bear my soul and tell you how I cry in dressing rooms because I hate seeing myself in those three way mirrors with the lighting from Satan himself. That I hate myself when I lay down to go to sleep, if I have eaten something that does not have 100 percent nutritional value. How I explore the infinite ways life could be better if I was just skinnier. The fear I live in to see pity or disgust in peoples' eyes, or worse, comments like the one you made. To know they are justified and it is true, my weight is shockingly noticeable.    

I could say all of that, or none of it. It does not matter. There is nothing I can say that will change the snap judgment you made about me, based on my weight. The fact that in your eyes my value was summed up and discarded in lieu of my rotund appearance.

There's not really a point to this letter. You can't take back what you said. I can't deny how it cut me to the core, how it stirred up so many things inside of me. What I can do is put some of it in writing. For you, and others, to see weight is not a simple issue. It is not simple how I "got" this way. There is no simple solution. It's not simple if I even want a solution. There is no simple way to sum up how it impacts me.

All of that said, you sir, are an asshole. Unlike my body and image issues, that's pretty straight forward. I hope you get a permanent paper cut and have to juice lemons the rest of your life.

Best Regards,

Anna Kristine  

I Work Out! Wait... I Meant... I Work Nights!

I have not blogged in a loooooong time. I mean months. That's like a millennia in internet time (I'm not sure of the exact conversion, so give or take a few years or hundred.)

There's a lot of reasons. I have had mono. I was looking for a full time counseling job. I got a full time counseling job. I was training for said job. I have been in the throes of a general existential crisis since graduating in December.

And, as of this week, I am working nights. Over the weekends. It's the prime-o shift, e'rybody wants it.

Needless to say, for someone who would pick sleep over anything short of meeting the Queen of England (and even then, is there tea and scones involved? If I'm not being fed, what's the point), this has been a tough week. Tough enough that I thought to myself, "self, what can you do to make this easier? You should blog, you love blogging! It's okay that you have nothing to say. You haven't slept much in five days, so everything you have to say will be hilarious. To you."

In the spirit of full disclosure, I am writing this at 3 o'clock in the morning. Also,  I just sat for five minutes staring at my computer trying to think of the phrase "spirit of full disclosure."

 Onward, to the point of this. Or as close as we will get to one.

WHAT I'VE LEARNED FROM WORKING THE NIGHT SHIFT! (For four days)

The title is a work in progress.

1. It's the worst. I am trying really hard to be positive, but there's no way around the fact that working from midnight to 8am sucks. I could wax poetic about the ways I hate it, but it's fairly straight forward - working while everyone else sleeps, and sleeping while everyone else works and plays is no fun. If you haven't done the graveyard shift, you should probably throw yourself a five second dance party. Right now. We'll wait. If you have, and you love it and it's the best thing to happen to you, all I can say is I'm glad but that makes all of my internal emotions feel this way:

2. I suddenly runneth over for analogies about what I feel like. Things I've compared myself to: a mole person, a troll, a vampire, a barnacle, a slug, those animals that get all squinty and sad in the sun...

True story, I just realized the animal I was talking about was a mole. Thus the phrase mole person. That I used in the same sentence. And didn't put two and two together.

Also, I googled pictures of moles, and guys, they're the worst. So scary, I can't even bring myself to post a picture. Shudder. So we'll settle for this artistic rendition.

3. I think I'm brilliant and witty at 4 in the morning. It's like when you wake up from a dream thinking, "oh my goodness, of course I should open a cupcake shop with JJ Watt. Why have I never thought of this brilliant idea before?!" About a half hour ago I thought to myself, "yes! I finally figured it out! The plot to my best selling novel!" I won't bore with you the details, but it made as much sense as my recruiting from the Texans to open a bakery.

4. I'm glad to be doing it. Despite all of the negative (which is plentiful), I'm glad that there are 24 hour a day resources for people who feel hopeless and alone. I plan on writing a whole post on this topic, when I'm not feeling like I am detached from my body, but know if you are hurting that you are not alone ever. There's someone you can talk to 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I know this because I'm lit-rally sitting here waiting for calls. And the sunrise. And for my sanity to return.

The Antidote to Bullies is Wicked and Doctor Who

Something weird is a foot in my life – I am being bullied. This might sound odd, considering I am almost 30 years old. It’s especially strange because I am one of the lucky few who escaped school age without being bullied.

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I understand Glinda on a deep level - glitter and ruffles included. 

Thus, it has been a weird few weeks/months. I have dealt with some overt, mean-spirited comments from a person, particularly about my intelligence and impact on people. These have basically been that I am dumb and annoying, in a nut shell. Completely separate, I have been told I don’t provide value to an organization. Also separate, it’s been communicated that while I am funny and entertaining, I do not provide much beyond that.

OUCH.

Pft.

Rude.

Ouch. I want to joke my way through this, but it has hurt pretty bad. I feel a little like a kicked puppy. I was crying to my husband about it and I asked, “what have I done to make people think I am such a joke?”

And that’s exactly how I feel. I love making people laugh, but not at the cost of my worth. I am not a joke. I am competent and bright and good at what I do. The people who matter in my life know this and speak life in to me. I am lucky that I have an iron clad support system (some who have sworn vengeance through interpretative dance). I realized, however, that not everyone has that, and they completely believe the bullies and the negative comments, and think they do not matter.

And that sucks, because everyone matters. EVERYONE MATTERS. YOU MATTER.

We can be so mean. So many get their value from stepping on others. No matter how many times you’ve been stepped on, or been the stepper, you matter. Everyone is made in the image of God. Everyone has purpose, gifting, heartbreak. You have impacted lives and made a mark on this world, even if you cannot see it. YOU MATTER. We all matter.

It can be hard to believe this, especially when you are hearing differently from mean people. If I’ve learned anything in this season is that bullies know no age or stage of life. It sucks. It hurts real bad, I’m learning that firsthand. But I refuse to let that change how I view my value. Sometimes the anger burns and the tears sting. They can crawl under your skin. You have to be active to push them back out. Don’t let them win. You are not a joke. I am not a joke. YOU MATTER.

This post has been more repetitive than I  meant, but that's what I want to communicate. No one is expendable. No one is disposable. No one is pointless. No matter what the bullies think or say.

People wonder why I love Doctor Who so much. Primarily, it’s because the Doctor gets this concept – take it away Matt Smith!    

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Marriage is the Worst. And the Best.

I was watching Inside Out the other night for the first time. Oh, the feels. THE FEELS. Literally, figuratively, metaphorically, grammatically. ALL THE FEELS. If you haven't seen it, do it. Right now. If it doesn't move you, I'm 97.9% sure you are a gargoyle. You should see someone about that. I could write a whole book on the lessons and beauty of that movie. But, I'll spare you. One small piece I was struck by while watching, in the tide of emotions, was Riley's imaginary boyfriend. It caught my attention, because, yeah, that was totally a thing when I was eleven.

Heck, it's been a thing my whole life. There's never been a time I didn't love boys and the idea of marriage. Not having a family (no pretend babies in my childhood), but a husband. My first boyfriend was in kindergarten and we would blow kisses to each other from our nap towels. Alas, my first love wasn't meant to be.

In elementary school it was boys with cool hair and who were good at kickball. In middle school it was boys who were rebels and smoked cigarettes behind the school. In high school it was mature older guys who had accents and a job. You work at KFC? That'ts the dream!

And, so on. I dated, I had serious relationships, I feel in "love," and through it all I dreamed of being married. I dreamed about getting flowers everyday and being showered with compliments. I dreamed of starlight picnics and cuddling on the couch. Marriage was going to be the epitome of my life, it was THE DREAM (it did evolve at some point past the guy having a job at a chicken fast food restaurant).

And then, when I was 21, I met John. He was tall and handsome, hard-working, and very funny. We started dating, and then we got engaged, and then got married 6 years ago. There were fairy tale moments (I'll write a post sometime about our engagement story, and you will weep from the beauty of it. WEEP, I tell you) and still are. But.... there's been a lot of shit, too.

I always joke that John and I have not taken the rainbow and butterflies approach to marriage, rather the clawing tooth and nail to make it work approach.

There have been struggles from day one. I remember early in our marriage fighting about something. Whatever the topic was it ended with me saying, "fine, just go." John turned to leave. And I threw a role of paper towels. At his head.

He's hurt my feelings. I've used my words as weapons. We've ignored each other's needs. We've isolated from each other. There's been yelling and tears. The paper towels were not the last thing I threw. It has been ugly. Sometimes REAL ugly.

Eleven year-old me would be horrified.

But.

Oh, the lovely but.

It's all been worth it. Cue the cheeeeeeeese!

Every morning John gets up to let the dogs out (did I mention he's good looking, and a saint?) and when he comes back he shoves into my side of the bed, wraps around me, and steals all my stored up warmth.

He worries about my feelings when I've backed my car into his, not worrying about the unnecessary damage I've done.

He follows me around Comic Con, regardless of what insane outfit I'm wearing.

He tells me not to give up when I feel defeated, reminding me of my giftings and success. His encouragement has, at times, propelled me through grad school when I have had nothing left to give.

Why am I writing all this? Partially so everyone can know how great my husband is, because he does not toot his own horn. I encourage through writing and words, so this is a way for me to show love.

There's the obvious point that marriage probably won't look like you thought it would. And for sure not what you thought it would be as a child.

But, the main point is, no one can tell you what marriage should look like. Some people are able to work solely on butterflies and rainbows in their marriage. Some people fight fiercely, and love equally so. Some people have crap communication but show love in other ways. There's no one way to define intimacy. Priorities are different. Growth is different. Pain is different.

Marriage is hard enough figuring it out between two people - we don't need to make it harder by incorporating other people's views of what is right. Basically, you do you.

Marriage is not at all what I expected it would be. It's not what I was told it would be. There is not a rubric I'm grading it on. Marriage, for me, is the unique, wonderful relationship between me and John. It's constantly evolving, it's high and low, it's painful and healing, it reveals God to me and the ugliness of being human. It's our story, in all its complexity and simplicity.

What. What? WHAT??

This is a follow up post to this post here - Part 1. You can go back and read it, we'll wait. 

Buckle up, here we go!

Example 4 - Gaps in Your Passport Country's History.

I'm a bright girl. I received a great education, overseas and here for high school. I felt quite ready for college. I was sitting in my very first class, brand new notebook, a multitude of colored pens, the idealistic hopes and dreams that only an 18 year old possesses, when reality hit. My teacher did a quick introduction and hit the ground running. No syllabus day (the blasphemy! Syllabus day is the BEST day!), no ice breakers, just a deluge of information. 

About two minutes into the lecture I realized that everyone else is taking notes and nodding and I'm staring blankly at my teacher. I had no idea what he was saying. He was using words I'd never heard of. 

Articles of Confederation? Nope. Never heard of them. Constitution? I mean, I've heard that word. I think. George Washington? Oh! I know this one! First President! 

Needless to say my total of one year of American History before college did not prepare me for this class. My roommate use to make fun of me because my textbook for that class was highlighted. I mean the whole thing was highlighted. Every word. They wouldn't buy it back at the end of the semester. 

Example 5 - Gaps in Your Passport Country's Food. 

I was three and a half when we first visited the States. My parents, realizing what a shock I was in for, packed a whole suit case of Japanese snacks for me. Smart people, my parents.

(As a note, I do not remember this story, yet being the storyteller I am, shall tell it like I do)

Our first morning at my grandparents' house they served us doughnuts. My grandfather had been horrified to learn I had never had a doughnut and everyone was excited to see my response to my very first chocolate doughnut. 

They placed it in front of me. The excitement was palpable. I stared at the doughnut. I got up and left the table.

Confused silence.

I walked back with something in my hot little hand. Seaweed. It was seaweed. I put it on the chocolate doughnut. The seaweed. On the doughnut. The chocolate doughnut. And I ate it.  

via

Yes, Shocked Doughnut, it's true. 

Example 6 - Gaps in Your Passport Country's Pop Culture.

I saw most of my movies growing up recorded from American TV on to VHS. I watched Apollo 13 approximately a billion times. And then some. I can't remember what movie I was watching later that also had the line, that many space movies have, "Houston, we have a problem." I was probably around 10 years-old, and I was stunned. Like Shocked Doughnut up there. 

What are the chances that the person at NASA in this movie is also named Houston? There's no way! Hm. There must be a different explanation. Oh! I've got it! It must be the position title, so they always know how to address the person listening. 'The Houston' job. 

Yup. I thought I had it figure out and went on my merry way. For almost a decade longer.

Fast forward, I'm 19 years-old and driving through Houston, Texas and my friend points out the direction NASA is.

"Oh, I didn't know NASA was in Houston."

"Oh."

"Houston." 

"HOUSTON."

"HOUSTON, TEXAS. OH!!!" 

 

"HOUSTON WE HAVE A PROBLEM."

Which, apparently is an alarming thing to yell while driving a car. Lesson learned. 

Also, I haven't ever seen any of the Indiana Jones movies

via

Yes, Shocked Astronaut, it's true. 

A Post About Growing Up Overseas, and the Hard Road Home; a Tale of Corn Flakes, Tears, and Grandparents

Growing up overseas leads to a variety of weird experiences in your passport country.

Example 1 - the Dreaded Cereal Aisle.

Most families who live overseas have a very set plan for their first day "home." Ours was always Mexican food (bean and cheese burrito for me) and Walmart. We didn't necessarily need anything, but there's something that cries out to be around ALL THOSE OPTIONS. Oh Walmart, like a mirage in the desert. You think it's exactly what you need to embrace being back in America. And a trip to Walmart is a blindingly good example of some of the struggles I'm thinking about.

The below example is not necessarily the first trip to Walmart story, which is a family affair. It's more of the, your mom letting you run into Walmart on your own a few days later story.

You know that scene in the Matrix where Neo is getting guns to rescue Morpheus and there are aisles and aisles flying by, and then they zoom down what seems an infinite aisle? Yeah, going to Walmart and into the cereal aisle for the first time when you get back to the States is exactly like that.

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At first you are excited and want ALL THE CEREAL. And then it starts to get a little overwhelming. And then you start crying because your brain is short circuiting about cereal and you choose Corn Flakes because that's the only cereal that looks familiar. You don't even like Corn Flakes. 

Example 2 - Paying for the Cereal. 

You take your sniveling self and your sad box of cereal (you don't get anything else because if you can't pick out cereal, there's no way you are up to facing the horror of shampoo choices yet) to the check out line. At this point all of your senses are being assaulted - it's noisy, crowded, too bright, and too many smells. You start digging around for money.

American money. Sigh. There is nothing quite as tortuous as a handful of coins you don't recognize and a line of fifteen people behind you, while you try to figure out 66 cents in change. 

You: "Sorry, weird question, how would one exactly make 66 cents in change?"

Cashier: blank look. 

You: "Um, hm, sorry. Never mind. Here. These two big ones are 25 cents right? So that's 50? So I just need 16 more?" Hands over 2 quarters. Nailed it.

Cashier: "Um. Yeah."

You: Staring blankly at the rest of the coins in your hand. You know one is five and one is ten. Hands the cashier a nickle. "This must be the ten cents."

Cashier: "No. That's a nickle."

You: "Sure, sure. Sorry, what's a nickle worth?" It deteriorates from there. It almost always ends with you shoving all of the coins at the cashier and running out of the store. Why are dimes so small? Why are they worth more than their giant sibling the nickle? Who named these ridiculous coins? Why can't we just be civilized and refer to them as their worth - "ten cent coin"?

Example 3 - Eating the Cereal. 

There is always that moment when you realize your passport country isn't actually home, in the truest sense of the word. Sometimes it's while you are eating soggy Corn Flakes. Possibly soggy from all of the tears of confusion. Why is everything so hard and different here? Why don't I fit in? Why is this so much work? Why isn't Walmart the answer to all the questions? Why didn't I buy Cinnamon Toast Crunch?

This is a low point. You feel all wonky and off-kilter and full of cardboard and confusion. But then, your grandmother, who before last week you hadn't seen in three years, walks over, and takes your bowl of Corn Flakes away. She hands you half of an old fashioned cake doughnut and an IBC root beer in the bottle. Suddenly, things are much brighter.

Okay, enough sentimentality. Example 4, 5, and 6 will be my next post, and to be honest where the real humor begins. This was all just to set the stage for the horror that involves the Constitution, seaweed, and astronauts. You want to tune in for part 2, I pinky promise. 

A Personal Tale of Anxiety

Hi, my name is Anna, and I like to make people laugh. I'm upbeat and lighthearted and bringing joy to others through humor is very satisfying to me. Call me for a good time (not in the writing on the bathroom wall kind of way, in the belly laugh and jokes kind of way)!

This is a truthful introduction.

Hi, my name is Anna, and I suffer from anxiety and panic attacks, to the point that it sometimes feels debilitating.

This is also a truthful introduction, and it goes on.

There's a healthy level of anxiety, it makes us get things done and think about consequences to our actions. I typically sit one or two notches above that healthy level. Not to where it interferes with my life, but is mildly uncomfortable.

There are times, though, that the anxiety ratchets way up. Sometimes this is a panic attack which is an explosion of agony, a catastrophic amount of internal pain that feels like it is actually  killing you. Sometimes it is the anxiety sitting right around an 8. The problem with this type of anxiety/panic hybrid for me is that I feel like it's the worst of both worlds. Panic attacks, for me, burn bright and hot but flash out fairly quickly. This perpetual level 8 is a long, hard boil that feels like it will have no end.

You are a prisoner in your own mind and body. Your skin is sweaty and chilled at the same time; pieces of it feeling like they are crawling in different directions. You want to pace, you want to curl up in a ball, you want to do anything to stop the building pain. Of course, your chest is tight and your heart beat is doing something weird (mine actually slows down if it's not a full blown panic attack). You can't totally swallow, there's no room for food. Sleep alludes you and you slowly lose your grip on logic. Every thing in your life looks different - why hasn't this person called? what are those people talking about? why do I feel this way, am I sick? The paranoia mounts to a point where your whole world is washed out in places but piercingly bright in others. Everything feels 32 degrees off, and you are fighting as hard as you can to hang on to the ground. You want to cry but there are no tears; everything feels explosive, yet stuck at the same time. It's like you are the big bang, but got frozen three seconds in.

And you have no idea when it will end. It's the moment before the panic attack, but you never get to the full boil, which is great because you don't end up stuck in a laundry basket, but agony because there is no release.

You try everything. Deep breathing, holding ice cubes, stretching, going for a walk, reading something funny, reading the Bible. You ask for help, you tell others. Nothing helps.

Sometimes you are a therapist and in your own therapy and logically you should be able to beat this. You have the tools, you know the techniques, and you have the insight in to your childhood about why you struggle with anxiety. None of it matters. The anxiety grips every one of your cells, you are a prisoner. You are trapped in the catastrophizing of your mind, chewing up and spitting out everything that is good, and in your body because it hurts so bad physically.

Why am I writing this? To be cathartic. To remind myself that it ends. I will get back to my happy 3 or 4. To help those who don't struggle with this to begin to understand. Largely because people don't talk about it. To let others know they aren't alone. It's national suicide prevention month. Many people don't "get" suicide. I don't totally "get" it on a personal level. However, I do  know how it feels to feel like you are no longer a passenger on your own ship, let alone the captain. I know how it feels to stay silent, because your problems feel too big and too unrelatable. I know desperation, the voice screaming in your head, "fix this! Fix this however you can!" I know silence is never the answer.

So, my words to you are, you're not alone. If you struggle with anxiety or depression or OCD or a personality disorder or any number of mental illness. You are not alone. And you are not broken. I have all the tools and training and support I "should" need to not struggle with anxiety. It doesn't matter, mental illness is not always in our control. I know you don't want sympathy or advice, but I do know that I understand on some level. You are not alone. You are worth fighting for. Your flavor of crazy is not too much for me.  

Hi, my name is Anna, and I suffer from anxiety and panic attacks, to the point that it sometimes feels debilitating. But that's not the entirety or the end of my story, and it doesn't have to be yours either.

The Woes of Resting Nice Face

There has been a lot of media attention raising awareness of a condition called RBF (that means Resting Bitch Face, mom and dad [sorry for swearing mom and dad {my parents are half my readership, I own it}]) recently. This just basically means that your face looks angry all the time, regardless of feelings. The struggle is real, or so I hear. I have no idea because I suffer from a very different affliction - RNF, Resting Nice Face. I have a round face, pronounced apple cheeks, endearing dimples, and huge anime eyes:

What can I say, I'm adorable, mostly because I have a raging case of RNF. Let me illustrate. When people look at me they see:

via (and, yes, I know, it's a stuffed animal)

When really I feel like so:

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There are many disconcerting impacts of RNF. Like, people don't take you seriously: "Oh sweetie, that's cute but let's let the big kids brainstorm." You get called sweetie a lot. People think you are naive, "ear muffs? I'm 28 years-old and you want me to cover my ears? I'll tell you where to put your ear muffs." Sometimes you even get pulled in, "wait a minute. Why am I covering my ears?"

However, it is the, as I call it, Trifecta of Awful, that is the worst part of RNF.

Part 1 - The Assumption: Everyone thinks you're nice. For my RBF brethren/sisteren, the opposite is true. They often have the conversation of:

Other Person: "OMG I thought you hated me, you seemed so mean!"

RBF Person: "No, that's just my face. I'm actually 97% pixie dust."

I, on the other hand, always hear:

Other Person: "OMG I think you are so nice, you seem so wonderful!"

Here's the catch. You can't say, "No, that's just my face. I'm actually 97% angst, judgement, and disdain." So, you just nod and smile (because you are always smiling) and die a little inside.

Part 2 - The Talking: Since everyone thinks you're nice, they think you want to talk about all the things, hear all the secrets, and braid each others' hair all the time. The things I've heard.

What I say: "oh yeah, great, awesome, wonderful, fantastic." What I'm thinking: "who are you? No, seriously, who are you? Is this real life? You do know we've never met, right?"

Part 3 - The Touching: Since they believe you are nice and they've already told you their life story, you are obviously BFFFFFFFFFFFFs, so of course you need to hug it out.

NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.

How I feel (and I swear the face I make):

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What people obviously see:

via

There is little I hate more than being touched. If you ever need to torture me for information, just bear hug me and I'll sing like a canary in about 10 seconds. There is also nothing RNF communicates more than, "Hi! I love you! You should come hug me, pat me, squeeze my arm, or rub my head so that I know how much you love me too!" 

That is never what I mean. Ever. 

What is your resting face? Is it accurate? Does it get you in trouble?

International Travel Explained by Mean Girls

I just got back from a life-changing, wonderful trip to Ireland and Scotland, so I'm tired and pinning. Tired because the return travel part of international travel is pretty much the worst. Fun fact, we went through security eight times on this trip. And by fun, I mean I can probably sue someone now for x-ray poisoning. Pinning because I love being in foreign countries, and coming back to reality is a rude awakening. I want to be frolicking in the Scottish Highlands, drinking drams of whisky in pubs, and petting dodgy livestock on the side of the road, NOT reading books about assessments and studying for comps. All though, let's be honest, I've read one chapter today and spent three hours looking for jobs in Scotland and reading about visas to live in the UK. Which is, discouraging, to say the least. Let me love you United Kingdom!

I have spent my whole life traveling, and I love it. However, no matter how many trips you've been on, there's always things to learn. This go round I have decided to sum up my life lessons in Mean Girls' quotes, because I'm jet legged and procrastinating.

1. "Don't let the haters stop you from doing your thang." 

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Fundamental to any trip is that you do what you want, the end. We traveled with another couple, Princess Consuela and her husband, Not Crap Bag (on the chance you don't watch Friends, I decided against calling him Crap Bag since people would misconstrue that). PC just wanted to see native wild animals. Now, the puffins did allude us, aholes, but we had a chance to pet Highland cows. And she did it with gusto. It was one of the highlights of her trip, and if she had been trying to be cool or something ridiculous like that, she would have missed out. Instead, it was adorable.

PC and Hilda (yes, I know, using a pseudonym is dumb when you put the person's picture on your blog, but they're so fun. Stop hating, I'm going to do my thang)

PC and Augustus. Perfection.

Travelling is not the time to be too cool for school, you'll regret it. 

2. "Is butter a carb?" 

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Any foreign country you go to, no matter how much in common it has with your home country, is going to have food that you do not have in any shape at home. For example, Scotland makes sausage out of oats and cow blood. Fun fact, this blood is taken from a cow while it's still alive, they're tapped like kegs. And who hasn't heard of haggis? Lamb intestines, chopped up and stuffed in to the stomach. I'll admit, it sounds horrifying, but we tried it. And I thought it wasn't bad!

Granted, my face here is not a resounding endorsement, but that's just my face. 

Also just my face. 

You don't go to a foreign country to continue your normal life. It is for adventure and disruption of the tedious norm, eating cray cray food is  part of that. 

3. "She doesn't even go here."

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You're a tourist. You will not fool anyone to the contrary, so stop trying. Embrace it.

If you want to pretend to be Nessie at Loch Ness, awesome. 

Fake duels at Tom Riddle's grave, fantastic.

Have fun, sometimes at the cost of your dignity. I dare you. 

4. "I can't help it that I'm so popular."

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This goes along with the last point, and possibly contrary to the first one. I don't really care, it's my list. Often times you will read blogs or reviews that poo poo famous sites; "it's so over done," "you are so typical if you do this," "you only experience the country if you hike to the top of this mountain and brew your own coffee." Getting off the beaten path, that's great and leads to fun experiences. That said, famous places are famous for a reason. They are often the things that leave the deepest impression. Go to them if you want, don't avoid them just because everyone does it.

Cliffs of Moher, millions of visitors a year. Best part of our trip to Ireland.

Titanic Belfast. Fairly cheesy, but I can say I stood where the Titanic was built, which is mind boggling. 

Get off the beaten path, but don't be afraid to go to landmarks. They didn't become landmarks by being boring.

5. "You can't sit with us!" 

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On our final flight yesterday, 3 of 3, we were sitting in the first row of economy with a birds eye view of first class. Also, right by the economy bathrooms. Three times people from first class came back to economy to use our bathroom. 

"You have everything, free booze, comfy seats, weirdly obliging flight attendants, and your own dang bathrooms. There's 20 of you, and hundreds of us. Leave our bathroom alone. You con't come back here. YOU CAN'T SIT WITH US!"

This was my thought process every time. I was tired and possibly delusional, because the return trip is always hard and tiring. You've used all your energy adventuring and are not looking forward to returning to reality. The return trip stinks. Always. Accept it, this to shall pass. 

If you're lucky, you'll have a friend who documents everything. 

The Grittiness of Marriage

(disclaimer: this is not a serious post. Well. Depending on your feelings about bananas, it's very serious. I will be writing seriously about marriage at some point, so don't be deterred if you feel catfished by my title, come back next time!)

Texting conversation between my husband and me while I was at internship last week:

Me: "I need you to find my banana suit."

John: "Time frame?"

Me: "Twenty-five minutes."

John: "That's a fast time frame."

Me: "Yeah."

John: "Are we going out tonight?" (it was a Wednesday at 9pm)

Me: "Yes. To a banana themed club."

John: "What am I going to wear?"

Me: "Banana Hammock."

John: " :( I don't have one."

Me: "Well, you have to stay home then."

John: "We could stop at the store."

Me: "Hah. But seriously. I need my banana suit."

What can I say, we just work.

Now, some of you may be asking, "Anna, why did you need banana suit on a random Wednesday night?" And, let's be honest, many of you aren't asking that because it's me and you're just saying, "sure."

I had gotten a text saying someone was very blue and needed cheering up. This was my solution (I share this knowing full well how horrifying I look, yet, you can't help but laugh):

Public Indecency

I study at a Starbucks that has an abnormal amount of odd shenanigans go down on a regular bases. I was there this past Sunday, staring blankly at my computer, trying to start a paper, when the oddest of them all happened.

I looked up when the door opened and came eye to eye with the scariest woman I've ever seen in my life. This is saying a lot as I regularly attend Comic Con. There was something about the combination of her intense hawk like features, day-glo make-up, and witch like (complete with corset and multi layer black skirt) attire that made me look away rapidly. However, I couldn't keep my eyes away, it was like a train wreck. Or a voodoo curse. I covertly watched this fascinating woman and her husband interact, which involved a lot of yelling on her part and a lot of ignoring and phone playing on his.

Suddenly, the door flew open and I was corrected because now the scariest woman in the world had just walked in. Like Yzma scary.

via

ACK. I mean. It's like I got a picture (which I tried to do for reals, but then decided it wasn't worth risking my life). 

Judging from the similar, shaking-in-my-boots inducing facial features and almost identical cobwebby attire the mother of the first woman had just joined us. 

She. Was. Terrifying. 

If I though there was yelling before, I was incorrect. The daughter is obviously early on in her shrill, bossy training.

At this point, the two women were conversing (or declaring war it was hard to tell) and the son-in-law/husband came back over with Frappuccinos for everyone. Smart man. Sugar, chocolate, that's always a solid approach to peace keeping. Or so we both woefully, wrongfully thought.

Via

Not-Yzma: "What's this, Kronk?" (Fine, she didn't say Kronk, but I practically felt it)

Son-in-law: "A Frappuccino. I thought you'd like it, it's good."

Not-Yzma: "I wanted coffee."

Son-in-law: "Oh, I think it is coffee, it's just really sweet."

Not-Yzma: "You think it's coffee?" Takes a sip. "Pah! This is not coffee, I wanted coffee."

And then. And then.... and then, I kid you not, she threw the Frappuccino on the ground. The whole thing. KA-PLOW. With the vigor of a 1,000 angry hornets. 

I think all of the air was sucked out of the room when we all gasped (obviously I hadn't been the only one watching). 

And, I cannot tell a lie, her scary doppelganger just kept filling her nails, nor did Yzma or Kronk realize all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. This is obviously a common coping skill.  

At this point I realize I'm not even a little bit covering up the fact that I'm watching the spectacle, eyes wide, mouth hanging open and all, so I scramble to busy myself on my computer before I get caught in the cross fire of crazy.

The son-in-law is hurrying to get something to clean up the mess when the other daughter (or so I can guess from the eyes filled with mild insanity) shows up and drops her four children off and leaves.

A few minutes later and total chaos is reigning. The first woman is loudly watching a music video on her phone, the mother is yelling at the oldest child, the son-in-law is trying to help clean, the two youngest are running around like pin balls, and the fourth child is hiding under my table.

I leaned down and said, "I don't blame you. Stay as long as you'd like."

What's the weirdest thing that's happened to you in a public place?