I'm writing this post to help myself right now. I'm facing a situation that traditionally rattles my nerves: I'm presenting. Well, more accurately, I'm auditioning to teach classes in a new format at the gym. There's a great chance the fitness director will be there and my low self esteem is battling to take over and pave the way for an epic choke.
I have auditioned to teach fitness before, successfully. Purely going through the act of auditioning was so satisfying especially considering that at my age I have no business trying to venture into a new career path, let alone putting myself out there to teach fitness. But over the last few years I've discovered there are a few areas where I am truly gifted. Getting into physical shape after quitting drinking, then smoking, then recovering from a catastrophic injury was the most emotionally difficult period of my life. It took several years to get to the point where I'd lost enough weight to CONSIDER starting to build muscular endurance. I'd hit rock bottom in so many areas of my life that my struggle to get fit paralleled the struggle I faced to strengthen my insides. The decision to become a fitness instructor was a direct result of someone suggesting I pursue what I *really* wanted to do instead of being a corporate slave. I also did it because as I got fit, and as I got my life together, people started to respond by asking me "how did you do it!?" I started seeing that it wasn't the result they were after, it was the discipline to continue even when I didn't want to do it, even when the aesthetic results were elusive. I started to see that my ability to enthusiastically persevere was a gift I could offer people.
I can not walk into the gym without a fellow member or someone who has taken my spinning class stopping me to say how I've inspired them. This literally gives me a feeling that I'm connected to something bigger than myself in this world. I am just a humble person trying desperately to find the courage to leave the house some days, much less actually inspire someone to pursue something important to them, too. Sure I've got the external results that I've got rock hard abs and just one ass instead of two. I think about my mom at my age, saddled with 2 teenagers and a baby, with not one clue of how she got in that position in the first place, and a hopeless attitude that infected everything she touched. But through my hard work, here I am using my naturally bubbly personality and the results of goal-driven dedication to *inspire* people!? It's such a wonderfuly massive responsibility and it fuels my passion to continue.
So I need to center on this as I step into the audition tonight. Externally I'm set. I've got a great new outfit and I'm having a good hair day. OK maybe it's shallow but guess what - some times having a good hair day means I can let go of some insane insecurity and be more grounded. It helps.
I've got a great lesson plan and I asked for help, meaning, the instructor who has *encouraged* me and created this opportunity for me has reviewed my intent and gave it a gold star. She said I am more organized and prepared than she is which I'm not sure about but regardless I've got an expert's buy-in so I know that my plan is solid.
The place where I get tripped up is communicating the technical information. I can cue the exercises no problem. But it's the backchatter using anatomical jargon and proper terminology I'm fearful I'll be dinged on. This is not a sane fear, either. I've made notes in the column of my lesson plan for key points I can easily talk about that reflect my study of the material. I'm not going too crazy trying to communicate complex topics. The point of the format I'm auditioning to teach is *social* so the class participants aren't going to want an in-depth analysis of lateral flexion anyway. And I know my shit.
That's right - I know my shit.
I just have to remember that God doesn't call the qualified, he qualifies the called. I don't need anyone's approval that I've achieved great things and that pursuing my dream is a worthwhile venture. But if my actions can help other people do the same thing for themselves? That's awesome.
Wish me luck!
Monday, April 11, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The schlong and the short of it
I've always been a writer, even when I was little, I couldn't stop myself from putting my thoughts on paper.
I've also been equally as vicious with judgment of my writing, and lacked the self esteem to put it out there in any kind of meaningful way until the last couple of years or so. I've done some citizen journalism and have written feature articles for some local publications. Of course, I've done a ton of writing in a PR/marketing sense for work and at the top of my job description is "writer." So things are beginning to move in the right direction but I've had a lot of my own self doubt to surmount in this department. I guess I'm a late bloomer in a lot of areas of my life.
This weekend I had to work on my first assignment for my short story class. I thought it would be a breeze - piece of cake. I've got a vivid imagination, I'm wildly dramatic and I write short stories all the time. No problem, right?
I wound up producing something I'm proud of to workshop in next week's class. But it was no easy feat. I'm really surprised at how lonely that empty Word document looked. I also had a tough time focusing. The teacher suggested that the best way to identify material suitable for short story development is to quietly focus, surrender - even. This is, not coincidentally, a discipline I struggle with in other areas of my life. I'm not really a letter-goer. So it took me some time to quiet my mind in order to come up with that little scrap that was story-worthy. I'll keep you posted, not sure if I plan to marry myself to the concept yet. I actually wrote three story fragments and I might continue to pursue some other ideas. But I was satisfied that something was put onto paper that I feel I can turn in for analysis. I veil some things that have been going on with me in a half Jewish character called Monica who falls for an rabbi at an orthodox synagogue while she's walking a fostered dog that was sort of unloaded on her by her boss. I address lying by omission and codependency. I also talk about making bad romantic choices. I wanted to come up with a hyperbolic character and an intensely dramatic conclusion but I thought it was best to stick to subjects I know as I'm getting to know my fellow students and the professor.
What I did love about this was the PROCESS even though at times it was pretty uncomfortable. I do feel more and more confident in my writing abilities with each word I put out there. Just putting this blog together reminded me of how meaningful it is to organize my thoughts and purvey my views. I look forward to this becoming a more widely-read blog and hope that the topics I cover are of interest to others, too. Finally, it's really good practice to get my ideas out into the universe because it helps me overcome the fear of judgement, and it helps me be less critical of myself. The thought process is that I have what I think is a good idea, then I stew on it and by the time it's done cooking in my brain, it's such a crappy idea and I have no good ideas so I don't even bother putting them out there. But the blog enables me to just blither away at the keyboard for a few minutes, putting my raw concepts onto the screen without totally thinking it through (except to edit of course), and then it's out of my brain and I can move on. I rarely go back and edit the posts, but I always feel proud of what I've written.
I felt the same way assembling the "Other writings" page - that is just a beginning of the writing I've done over the years with more to come as I move through this process. I started feeling really proud of my contribution and hope on the strength of my efforts I can do much more as a writer as time goes on.
I've also been equally as vicious with judgment of my writing, and lacked the self esteem to put it out there in any kind of meaningful way until the last couple of years or so. I've done some citizen journalism and have written feature articles for some local publications. Of course, I've done a ton of writing in a PR/marketing sense for work and at the top of my job description is "writer." So things are beginning to move in the right direction but I've had a lot of my own self doubt to surmount in this department. I guess I'm a late bloomer in a lot of areas of my life.
This weekend I had to work on my first assignment for my short story class. I thought it would be a breeze - piece of cake. I've got a vivid imagination, I'm wildly dramatic and I write short stories all the time. No problem, right?
I wound up producing something I'm proud of to workshop in next week's class. But it was no easy feat. I'm really surprised at how lonely that empty Word document looked. I also had a tough time focusing. The teacher suggested that the best way to identify material suitable for short story development is to quietly focus, surrender - even. This is, not coincidentally, a discipline I struggle with in other areas of my life. I'm not really a letter-goer. So it took me some time to quiet my mind in order to come up with that little scrap that was story-worthy. I'll keep you posted, not sure if I plan to marry myself to the concept yet. I actually wrote three story fragments and I might continue to pursue some other ideas. But I was satisfied that something was put onto paper that I feel I can turn in for analysis. I veil some things that have been going on with me in a half Jewish character called Monica who falls for an rabbi at an orthodox synagogue while she's walking a fostered dog that was sort of unloaded on her by her boss. I address lying by omission and codependency. I also talk about making bad romantic choices. I wanted to come up with a hyperbolic character and an intensely dramatic conclusion but I thought it was best to stick to subjects I know as I'm getting to know my fellow students and the professor.
What I did love about this was the PROCESS even though at times it was pretty uncomfortable. I do feel more and more confident in my writing abilities with each word I put out there. Just putting this blog together reminded me of how meaningful it is to organize my thoughts and purvey my views. I look forward to this becoming a more widely-read blog and hope that the topics I cover are of interest to others, too. Finally, it's really good practice to get my ideas out into the universe because it helps me overcome the fear of judgement, and it helps me be less critical of myself. The thought process is that I have what I think is a good idea, then I stew on it and by the time it's done cooking in my brain, it's such a crappy idea and I have no good ideas so I don't even bother putting them out there. But the blog enables me to just blither away at the keyboard for a few minutes, putting my raw concepts onto the screen without totally thinking it through (except to edit of course), and then it's out of my brain and I can move on. I rarely go back and edit the posts, but I always feel proud of what I've written.
I felt the same way assembling the "Other writings" page - that is just a beginning of the writing I've done over the years with more to come as I move through this process. I started feeling really proud of my contribution and hope on the strength of my efforts I can do much more as a writer as time goes on.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Saturday. In the park. I think it was the 4th of July.
Saturday is my very favorite day of the week.
I get to sleep in and wake up without an alarm. And then there's just a natural rhythm to the day that is completely pleasant, fun and pretty much all about me.
This is an enormous contrast to about a year ago when Saturday was just another work day, as was Sunday. There was no rest working for a relentless boss. I take responsibility that I set no boundaries and I've learned a lot about saying no since then. But still there were enormous expectations and insurmountable responsibility. I thought I was playing the part of a conscientious worker. I thought that was what I wanted - a Director-level position in a corporation where I was handling all the marketing responsibilities. So I guess I was making the right decisions at the time but there was literally no rest for the weary.
Also at this time last year I was plagued with a decision to end a relationship. I've been in four serious relationships in my life. I've been married once which was a complete failure, and another instance where I wish I knew then what I know now about saying no. In other words, I had no business marrying that guy or even, really, going on a 3rd date with him. The other three relationships have been great learning experiences with some OK guys. The last one, a relationship with an OK guy, was really a toughie. We got together at a time in my life when I was my most vulnerable. I didn't have a lot of support for advancing the relationship from friend to boyfriend, then to live-in boyfriend. But there was something about him that I loved deeply and I thought that would conquer all.
I don't want to trash him in my blog or even talk about him at all. This blog is about me talking about me and taking responsibility for my life. So taking responsibility, what I should have done was listen to those who weren't in favor of the relationship in the first place. It wasn't that they didn't like him, they just thought maybe I wasn't in a place in my life where I was available to make great decisions about anything. They were right. What I wound up doing was getting my act together which was necessary, important and difficult. But we didn't grow on the same trajectory. It was like he went one way and I went the other way. His choices are his choices but I learned an awful lot about keeping my side of the street clean and boundaries from this relationship. I learned that I was indeed taking responsibility for my own life which was good. But I was also taking responsibility for his life, and wanted him to grow and change, it seemed, more than he did. Ultimately he didn't change some fundamental things that made it impossible for me to continue living with him. I changed to the point where I would rather be single than live with a grown man unable to display passion for life and unable to take responsibility for his life. I don't want kids and am not a maternal person. But living with him was like living with a kid. I also felt like I was spending a lot of time picking up the slack in the relationship that I could have been spending either resting up appropriately to handle the demanding job I had, or pursuing interests of my own. It was a painful year trying to figure these things out and it's really only a year after the relationship ended that I can truly stay on my side of the street and not make the decision to break up about him.
I did the breakup in baby steps. I moved out first - that was a herculean task in and of itself and required courage and a tremendous amount of hand holding from my friends. He literally begged me not to go. Repeatedly. But his actions were incompatible with his words in terms of making any kind of sustainable change in the things that were affecting me in a negative way. It was so hollow and his attempts to control me were becoming painfully transparent. It was so sad. I think I thought at the time I moved out I'd just give myself a space outside of the relationship where I could rest properly and then we'd spend time together as a couple and everything would be fine. But literally the first time he visited my apartment and brought his big huge backpack full of crap over, and messed up the apartment within the first couple of minutes he was here, I was just totally certain of what I needed to do. A hundred years ago it was a similar situation - I had had a short relationship with someone that was intense, mostly because I was drunk the entire duration of it so there were a lot of those kinds of boozy passionate outbursts, both positive and negative, that accompany those sorts of encounters. I broke things off with him in the appropriate alcoholic way, by calling the police, and didn't hear from him again until I drunk dialed him several weeks later and he came over for ... well, you know. My life was a lot more unmanageable then and I own my poor choices as well as my good choices. I'm not perfect. But the point of tying this together with my last boyfriend (by the way, liquor is no longer a factor in my life), is that after that drunk dial encounter, this dude wanted to start the relationship over again. I woke up with a hangover and was completely sure that was a one and done situation. And he dutifully left but started up with the phone calls and whatnot again. The sex was phenomenal, as tedious a person as he was, he certainly pulled my trigger. So when he offered to come over again, this time I wasn't as drunk to receive him because I wanted my wits about me. (Oh my I have learned some things about what alcohol does to my thought process since then.) He showed up and with the haze lifted, he just didn't look right to me. And what he did was exactly what my last boyfriend did. He took his shoes off, distributed his items all over MY house, and acted like he owned the place. My reaction to both scenarios was exactly the same. Put your shoes back on, pack your shit and get out of my house. Territorial. Like a dog baring her teeth. Maybe that's bitchy (also like a dog) and it's probably wildly codependent considering I let people walk all over me until I just can't TAKE IT anymore. But sometimes we learn things quickly and sometimes things take time and pain to become clear. So my most recent boyfriend didn't last very long after I moved into this place. I wanted to wait until the Blackhawks finished their Stanley Cup run (I love sports in the same way a dude loves sports) but when I was ready, I was ready. He cried and acted confused but I was truly relieved.
That's what my life looked like a year ago. Drama caused by my own bad choices.
Today I have a reasonably peaceful life. I work at my job 9-5, Monday through Friday. Most of my responsibility is to write, which makes me deliriously happy and brings me a tremendous amount of satisfaction. The end result of my writing projects is a return in donations to actually help people. I get along with most of the people who work there. And I have enough energy left over to pursue my education, also a writing program. And then I get to teach fitness which I truly enjoy and gives me deep connection to something cosmic I can't quite articulate.
But Saturday ... SATURDAY is the best. I wake up and have some coffee. I usually have a phone chat with my Dad, we call it "having coffee together." It's the one time of the week when he's not distracted and pulled in a thousand directions by my mom or his job or my niece and nephew. I putter around the house straightening up or performing a light housework task. Then I go out and meet some friends for anywhere from an hour to three or four. Today was particularly enjoyable as we kibbutzed over salads and then shopped for rings at a punk rock place. Nothing heavy, just catching up on our lives, connecting and being important to each other in nonspecific but essential ways. I usually depart from these social encounters and come home for some quiet time. Occasionally I nap, sometimes I write, once in awhile I read. But it's just that sort of peaceful me-time that I've never given myself before. I've always either been in a relationship or too caught up with work to really sit and smell the roses. There's a scene in that hateful movie Eat Pray Love which I resent ever having watched for a second because it was so trite - although the movie was less tedious than the book, but when she's in Italy (the only time that story has any merit), she uses an Italian phrase about the sweetness of doing nothing. That's what my Saturday afternoons look like - the sweetness of doing nothing. Then around 3:45 I get my workout clothes on and head to the gym for spinning followed by a blast class where I perform the Ed McMahon function to the instructor. I do it because I'm good at it, occasionally I teach the class sort of "under the table" because the teacher has been grooming me to teach blast, is one of my best friends and had an instrumental role in helping me get on the schedule as a spinning instructor in the first place. I love showing off my high degree of physical fitness and get a charge out of performing extremely difficult and high intensity moves with ease, for an audience. Usually I have to scoot home really quick after the gym to get ready to go see a movie and have dinner with friends. Nothing ever too fancy, just fun fellowship with people I love.
It's all so pleasant, so restorative. I titled this post after lyrics in one of my all time favorite Chicago songs, which, incidentally, captures what I believe to be the "essence" of living in Chicago, as well.
I hope your Saturday was equally as enjoyable.
I get to sleep in and wake up without an alarm. And then there's just a natural rhythm to the day that is completely pleasant, fun and pretty much all about me.
This is an enormous contrast to about a year ago when Saturday was just another work day, as was Sunday. There was no rest working for a relentless boss. I take responsibility that I set no boundaries and I've learned a lot about saying no since then. But still there were enormous expectations and insurmountable responsibility. I thought I was playing the part of a conscientious worker. I thought that was what I wanted - a Director-level position in a corporation where I was handling all the marketing responsibilities. So I guess I was making the right decisions at the time but there was literally no rest for the weary.
Also at this time last year I was plagued with a decision to end a relationship. I've been in four serious relationships in my life. I've been married once which was a complete failure, and another instance where I wish I knew then what I know now about saying no. In other words, I had no business marrying that guy or even, really, going on a 3rd date with him. The other three relationships have been great learning experiences with some OK guys. The last one, a relationship with an OK guy, was really a toughie. We got together at a time in my life when I was my most vulnerable. I didn't have a lot of support for advancing the relationship from friend to boyfriend, then to live-in boyfriend. But there was something about him that I loved deeply and I thought that would conquer all.
I don't want to trash him in my blog or even talk about him at all. This blog is about me talking about me and taking responsibility for my life. So taking responsibility, what I should have done was listen to those who weren't in favor of the relationship in the first place. It wasn't that they didn't like him, they just thought maybe I wasn't in a place in my life where I was available to make great decisions about anything. They were right. What I wound up doing was getting my act together which was necessary, important and difficult. But we didn't grow on the same trajectory. It was like he went one way and I went the other way. His choices are his choices but I learned an awful lot about keeping my side of the street clean and boundaries from this relationship. I learned that I was indeed taking responsibility for my own life which was good. But I was also taking responsibility for his life, and wanted him to grow and change, it seemed, more than he did. Ultimately he didn't change some fundamental things that made it impossible for me to continue living with him. I changed to the point where I would rather be single than live with a grown man unable to display passion for life and unable to take responsibility for his life. I don't want kids and am not a maternal person. But living with him was like living with a kid. I also felt like I was spending a lot of time picking up the slack in the relationship that I could have been spending either resting up appropriately to handle the demanding job I had, or pursuing interests of my own. It was a painful year trying to figure these things out and it's really only a year after the relationship ended that I can truly stay on my side of the street and not make the decision to break up about him.
I did the breakup in baby steps. I moved out first - that was a herculean task in and of itself and required courage and a tremendous amount of hand holding from my friends. He literally begged me not to go. Repeatedly. But his actions were incompatible with his words in terms of making any kind of sustainable change in the things that were affecting me in a negative way. It was so hollow and his attempts to control me were becoming painfully transparent. It was so sad. I think I thought at the time I moved out I'd just give myself a space outside of the relationship where I could rest properly and then we'd spend time together as a couple and everything would be fine. But literally the first time he visited my apartment and brought his big huge backpack full of crap over, and messed up the apartment within the first couple of minutes he was here, I was just totally certain of what I needed to do. A hundred years ago it was a similar situation - I had had a short relationship with someone that was intense, mostly because I was drunk the entire duration of it so there were a lot of those kinds of boozy passionate outbursts, both positive and negative, that accompany those sorts of encounters. I broke things off with him in the appropriate alcoholic way, by calling the police, and didn't hear from him again until I drunk dialed him several weeks later and he came over for ... well, you know. My life was a lot more unmanageable then and I own my poor choices as well as my good choices. I'm not perfect. But the point of tying this together with my last boyfriend (by the way, liquor is no longer a factor in my life), is that after that drunk dial encounter, this dude wanted to start the relationship over again. I woke up with a hangover and was completely sure that was a one and done situation. And he dutifully left but started up with the phone calls and whatnot again. The sex was phenomenal, as tedious a person as he was, he certainly pulled my trigger. So when he offered to come over again, this time I wasn't as drunk to receive him because I wanted my wits about me. (Oh my I have learned some things about what alcohol does to my thought process since then.) He showed up and with the haze lifted, he just didn't look right to me. And what he did was exactly what my last boyfriend did. He took his shoes off, distributed his items all over MY house, and acted like he owned the place. My reaction to both scenarios was exactly the same. Put your shoes back on, pack your shit and get out of my house. Territorial. Like a dog baring her teeth. Maybe that's bitchy (also like a dog) and it's probably wildly codependent considering I let people walk all over me until I just can't TAKE IT anymore. But sometimes we learn things quickly and sometimes things take time and pain to become clear. So my most recent boyfriend didn't last very long after I moved into this place. I wanted to wait until the Blackhawks finished their Stanley Cup run (I love sports in the same way a dude loves sports) but when I was ready, I was ready. He cried and acted confused but I was truly relieved.
That's what my life looked like a year ago. Drama caused by my own bad choices.
Today I have a reasonably peaceful life. I work at my job 9-5, Monday through Friday. Most of my responsibility is to write, which makes me deliriously happy and brings me a tremendous amount of satisfaction. The end result of my writing projects is a return in donations to actually help people. I get along with most of the people who work there. And I have enough energy left over to pursue my education, also a writing program. And then I get to teach fitness which I truly enjoy and gives me deep connection to something cosmic I can't quite articulate.
But Saturday ... SATURDAY is the best. I wake up and have some coffee. I usually have a phone chat with my Dad, we call it "having coffee together." It's the one time of the week when he's not distracted and pulled in a thousand directions by my mom or his job or my niece and nephew. I putter around the house straightening up or performing a light housework task. Then I go out and meet some friends for anywhere from an hour to three or four. Today was particularly enjoyable as we kibbutzed over salads and then shopped for rings at a punk rock place. Nothing heavy, just catching up on our lives, connecting and being important to each other in nonspecific but essential ways. I usually depart from these social encounters and come home for some quiet time. Occasionally I nap, sometimes I write, once in awhile I read. But it's just that sort of peaceful me-time that I've never given myself before. I've always either been in a relationship or too caught up with work to really sit and smell the roses. There's a scene in that hateful movie Eat Pray Love which I resent ever having watched for a second because it was so trite - although the movie was less tedious than the book, but when she's in Italy (the only time that story has any merit), she uses an Italian phrase about the sweetness of doing nothing. That's what my Saturday afternoons look like - the sweetness of doing nothing. Then around 3:45 I get my workout clothes on and head to the gym for spinning followed by a blast class where I perform the Ed McMahon function to the instructor. I do it because I'm good at it, occasionally I teach the class sort of "under the table" because the teacher has been grooming me to teach blast, is one of my best friends and had an instrumental role in helping me get on the schedule as a spinning instructor in the first place. I love showing off my high degree of physical fitness and get a charge out of performing extremely difficult and high intensity moves with ease, for an audience. Usually I have to scoot home really quick after the gym to get ready to go see a movie and have dinner with friends. Nothing ever too fancy, just fun fellowship with people I love.
It's all so pleasant, so restorative. I titled this post after lyrics in one of my all time favorite Chicago songs, which, incidentally, captures what I believe to be the "essence" of living in Chicago, as well.
I hope your Saturday was equally as enjoyable.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Lying! Judgment! Melodrama!!!
One of the very coolest things that's happened in my life is a completely happy accident. I got a job last fall at a university doing fundraising. I took the position because it gave me a chance to focus some of my marketing abilities, specifically on writing. Working in higher education has tremendous appeal because of the hours. After working a zillion hours a week at top speed at nuclear pain levels, to be able to work 9-5 is a real treat - almost a vacation. I leave with enough energy to work out and teach fitness and write on my own. The other thing that attracts me to this job is the social justice mission and my role is to raise money for scholarships to help people get education they would not otherwise be able to afford, so there's a real soul-satisfying benefit to the work I do. After slutting it out for consumer products and selling my soul to the devil for financial services for years and years and years, it is a true pleasure to solicit people for money that actually helps people in need. The circumstances leading to me even getting this job are in the realm of a miracle. So I feel super grateful every day - even on tough days, I just feel like I'm there completing some kind of cosmic assignment.
So when I met with HR on my first day and they started articulating my benefits package, they kept throwing around a term unfamiliar to me: "tuition waiver." There was a lot of detail and paperwork around that and I started to understand it a little bit but wasn't sure. I asked my boss about it and found out that I get to attend school for free.
School for free. School for free. School for free ... it just kept rolling around in my head.
I enjoyed college so terribly much the first time around but often for the reasons that regarded anything besides academics. I loved to booze. And smoke cigarettes. And take drugs occasionally. And kiss boys. And there were a million opportunities to do all of these things. There were also a million opportunities to study, and I didn't really take advantage of that until I had to learn the hard way in the GPA department. Once I got my act together, though, I really hit my stride and started learning I was capable of doing more and being more than I ever dreamed possible. I found my chosen career path and did very well in that coursework. I worked at the student newspaper and got great practical work experience and made friends for life. I look back on that time of my life so fondly, it was so wonderful and I wish I could bottle up some of those moments to relive whenever I need to have a little fun.
I hit the ground running in my career the instant I graduated and I never looked back. It was really popular in the early 90s to get an MBA but that never appealed to me. I felt like I was analytical enough and really was more interested in managing the creative process. Advertising gave me a foot in both worlds - I could be strategic and play with the big business boys but I could also produce cool creative projects in a Thirtysomething atmosphere. I rose through the ranks quickly because I was willing to and had the energy to work 24 hours a day, I was smart and I was likable. Plus I could really hold my liquor which was an extremely handy skill at liquid lunches and lengthy client entertainment dinners. School wasn't really in the mix.
I've always had creative writing projects on the side, popping out short stories about all manners of subjects. My very favorites ever were the "George" series - relatives of Curious George: Spurious George and Furious George. Those were on a laptop that died long ago so the evidence no longer exists. But on long plane rides and endless nights by myself in hotel rooms all over the world I had lots of time to think and loads of energy to burn. I never did anything with these stories at all. Later on as I started to want more from my life than to be a corporate ice princess, I dreamed maybe I could be a writer but still put no action into it. Then I put up a blog, and took it down. Then I put up another blog documenting my transition over last summer from Business Betty to my current state as fundraising fitness instructing writing happy person. I had to take that blog down because of a hacker which was sad because I'd amassed enough of a following I was starting to investigate ways to monetize it and promote to a wider audience. So here I am back in the blogosphere, meekly putting my work back out there.
A side note regarding writing about what REALLY happens in my brain. It's scary. I don't make an effort to portray myself as perfect so you're getting a really authentic peek between my ears. There are so many people who have said over the years they can relate to my writing that I feel like I'm doing the right thing and pursuing an important gift I have to offer. But it's really intimidating at times to throw it out into the universe. I'm afraid people will judge me unstable. I'm afraid my writing isn't good enough. I'm afraid that just as I've found my voice and mustered the courage to whisper it out there, that people are going to criticize me and laugh at me. It's a catch 22, isn't it?
So then along comes this total gift from whoever makes the world spin on its access. School for free. After checking out the programs offered by my employer and lo and behold, there's a Masters of Science in ... INSERT DRUMROLL ... Written Communications. Well. Shut the front door.
So my first class was narrative forms where we studied fiction for the first half and non fiction during the second. I learned so much about my ability to read up to a thousand pages a week! But very importantly, I learned that my lively imagination really has a place in black and white. The papers I turned in were so fun to write and my professor called me the Truman Capote of the class due to my ability to blend fact and fiction. I'm trying to figure out how to post all my grad school work on this blog so you can read them if you want.
I just started my second class last night: Reading and Writing Short Stories. Hello, I'm in heaven. For starters, we spent the first half of class talking about detail and suddenly my ability to notice and discuss minutiae about everything, at length, was completely validated. There is a place for hypervigilent attention to detail and it's in black and white. I have a particular gift that has just been bursting for a platform. The second half of class we read several short stories as the professor was illustrating a point about how to craft a story-starting fragment. He referenced picking up on a detail and telling a story around it but what compelled me the most was that none of the stories we read to illustrate his point were personal tales. I guess I assumed that we'd be learning about how to write blog entries, essentially - ways to bring out our own inner lives and make it relatable. He said it's true that we can bake our agenda into the story, but that the more imagination we use to create characters that will conflict within the story, the more interesting the short story. It's about the innuendo, the backstory, judging what each person is thinking and how based on their point of view they'd treat the other person. The more wacky the characters, the better. The lion tamer with a lionel train collection. The pot smoking high school shop teacher.
By the time class was dismissed my mind was dancing with possibility. But more importantly, my heart just sang with excitement that I now have a voice for the traits that are not always appreciated in real life: overdramatizing everything, exaggeration, hyperbole, partial truths, acting on assumptions. I feel liberated that I'll have a healthy outlet for all of these behaviors that if I did them in real life I'd be continuously bogged down making amends. What fun!!! I can't wait to get started!
So when I met with HR on my first day and they started articulating my benefits package, they kept throwing around a term unfamiliar to me: "tuition waiver." There was a lot of detail and paperwork around that and I started to understand it a little bit but wasn't sure. I asked my boss about it and found out that I get to attend school for free.
School for free. School for free. School for free ... it just kept rolling around in my head.
I enjoyed college so terribly much the first time around but often for the reasons that regarded anything besides academics. I loved to booze. And smoke cigarettes. And take drugs occasionally. And kiss boys. And there were a million opportunities to do all of these things. There were also a million opportunities to study, and I didn't really take advantage of that until I had to learn the hard way in the GPA department. Once I got my act together, though, I really hit my stride and started learning I was capable of doing more and being more than I ever dreamed possible. I found my chosen career path and did very well in that coursework. I worked at the student newspaper and got great practical work experience and made friends for life. I look back on that time of my life so fondly, it was so wonderful and I wish I could bottle up some of those moments to relive whenever I need to have a little fun.
I hit the ground running in my career the instant I graduated and I never looked back. It was really popular in the early 90s to get an MBA but that never appealed to me. I felt like I was analytical enough and really was more interested in managing the creative process. Advertising gave me a foot in both worlds - I could be strategic and play with the big business boys but I could also produce cool creative projects in a Thirtysomething atmosphere. I rose through the ranks quickly because I was willing to and had the energy to work 24 hours a day, I was smart and I was likable. Plus I could really hold my liquor which was an extremely handy skill at liquid lunches and lengthy client entertainment dinners. School wasn't really in the mix.
I've always had creative writing projects on the side, popping out short stories about all manners of subjects. My very favorites ever were the "George" series - relatives of Curious George: Spurious George and Furious George. Those were on a laptop that died long ago so the evidence no longer exists. But on long plane rides and endless nights by myself in hotel rooms all over the world I had lots of time to think and loads of energy to burn. I never did anything with these stories at all. Later on as I started to want more from my life than to be a corporate ice princess, I dreamed maybe I could be a writer but still put no action into it. Then I put up a blog, and took it down. Then I put up another blog documenting my transition over last summer from Business Betty to my current state as fundraising fitness instructing writing happy person. I had to take that blog down because of a hacker which was sad because I'd amassed enough of a following I was starting to investigate ways to monetize it and promote to a wider audience. So here I am back in the blogosphere, meekly putting my work back out there.
A side note regarding writing about what REALLY happens in my brain. It's scary. I don't make an effort to portray myself as perfect so you're getting a really authentic peek between my ears. There are so many people who have said over the years they can relate to my writing that I feel like I'm doing the right thing and pursuing an important gift I have to offer. But it's really intimidating at times to throw it out into the universe. I'm afraid people will judge me unstable. I'm afraid my writing isn't good enough. I'm afraid that just as I've found my voice and mustered the courage to whisper it out there, that people are going to criticize me and laugh at me. It's a catch 22, isn't it?
So then along comes this total gift from whoever makes the world spin on its access. School for free. After checking out the programs offered by my employer and lo and behold, there's a Masters of Science in ... INSERT DRUMROLL ... Written Communications. Well. Shut the front door.
So my first class was narrative forms where we studied fiction for the first half and non fiction during the second. I learned so much about my ability to read up to a thousand pages a week! But very importantly, I learned that my lively imagination really has a place in black and white. The papers I turned in were so fun to write and my professor called me the Truman Capote of the class due to my ability to blend fact and fiction. I'm trying to figure out how to post all my grad school work on this blog so you can read them if you want.
I just started my second class last night: Reading and Writing Short Stories. Hello, I'm in heaven. For starters, we spent the first half of class talking about detail and suddenly my ability to notice and discuss minutiae about everything, at length, was completely validated. There is a place for hypervigilent attention to detail and it's in black and white. I have a particular gift that has just been bursting for a platform. The second half of class we read several short stories as the professor was illustrating a point about how to craft a story-starting fragment. He referenced picking up on a detail and telling a story around it but what compelled me the most was that none of the stories we read to illustrate his point were personal tales. I guess I assumed that we'd be learning about how to write blog entries, essentially - ways to bring out our own inner lives and make it relatable. He said it's true that we can bake our agenda into the story, but that the more imagination we use to create characters that will conflict within the story, the more interesting the short story. It's about the innuendo, the backstory, judging what each person is thinking and how based on their point of view they'd treat the other person. The more wacky the characters, the better. The lion tamer with a lionel train collection. The pot smoking high school shop teacher.
By the time class was dismissed my mind was dancing with possibility. But more importantly, my heart just sang with excitement that I now have a voice for the traits that are not always appreciated in real life: overdramatizing everything, exaggeration, hyperbole, partial truths, acting on assumptions. I feel liberated that I'll have a healthy outlet for all of these behaviors that if I did them in real life I'd be continuously bogged down making amends. What fun!!! I can't wait to get started!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The Water Torture
Tonight I put myself through a highly traumatic experience: I tried on swimsuits.
I've successfully avoided this painful task for a number of years. As an unapologetic city dweller, my access to swimming pools or any bodies of water is extremely limited. I never swim. When I do go to the beach I wear shorts and tank tops, thusly minimizing body exposure and still getting tan on the parts other people will see.
As a fitness instructor, I've got a pretty nice body. I work damn hard at maintaining my physique and I'm really proud of the fact that I'm fit. But it's one thing to display said great body when it is fully clothed. It's another thing should I be so lucky to have an intimate moment with a special man who is granted access only after, ostensibly, he demonstrates he likes more about me than whether I have a six pack. Plus that usually takes place in the dark and/or is shrouded by sheets. But it is an entirely different situation altogether to be clad in a square of toilet paper, with my private lumps and bumps on display.
Lately it's come up for me over and over again that the only person who thinks so much about me is, apparently -- me. And possibly an ex boyfriend with a detachment problem but that's another post. The point is that nobody is looking at either my lumps nor my bumps and those are solely there as fuel for my own personal self loathing. I appreciate how terribly self involved it is to feel the hot stinging slap of shame on my face when facing the three-way mirror, wrenching my neck backwards trying to decide whether a man would look at me and call me a "Butterface." (By the way, I'm single, there are no dating prospects in my life and I'm not looking - so how in God's green earth my brain factors in the need for approval from a hypothetical man is a real stretch even for me.)
PS the purpose of this little swimsuit shopping trip has nothing to do with the beach or vanity. I recently added a certification to my fitness instruction resume to teach water classes. I already teach spinning and have all the appropriate garments for this purpose. Taking the water classes is no big deal - I'm in the water so after a speedy trip from the locker room with a towel around my waist, I hop into the water as quickly as I can so nobody can see what's really happening in the assular region. Water classes are populated mostly with women anyway so it's a "safer" environment. I've been taking classes from a number of my fellow instructors so I can brush up on different teaching styles and I put together an audition. I mentioned it to the Monday teacher and talked about challenges to get into the pool to practice, fighting for space with the hard core triathletes doing laps. So she mentioned I could team teach with her next week. Great! I relish any opportunity to practice my teaching skills and expand my marketability at the gym. I'm excited! Right?
Then we got into the water and started doing the class. My swimsuit bottoms were flapping around in the water and I realized I was taking my focus off the workout to adjust. I'd never put a ton of thought into this getup because what I look like during the class isn't important as the exercises are performed submerged in the water.
But the teacher leads the class out of the water. And I realized I needed to address my wardrobe pronto.
Hence, the said shopping trip that caused such distress today.
I first went to Old Navy because their workout clothes look so cute in those quirky ads on TV. I should have known better because any time I go into an Old Navy dressing room, even on a day when I feel tip top about myself, I come out feeling like the fattest fattie in the fat camp. I don't know what it is - the lighting? The way their pants fit? It's a total mystery especially considering they are owned by The Gap where I always spend $100 on cute new items for my closet that I completely didn't need. But I forgot about my Old Navy boycott and after trying on several different styles and options, each making me look lumpier and bumpier than the next, I vowed never to darken the door of another one of those stores again.
I tried looking at my very favorite stores, Forever 21 and H&M. I never hesitate to purchase an armload of cute tops from either of those places, but the bottoms are really made for teenagers and no matter how beautifully fit my body is, I am 41 years old and the Forever 21 ship sailed a long time ago for my lower half. I thought there might be an exception considering the workout clothes are made of stretchy material but to no avail. Something about the way the garments are cut.
So I ambled into the good old standby, The Gap, and was thrilled to be taken off course noting that the skinny pants were all on sale for $30 apiece. I bought a number of items I'd needed but not said swimsuit. I'd experienced enough trauma staring at my untanned ass at the Nazi interrogation station in the Old Navy dressing room that I figured some soothing was in order.
The distraction was nice and I certainly enjoyed wearing a new outfit to work today. But the mission remained unaccomplished and time was beginning to run out. Plus I accidentally tore the seam in the swimsuit bottoms I wore on Monday rendering them unacceptable for any future use.
I got out of work a little early today, determined to find a solution. Of course, like a dumbass, I went back to Old Navy. I rationalized - maybe the other day I wasn't in quite the right frame of mind? Plus they've got those cute boy short bikini bottoms and that looks like it has more ample coverage and is more appropriate for teaching fitness anyway. I went in, tried some things on and it was exactly the same experience. Little beads of sweat formed on my forehead, I spent all sorts of time adjusting and riding up and pulling down and sucking in and blinking back tears. I started to have flashbacks to shopping at the mall with my mom and my sister and no matter how agreeable I tried to be, my sister always baited my mom into an argument and by the time we were done, she was so frustrated with both of us that the entire excursion ended in tears. I was near tears, frankly - even the boy shorts were just, well ... "doing." It was no use. I threw my hands up in surrender, put my street clothes back on, tucked my ego back into a pocket and got on the train to come back home.
I remembered seeing some of the female triathletes wearing a really conservative, athletic-looking Nike two piece and I figured I'd make a last-ditch attempt to pick up something along those lines at Sport Mart (or whatever, I can never remember if it's Sport Mart or Sports Authority and I'm not sure that's really germane to the topic). Once I got in there I felt a little more in my realm surrounded by fitness clothes. There were boy shorts just like I'd envisioned but they were more like running shorts and they had more coverage. I selected literally every single style they had in both Medium and Large, as well as the athletic bikini that inspired this journey in the first place. It took some time to pack up my arm with all of the available options but I was determined. I spent almost an hour in the dressing room (which has far less unflattering lighting, mind you), and I finally narrowed it down to one pair of shorts and one tank that's properly tight to cement everything into place. I think this outfit will let me project the proper professional image and it won't force me into a hunger strike the next five days leading up to the blessed teaching event.
I came home greatly distressed and promptly called one of my gay boyfriends to relay the experience. I can always trust him to put it in the proper perspective and he told me I was koo-koo for having any negative opinions about my body - even if I weighed 10 or 15 pounds more than I do now, who gives a shit? I am a great person, I'm emotionally healthier than this - to obsess so much about how I look? Please - I've worked damn hard to achieve this level of fitness and to earn the right to be a fitness instructor in the first place and I have so much to be grateful for and to celebrate. Listen, I'd like to tell you I handle my emotions flawlessly and have only positive, self-actualized thoughts in my head about me, and have an iron-clad constitution able to withstand any potential negative self talk that goes on. I don't - and I try to conjure spiritual practices, but sometimes I just need the help of a friend to help return my ego back to its proper size. And there's nothing wrong with gay male approval, particularly when that comes accompanied with him singing Christina Aguilara's "Beauiful" to me (just the chorus - it really cheered me up).
So, all better now. Crisis averted. Right?
***************************
I would like to say that this is my first blog post back after an unplanned hiatus due to a hacker who forced the disbanding of my previous blog, "Hey, Punch My Abs." Since that time I started grad school, have remained steadfastly single despite a handful of extremely awkward dates with odd men, work has been super busy and I've been teaching spinning at the gym. I've been pretty busy and there are so many wonderful things in my life sometimes I pinch myself. Last year at this time I'd just moved out from living with my boyfriend of 3 1/2 years, and was trying to decide whether I should break up with him or not. I was working LITERALLY 100 hours a week at this hard core corporate job where I'd long before sold my soul to the devil. I wasn't eating. I cried all the time. And I had these dreams of becoming a fitness instructor and a writer that felt so unattainable - it felt like I'd never be able to have the time to pursue them. I quit that corporate job to take a work-from-home position which I knew instinctively wasn't the right fit but frankly, I needed a paid summer vacation. I rested up just enough to withstand the next life curveball: they fired me ... because they didn't like me. After finally - FINALLY - breaking up with my boyfriend and dealing with the stress of leaving that big fancy job, my emotional resources were kind of spent up so when I got fired, I was a little bit of a mess. Plus I had already been spending kind of too much time at home so I just had a little bit of a hard Indian Summer there. I didn't sit on my ass crying all of the time, though. I spent a lot of time working on my fitness at the gym. I pursued one of my dreams and got certified to teach fitness. I auditioned at my gym and was hired on as a spinning instructor - that, in and of itself, is a really cool story. And I started training people for some extra income while I looked for a job. Training people was such a wonderful experience and I hope that someday I can go back to it. I did get another job, this time with more reasonable hours and a social justice mission AND it's at a university so I get to pursue my graduate education for free. I say all of this to say that I've been living with all of these wonderful blessings now for awhile and it's time to re-introduce my creative passion into my life. I hope you enjoy what I've got to say and I look forward to hearing your feedback, too. Comment liberally - I love the affirmations!
I've successfully avoided this painful task for a number of years. As an unapologetic city dweller, my access to swimming pools or any bodies of water is extremely limited. I never swim. When I do go to the beach I wear shorts and tank tops, thusly minimizing body exposure and still getting tan on the parts other people will see.
As a fitness instructor, I've got a pretty nice body. I work damn hard at maintaining my physique and I'm really proud of the fact that I'm fit. But it's one thing to display said great body when it is fully clothed. It's another thing should I be so lucky to have an intimate moment with a special man who is granted access only after, ostensibly, he demonstrates he likes more about me than whether I have a six pack. Plus that usually takes place in the dark and/or is shrouded by sheets. But it is an entirely different situation altogether to be clad in a square of toilet paper, with my private lumps and bumps on display.
Lately it's come up for me over and over again that the only person who thinks so much about me is, apparently -- me. And possibly an ex boyfriend with a detachment problem but that's another post. The point is that nobody is looking at either my lumps nor my bumps and those are solely there as fuel for my own personal self loathing. I appreciate how terribly self involved it is to feel the hot stinging slap of shame on my face when facing the three-way mirror, wrenching my neck backwards trying to decide whether a man would look at me and call me a "Butterface." (By the way, I'm single, there are no dating prospects in my life and I'm not looking - so how in God's green earth my brain factors in the need for approval from a hypothetical man is a real stretch even for me.)
PS the purpose of this little swimsuit shopping trip has nothing to do with the beach or vanity. I recently added a certification to my fitness instruction resume to teach water classes. I already teach spinning and have all the appropriate garments for this purpose. Taking the water classes is no big deal - I'm in the water so after a speedy trip from the locker room with a towel around my waist, I hop into the water as quickly as I can so nobody can see what's really happening in the assular region. Water classes are populated mostly with women anyway so it's a "safer" environment. I've been taking classes from a number of my fellow instructors so I can brush up on different teaching styles and I put together an audition. I mentioned it to the Monday teacher and talked about challenges to get into the pool to practice, fighting for space with the hard core triathletes doing laps. So she mentioned I could team teach with her next week. Great! I relish any opportunity to practice my teaching skills and expand my marketability at the gym. I'm excited! Right?
Then we got into the water and started doing the class. My swimsuit bottoms were flapping around in the water and I realized I was taking my focus off the workout to adjust. I'd never put a ton of thought into this getup because what I look like during the class isn't important as the exercises are performed submerged in the water.
But the teacher leads the class out of the water. And I realized I needed to address my wardrobe pronto.
Hence, the said shopping trip that caused such distress today.
I first went to Old Navy because their workout clothes look so cute in those quirky ads on TV. I should have known better because any time I go into an Old Navy dressing room, even on a day when I feel tip top about myself, I come out feeling like the fattest fattie in the fat camp. I don't know what it is - the lighting? The way their pants fit? It's a total mystery especially considering they are owned by The Gap where I always spend $100 on cute new items for my closet that I completely didn't need. But I forgot about my Old Navy boycott and after trying on several different styles and options, each making me look lumpier and bumpier than the next, I vowed never to darken the door of another one of those stores again.
I tried looking at my very favorite stores, Forever 21 and H&M. I never hesitate to purchase an armload of cute tops from either of those places, but the bottoms are really made for teenagers and no matter how beautifully fit my body is, I am 41 years old and the Forever 21 ship sailed a long time ago for my lower half. I thought there might be an exception considering the workout clothes are made of stretchy material but to no avail. Something about the way the garments are cut.
So I ambled into the good old standby, The Gap, and was thrilled to be taken off course noting that the skinny pants were all on sale for $30 apiece. I bought a number of items I'd needed but not said swimsuit. I'd experienced enough trauma staring at my untanned ass at the Nazi interrogation station in the Old Navy dressing room that I figured some soothing was in order.
The distraction was nice and I certainly enjoyed wearing a new outfit to work today. But the mission remained unaccomplished and time was beginning to run out. Plus I accidentally tore the seam in the swimsuit bottoms I wore on Monday rendering them unacceptable for any future use.
I got out of work a little early today, determined to find a solution. Of course, like a dumbass, I went back to Old Navy. I rationalized - maybe the other day I wasn't in quite the right frame of mind? Plus they've got those cute boy short bikini bottoms and that looks like it has more ample coverage and is more appropriate for teaching fitness anyway. I went in, tried some things on and it was exactly the same experience. Little beads of sweat formed on my forehead, I spent all sorts of time adjusting and riding up and pulling down and sucking in and blinking back tears. I started to have flashbacks to shopping at the mall with my mom and my sister and no matter how agreeable I tried to be, my sister always baited my mom into an argument and by the time we were done, she was so frustrated with both of us that the entire excursion ended in tears. I was near tears, frankly - even the boy shorts were just, well ... "doing." It was no use. I threw my hands up in surrender, put my street clothes back on, tucked my ego back into a pocket and got on the train to come back home.
I remembered seeing some of the female triathletes wearing a really conservative, athletic-looking Nike two piece and I figured I'd make a last-ditch attempt to pick up something along those lines at Sport Mart (or whatever, I can never remember if it's Sport Mart or Sports Authority and I'm not sure that's really germane to the topic). Once I got in there I felt a little more in my realm surrounded by fitness clothes. There were boy shorts just like I'd envisioned but they were more like running shorts and they had more coverage. I selected literally every single style they had in both Medium and Large, as well as the athletic bikini that inspired this journey in the first place. It took some time to pack up my arm with all of the available options but I was determined. I spent almost an hour in the dressing room (which has far less unflattering lighting, mind you), and I finally narrowed it down to one pair of shorts and one tank that's properly tight to cement everything into place. I think this outfit will let me project the proper professional image and it won't force me into a hunger strike the next five days leading up to the blessed teaching event.
I came home greatly distressed and promptly called one of my gay boyfriends to relay the experience. I can always trust him to put it in the proper perspective and he told me I was koo-koo for having any negative opinions about my body - even if I weighed 10 or 15 pounds more than I do now, who gives a shit? I am a great person, I'm emotionally healthier than this - to obsess so much about how I look? Please - I've worked damn hard to achieve this level of fitness and to earn the right to be a fitness instructor in the first place and I have so much to be grateful for and to celebrate. Listen, I'd like to tell you I handle my emotions flawlessly and have only positive, self-actualized thoughts in my head about me, and have an iron-clad constitution able to withstand any potential negative self talk that goes on. I don't - and I try to conjure spiritual practices, but sometimes I just need the help of a friend to help return my ego back to its proper size. And there's nothing wrong with gay male approval, particularly when that comes accompanied with him singing Christina Aguilara's "Beauiful" to me (just the chorus - it really cheered me up).
So, all better now. Crisis averted. Right?
***************************
I would like to say that this is my first blog post back after an unplanned hiatus due to a hacker who forced the disbanding of my previous blog, "Hey, Punch My Abs." Since that time I started grad school, have remained steadfastly single despite a handful of extremely awkward dates with odd men, work has been super busy and I've been teaching spinning at the gym. I've been pretty busy and there are so many wonderful things in my life sometimes I pinch myself. Last year at this time I'd just moved out from living with my boyfriend of 3 1/2 years, and was trying to decide whether I should break up with him or not. I was working LITERALLY 100 hours a week at this hard core corporate job where I'd long before sold my soul to the devil. I wasn't eating. I cried all the time. And I had these dreams of becoming a fitness instructor and a writer that felt so unattainable - it felt like I'd never be able to have the time to pursue them. I quit that corporate job to take a work-from-home position which I knew instinctively wasn't the right fit but frankly, I needed a paid summer vacation. I rested up just enough to withstand the next life curveball: they fired me ... because they didn't like me. After finally - FINALLY - breaking up with my boyfriend and dealing with the stress of leaving that big fancy job, my emotional resources were kind of spent up so when I got fired, I was a little bit of a mess. Plus I had already been spending kind of too much time at home so I just had a little bit of a hard Indian Summer there. I didn't sit on my ass crying all of the time, though. I spent a lot of time working on my fitness at the gym. I pursued one of my dreams and got certified to teach fitness. I auditioned at my gym and was hired on as a spinning instructor - that, in and of itself, is a really cool story. And I started training people for some extra income while I looked for a job. Training people was such a wonderful experience and I hope that someday I can go back to it. I did get another job, this time with more reasonable hours and a social justice mission AND it's at a university so I get to pursue my graduate education for free. I say all of this to say that I've been living with all of these wonderful blessings now for awhile and it's time to re-introduce my creative passion into my life. I hope you enjoy what I've got to say and I look forward to hearing your feedback, too. Comment liberally - I love the affirmations!
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