My Angsty Musical

"What if you had one year to live, what would you do?"

I read this question on the internets today and initially heard a lot of crickets in my brain in response.

Chirp chirp.

And then a thought started in the back of my brain and wound it's way forward, despite a valiant attempt by the rest of my brain to stop it - "not this."

Not. This.

My initial response to my initial response (are we confused yet?) was, "shut up Back Brain (the technical, medical term), life is great."

Which is true.

I have a job where on Friday a co-worker followed me around playing the theme song to Chariots of Fire on her phone while I slow motion ran.

I have a husband who makes me nests and doesn't judge me when I sit in them and watch Doctor Who until my brain melts.

I am working on a degree that makes me feel alive and like I might have a purpose on earth one day, and that I'm pretty damn good at.

I have friends and family who are so supportive, it's almost painful for all involved.

...But... (AHH! The dreaded Back Brain But!)

 My first thought was crickets, followed quickly by "Not. This."

Why?

I'm tired. I have no time. Every week I have four 12+ hour days, and zero days with no commitments. I often feel like I'm putting on a show for an invisible audience.

Worker. Student. Counselor. Wife. Worker. Student. Worker. Counselor. Wife. Student. Friend . WORKER. SISTER. STUDENT. FRIEND. COUNSELOR. STUDENT. WIFE. DAUGHTER. Kick ball change! ONCE MORE WITH FEEEEEEEEELLLLLLING!!!!!!

Cha cha cha! JAZZ HANDS!

It's like that episode of Buffy where they are in danger of dancing to death (funnily enough, called, "Once More with Feeling"). My feet are smoking and I can't stop.

Now, I'm not writing to pout (all though I realize it looks suspiciously like that, whoopsy daisy!)

I'm writing because regardless of what's happening, how many dance numbers I have, how fast my feet are, I don't ever want to live a life where my first thought is "not this."

SO! This brings us to the point of today's rambling post!

Little things that have made me happy (in no particular order) in the midst of this batch of chaos:

1. Smushing my face into my puppy.
2. Clean underwear.
3. Office dance party to "Fancy".
4. The feeling of taking shoes and socks off after wearing them all day.
5. Smushing my face into my husband's back.
6. Hot, fresh Dazbog coffee.
7. Reading crappy young adult fiction.
8. My new hipster scarf.
9. Homemade dressing from my mom.
10. Cotton candy pink hair.

So. After some refocusing and mental furniture rearranging, I think I can change my initial thought to that question to - "not this forever, but for now it's good."

Yes. I KNOW the question was based on the premise of time being finite, in this case 365 day, but that's not the point I'm addressing. If it was my answer would be: become a wizard, travel the world with my new found wizardy abilities (oh hey never having to get out of bed to turn off the light!), eat a TON of cheese, have tea with the Queen, tousle David Tennant's hair, race a kangaroo, and enter/win a backgammon tournament.    

And to wrap all this up - TAKE IT AWAY JAMES MARSTERS! #teamspikeforlife

How about you - what little things help you counter the Back Brain But?

One Fish, Two Fish, Cat Fish, Moo Fish

While working on this post, I was using the internets to find weird animals. The things I've seen today. Yowza. YOW-ZA. If you ever need a jolt to your nervous system, go ahead and take a gander at the search results from that topic (be warned that despite the adorable name of "Star Nosed Mole," IT IS THE THING OF NIGHTMARES. It cannot be unseen. Shudder).

With that said, I have tried to pick animals that are more on the "cute" side than the "auuuuGHHAAAGGHHHH!!" side.

When I started my incredibly scientific research of strange animals, the end goal was to help my loyal readers discover their spirit animal, because I care. AND THEN I decided that I would help you discover what your Patronus would be, because everyone wants to know that.

If you don't know what a Patronus is, I have to say I'm highly disappointed in you. Again without going to deep into the science of this process, all you need to know is that this is a Patronus and OF COURSE you want to know what form yours would take (and honestly, go watch Harry Potter, go. We'll wait):

OOOOO! AAAAA! via

Obviously, I will not be helping you find out if your Patronus is an adorable Otter or a regal Stag, because that's no fun and I have a strong suspicion that my Patronus would not fall under the category of "normal" and I have no qualms of dragging you down to my level.

By now I know you are pumped to get started, so please pick a cluster of characteristics (this is a technical process, but hang in there, it's worth it).

1. Easy going, fun loving, life of the party. Potential traditional Patronus: fluffy bunny, golden retriever, or ferret in a toilet paper roll.

2. Aggressive, driven, get 'er done attitude. Potential traditional Patronus: panther, stallion, or honey badger.

3. Serious, intense, rule follower. Potential traditional Patronus: wood pecker, beaver, or eagle (bald or with hair, your choice).

4. Steady, reasonable, calm. Potential traditional Patronus: plow horse, koala, or pre-hibernation polar bear.  

Did you pick one?

Okay. Next step. There is no next step. See the number below with a picture of your Patronus. You are welcome for this insight.

1. IRRAWADDY DOLPHIN 

2. FOSSA

3. PEACOCK MANTIS SHRIMP

4. GIANT SOFT SHELL TURTLE

So, what would your Patronus be? What would it be if I wasn't in charge of the choices?

Pics: via, via, via, via

Neurosurgeons LOVE Me. Obvs.

Once upon a time I worked in a Neurology department at a hospital. The timing of this story was soon after I had transferred from OB/GYN (which had it's own share of painful stories), and I was in the throes of trying to make a good impression.

Some important stereotypes, that are relevant to this story*:

1. Neurosurgeons believe that they are gods. They want what they want when they want it. STAT.

2. Results are important to them, not good intentions. If you've been a reader for any amount of time then you know that I am chalk full of good intentions. Results.... not as much.

3. Communication from them can be incredibly minimal, which can lead to a significant amount of room for interpretation.

In this particular department there were administrative/front desk people (me!) and medical assistants (not me!) that sat in the common areas. We had admin people sitting at the front desk (the check-in area) and one admin person sitting at the back desk (for check-out) in the midst of the clinical staff. The back desk was smack in the middle of the clinic and was the area that doctors would pop over to if they needed anything. STAT.

On my second (ish) day I was sitting at the back desk, perky and helpful, ready to conquer any problems to come my way. And boy howdy was a problem coming my way.

The surgeon standing before me was not young and not smiling. He had a startling resemblance to Grumpy Cat and the Emperor. 

VIA

VIA

He gave zero flips about my peppiness.

It was like facing a dementor. I immediately had all happiness sucked out of me. I'm pretty sure the room darkened and silenced, except for slightly ominous music. It's possible a tumbleweed blew by.

"H-h-h-h-how can I h-h-h-help you? S-s-s-s-sir?" Oh man. Oh man. There's no way I am going to be able to help him and then he is going to use the force to murder me.

"Staple remover." STAT (unsaid, implied).

Blink. Blink. Oh. OH! I CAN DO THAT! 

"OH! I CAN DO THAT."

 

Everyone knows what a staple remover is!!

Death stare. 

Frantic digging in the drawers around me, flinging of any objects that were in my way, realistic impression of a confused golden retriever. 

"Here you go! Anything else you need, I'm your girl!" No need to be afraid, he just needs a staple remover! I bet it's  because his fingernails are insured or something. 

Holding up staple remover, beaming triumphantly, clicking it like you do tongs when you are testing them after you pick them up. Best moment of my hospital career. Click click click click. 

Death stare. Click click click. 

Smile starts fading. What's happening? Is it the wrong color? Am I suppose to remove the staples for him? Do I need to find a pillow to present it on? Should I bow? Click click click click. STOP CLICKING. 

"I need a staple remover for human skin." STAT. Click click click. 

Still holding up staple remover, now with a pained, frozen smile. I. I. Don't understand. Is that a threat? IS HE GOING TO SKIN ME?!?! Click.

At that moment one of the MAs reached around me and handed him a staple remover. For human flesh. That's a thing. 

I need to get out more. VIA

Still holding up my staple remover. Click click click. I start hysterically laughing. Painful, loud, abrasive laughter accompanied by obsessive clicking.

Death stare.

Snort snort, hiccup. Click click click.

Death stare.

He turns and leaves. Turns around for one more death stare. CLICK CLICK CLICK. I fling myself on the ground and don't move for five minutes while everyone, including patients, laughs around me.

*Yes, I know some great brain surgeons who not only are fantastic practitioners but wonderful, personable people. Miracles do happen. 

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words, Tough Mudder Style

As proof of what I was talking about last post regarding completing the Tough Mudder, please enjoy these pictures along with my (made-up) commentary of what we were thinking.

 

ARCTIC ENEMA:

 

As a note, those are ice cubes all over the surface, not little waves.

 

"Hm. This is not comfortable. I do not think I'm enjoying this."

 

 

"Ommmmmmmmm. Mind over matter. I am at the spa."

 

 

"Who knew my beard could hold so much water?"

 

 

"BLEEP BLEEP BLEEPITY BLEEP."

 

KISS OF MUD 

 

 

"Huh. I wonder which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

 

 

"I've always thought that the bigger question is, which came first the taco or the burrito?"

 

 

 "Burrito? I could go for a burrito."

 

 

"Pft. Forget burritos, look at my awesome form. Left right left right!"

 

WARRIOR CARRY:

 

Alexis: "I've go to remember to pick up laundry detergent at the store next time."

Joel: "Yeah, I think I want to go with a more piney scent this time."

 

ELECTRO SHOCK THERAPY:

 

"ALL TOGETHER NOW - YOWZA!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Overweight + Tough Mudder = ???

November, 2013, "The Beginning": My dear, sweet, optimistic husband convinces me and our best friends that we should sign up for the Tough Mudder. There is inspiring talk of the training that will ensue to ensure that we kick the crap out of the course. I convince myself that it doesn't matter that I am fat now because I have buckets of time to fix that. Huzzah! Let's do it!

December, 2013 - July, 2014, "Good Intentions": Some halfhearted running. Extensive justification of how much time I have until the Tough Mudder. Significant Netflixing, Pinteresting, and french fry eating.

August 2014, "Manic Avoidance": My subconscious decides that the best possible training I can do is plumping up as much as possible. Panic eating ensues. Convince myself that Jesus will come back before September 6th.

First week of September 2014, "Oh, *expletive of choice*": I'm no longer able to deny that I now know the date of my death, and it's Saturday. Frantic Googling because knowledge is power, duh. I swing back and forth between searching for "can fat people do the Tough Mudder?" and "I need in-depth descriptions of the horrors that might happen during the Tough Mudder." Both topics were moderately enlightening.

After seeing how often the first question is asked on the internets, and how not answered it is, I swore if I lived I'd answer it.

Spoiler alert, I lived, thus this post.

For those of you who do not know what the Tough Mudder is, let me paint you a picture of the one I just dragged my poor, squishy body through. 11 miles, 2,700 feet of elevation, 20 some odd obstacles. Some highlights of the obstacles - a dumpster full of ice water, running through live wires, crawling in sludge under barbwire, so many unnecessary walls, mud on mud on mud, lots of tubes that need to be climbed, shimmied, ducked, etc. Good times!

Also, for those of you who don't know me personally, I'm overweight and out of shape. I really wish I could see in people's minds when I told them I was going to do this. I don't say this to  be self-deprecating, but because if you are genuinely searching for this topic on the world wide web, I want you to know you came to the right place!

So, the big question. Can someone who is overweight survive the Tough Mudder? Yes. You can.

And it sucks.

And it's wonderful.

And heartbreaking.

And inspiring.

Let me explain. I STRUGGLED. Like, get me an ambulance because I'm seeing the white light struggled. What some of my thought process was, "I'm a Comic Con kind of girl, not an obstacle course from hell kind of girl. What am I doing here? I HURT SO BAD MAKE IT END. I didn't even know I had muscles there. Jesus take the wheel. CURSE WORD CURSE WORD CURSE WORD CURSE WORD."

Let me also add, my husband and friends stuck with me. They convinced me that I could survive and that it wasn't my time. They waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. (If you do something like this with me, bring a book). And guess what?

I freaking did it. I'm bruised and battered and seriously can't walk, but I did it. I found strength in myself, and what I couldn't cover my friends did. I honestly think they would have gotten a wagon and dragged me along as opposed to letting me give up.

I will say, next year, I will be in better shape and hopefully up my game. Maybe I'll end up waiting on someone. But there will be a next year.

So if you are fat and find yourself signed up for something like this JUST DO IT. You'll regret if you don't.

You might regret it a little if you do, but I think the electro shock therapy at the end erases some of that. Win Win.

And for entertainment purposes, some of my finer moments from Saturday:

"Oh goodness, the man in the gold hot pants is bending over to stretch. Bad choices."

"Fat people should get bigger medals, because I'm working way hard over here."

"All I want is that headband. PUT IT ON MY HEAD."

"I feel fairly sure that when I go through the electroshock therapy, I'm going to shit my pants."

And on the phone with the pizza guy after the race, "and finally, we would like whatever chicken you feel most strongly about." It had barbecue sauce and bacon, he had good strong feelings.

I Object!

I've been a bit of workaholic since I was a wee little tot. This stems from a weird combination of needing to please people and a fear of instability and destitution that is far too boring to unpack here. The important consequence of this tendency is that days after my 16th birthday I got my first real job and it was at a dry cleaners.

Yummy.

***PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Real live human beings have to sort and clean your clothes when you drop them off at the dry cleaners, SO HAVE SOME SHAME. This means checking your clothes for: your dirty underwear, your cocaine, poop (hopefully yours?), clumps of pubic hair, and if I kept making this list of things that we routinely found, my blog would cease to be family friendly.***

Delicious.

Even without adding my manic mix of peppiness and annoyance that I bring to all my places of work, a dry cleaners is a fascinating and disgusting place to work.

Sometimes you have clients that refuse to give their real name and insist you call them "Mr. X."

Sometimes you have clients show up after closing time at the double glass doors in their underwear screaming about how they have no clothes and you have to let them in.

Sometimes you have clients come in looking for the afore mentioned cocaine and get the entertainment of watching them figure out how to ask if we've seen it without admitting it's theirs.

And sometimes, you are the problem.

It might not come as a surprise that I can be quite chatty and friendly at my place of work. This was especially true at this job, because sorting through and bagging people's dirty clothes is incredibly awkward and nothing brings out my obnoxiousness like feeling awkward.

The customer was a large, scowling, laconic man. Challenge accepted. I'm kind of like a My Little Pony - ignoring social cues in favor of attempting to bring unnecessary amounts of rainbows and butterflies to everyone's world. The less chipperness is wanted, the more it blazes out of me (especially when I was a bright eyed, bushy tailed sixteen year old).

Serious Man was NOT interested in any of the blithe conversation I was attempting to make.

He also had an incredible amount of clothes to sort, so my attempts were not short winded or subtle.

Serious Man quickly became Scowling Man, and I in turn ramped up the "charm" to 1,000 kilowatts.

I will make this man smile. I will make him like me. His day WILL BE BETTER.

I was shaking out the last garment (a choir robe), this was my last chance: "Oh cool! I see you're in the church choir! Awesome! I bet that's so much fun! Baritone?"

Seriously? He won't even talk about Jesus? Nothing??

Mega-Scowling Man replied, many painful moments later: "I'm a judge."

Nope. Not a choir robe.

Fine. You win this round.

In my defense:

VIA

VIA



 EASY MISTAKE. All though I see now that sleeves are much sassier on a Judge. You think Mega-Scowling Man would be happier getting to wear such sassy sleeves. Sheesh.

Let's Talk About Sex

**long ranty post about sex, chalk full of personal information. Since half my readers are my family, you've been dully warned.**

There is a lot of writing about sex. Some of it is informative, some shocking, some of it is sad, some inspiring. Recently, I've noticed a trend of arguing against waiting for marriage to have sex - it's silly, old-fashioned, it's disrespectful to yourself, it sets you up for failure, it creates unrealistic expectations, etc. Some of these articles are persuasive and logical and I read them and I end up feeling like Mowgli from the Jungle Book.

Which is kind of ironic since I'm already married and don't have to struggle with standing by my decision to wait until marriage. It does get me thinking though. Those words and arguments sound so persuasive to me, how do they sound to someone who is in the midst of trying to make a choice about their sex life?

I have nothing new to add to the argument. I don't have a special ability to interpret the Bible in new ways that will wow anyone reading. There's really nothing I can say that will push this argument one way or the other. Despite that, I feel compelled to add my two cents, if nothing else than because this is my blog and I do what I want.

I always felt the need to save myself for my husband. I was taught it as a young child and was lucky enough to have mentors all through high school that taught me a healthy point of view on sex and waiting. It was not done in a dogmatic, legalistic way but in an open and honest conversation. I can tell you all the arguments you've heard before, it's a gift, it's Biblical, etc., but there's no benefit to that. All I can add is my own experience and random thoughts I've gathered over the years.

First off, I don't believe this issue is as black and white as we'd like to think. There is not a magic celibacy belt that is handed out when you make a decision that turns off your sex drive, need for intimacy, desire to be wanted, or the awareness of all the other numerous of benefits that come from sex. Waiting to have sex can be excruciating - physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, ethically, grammatically... I asked myself many times, "why I am even waiting? What's the point." I desire love and intimacy as much as the next person. I'm a warm blooded human that feels lust. I was often "in love" and wanting to express that love. Staying a virgin was a constant choice, and one that often times got hazy and messy and complicated. I completely understand people, despite sound Biblical belief, who have sex.

Having sex outside of marriage can happen because of drunkenness, love, desire to get it over with, and on and on and on. Luckily, I don't think I worship a God who sees that and goes, "Ah well. No happy marriage for you in the future. The end." God is as merciful as He is just. He wants us to wait for us, not because it impacts His quality of life. He doesn't have a jar of virgins that gets emptier when we give up the goods that sends Him into panic mode that it is dwindling. I do think it makes Him sad. Being all knowing, He knows exactly how sex can be best experienced and it must be a big bummer when the children He loves are missing out on that. He knows that each casual sexual event, every heartbreak, each drunken mistake has a toll. It makes things that much more calloused or complicated. BUT, I believe that at any point someone can choose to say, "enough is enough, I want sex in the context it was created for - life long commitment." Our sexuality is no less redeemable than the rest of us.

I have a friend who has a colorful past sexually. We had many long conversations about why I choose to wait and eventually this friend made the decision that sex was off the table until marriage, regardless of the fact that many would say that ship had sailed. There was a dawning awareness that sex, even in serious, loving relationships, was not fulfilling a deep need for intimacy and that each time was actually making that hole bigger and harder to fill. That person is now married and that hole has been filled in a way that was never expected or understood before.

The flip side of that is waiting for marriage is not a magic formula that gives you Hollywood sex. If anything, it makes for a totally crap wedding night. Mine was mildly horrifying. Not because of my husband (who's incredibly sexy) or because of a flaw in our relationship. My body had no idea what it was doing, I was tense and stressed about performing well, and physically it hurt like a son of a gun. It would have been easy to sit in the fancy bathroom of our hotel and cry and wonder why I wasn't experiencing what everyone else obviously is, per the movies. But my thoughts were more along the lines of, "well we only have up to go from here," and "thank heavens I have John to figure this out with, because I sure do love and trust him."

For me, sex was a learning curve. I had to learn what I like, what John likes, what works best for us together, and all kinds of discoveries. I can't imagine taking on that journey with anyone but him. Talk with my girlfriends almost always ends up at some point being about sex (sorry guys, it's just how we work). The question, "what's the best sex you've ever had?" has come up in these conversations. I can honestly say every time I have sex is better than the last. I don't think this is a super special gift I get because I was a virgin when I got married, but I do think it would be impossible without really exploring the gift of sex within the commitment, trust, vulnerability, intimacy, and love of my relationship with John.

I honestly don't have a big concluding point with this post other than I don't regret waiting for marriage, and maybe someone needs that encouragement.