#recalculating

Dear Life,

I know you don't miss me (because we spend so much time together), but lots of fun things have changed and I'm having a moment, Life; a moment where I'm recognizing the errors of my ways! I'm recognizing my HUGE LACK of gratitude...and so, dear, dear life - I'm changing directions. For now. I mean, if I have the occasional hack that demands (self-declared) wittiness or dripping sarcasm, I reserve the right to hash that out publicly. But right now, I have more thoughts in my head relative to the small, simple things that I LOVE LOVE LOVE...and I must share these precious things with you. MUST.

I wish those trees were fruit trees, but they're not. 

#launch disclaimers
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

**Yes, some of these will be mundane, but it's my bloggity...and that's the fun of it.

***These things are NOT in order of priority or favoritism.

#seasonal greetings
When I was growing up in California, the grocery stores my mother and I would frequent were smaller. They did seasonal fruity displays. Granted, they always had that orange juice making monstrosity RIGHT.IN.THE.DOORWAY of the jedi-mind-trick glass doors. It was improbable to get something as delectable as a peach in December. Or strawberries. Even raspberries out of season were super rare...and then when you COULD find them, they were first-born expensive. Back then, it was like REGULAR harvests - not 3 rotations a year. And not flash-frozen and refrigerated. Even back then, it seemed apples were always in season...and I'm not a big fan of red delicious apples. I do, however, have a keen affinity for mango, and watermelon. BUT. My forever favorite is the apricot. I crazy love apricots. I do! We used to have a tree in the front yard of  my parent's house...and every time it bloomed it was like magic. My mom used to say (in her high pitched voice) "put them in a bag - we'll share them - there are too many to eat." Which was simply not true. And I would protest. And steal the bags back. And gobble them up. And get sick. And eat more. Just to be right that we didn't, in fact, have too many. (Fine, I'm embellishing, but you get the idea.) There are NEVER too many apricots.

So, while I don't like candied apricots, I LOVE raw, freshly picked apricots. And jam. And jam. And jam...on fresh bread...or biscuits. That are hot. But the likelihood of finding tiny packets of apricot jam in Virginia? Slim to none. They like grape here. And strawberry. And orange marmalade (funny story - I met a guy in high school once who said that when he grew up and had kids, he would name his daughter 'Marmalade'...well, ok.) And mixed fruit - whatever that is.

Thank you, Life. Thank you for apricots. That blush on one side. That fit in the palm of my hand and make me smile with dimples when I take a bite.

#ISO...

Names have been changed to protect the innocent...well, the slightly guilty, but we're spinning it as innocence...maybe the better word is ignorant...to the fact that I'm telling their stories...anonymously. 

Dear Life,

Craigslist is a scary place. Personal ads. Political venting. Weird, vague ads that may or MAY NOT be what you had in mind. I had a friend who bought bunk beds off of Craigslist once...bunk beds. Really. How dangerous could that be? Apparently VERY. Especially when your children break out with crazy bites from bugs that hid in the crevices of said bunk bed set. Ugh...makes me want to dip my laptop in bleach just thinking about it. 

I know that things in my life are super busy, but I always decide (DECIDE) that I need to add a little more chaos to the mix. You know, for fun. And to make things more interesting. So, puppies. Not puppY. PuppIES. Yes, that is plural. Yes, that means more than one. Yes, crazy. Yes, deliberate. 

#must love dogs

I have this weird animal magnetism thing. It's kind of been an annoyance in my family. I should be terrified of them because of a rogue accident injury when I was 3, but the truth is I completely love dogs. I've been raised with dogs. My boxer bulldog mix (Max the destroyer) died last July. It took a LONG while to get past that. Well, mostly get past it. I think a part of me will never get over it. When we reached the part where we thought we were ready to have a dog again I started looking with shelters. We actually adopted a dog from a local shelter - went through the process of the home inspection, etc...and then the poor dog just couldn't adjust. And by that, I mean that he tried to bite a bunch of people. No can do. Especially with kids. We just weren't the right family for him...although, truth be it told, I don't know who/what scenario would be right for that kind of dog. Stress and adjustment, I completely can roll with. Biting - not so much. 

#call me, maybe

I didn't want to go the route of a puppy mill. I don't need a purebred dog. Max the destroyer was a mix and he was beautiful, smart, well-natured. I started looking in the weird recycler/penny saver ads where the listings are super vague because to get the almost free ad, you can only have like 5 words. "Dog. Cheap. Ventura. Call 888-8888." Mainly because I don't have the time to call mystery numbers to hash out if there's a remote possibility of interest, I moved on. Craigslist became the next step in finding. Craigslist similarly has weird, imaginatively spelled, but consistently vague ads...but my favorites almost always have something like 'must be real.' Or 'must not be a time-waster.' lol. 'k. I totally know what they mean, but the literal take on those phrases creates, for me, mostly comical, ridiculous imagery. Not that I need a whole lot of help to get there on my own, but that's not the point.

#the dealer

I found a simple ad for boxer/lab mix puppies. Locally. I made an appointment by email to meet the puppies and see if anything clicked. I know what you're thinking, "riiiight. "MEET" Good luck with that." But for serious, I wanted to be sure before I took one home. I've been through enough shelters, etc. and didn't feel that pull. I met Jones in a McDonald's parking lot in the back by the drive through. It almost felt like a drug deal. Maybe I should have had someone go with me. Don't worry - I had someone tracking me. I let 5 people know where I was going. But it was funny - he drove what looked to be an unmarked cop car. Only, there was a large bin in the back seat with 5 black/brownish and white labs in it...and it was over. I had to get two...because having one alone during the day while we're all at school and work is sad. Because teaching a dog that they're biting too hard is often a hit or miss...but when they're playing with each other - the message comes across loud and clear. The companionship was the main idea. And the fact that I loved them both. So there. 

#padding, please

Puppies are really, REAAALLLY like caring for human newborns. I mean, I was SUPER lucky. My own babies/children slept through the night almost immediately and were fairly easy. Having two baby dogs is like having infant twins. I find us saying things like, 'Shhhh!! You'll wake the puppies!' or 'Oohh, I need to change that." Or, 'do you think they're hungry?' I also get to experience the mid-night care involved. I am summoned to get up at 12, at 2, at 4 to clean dog poop tracked all over the bathroom floor - thank you for almost howling to get me up to take care of this. Can I tell you? Puppy pads. Brilliant. I love them. They're like floor diapers. Yesterday, when the puppies ACTUALLY used them of their own accord, it was like winning the lottery. For reals. Celebratory shouts and all. Even a few tears. Even dropping to knees to thank the heavens above. AND this morning, I was going to get up to run at an ungodly hour before my day started...I second-thought it. Because going into the bathroom to brush my teeth and pull up my hair (NECESSARY) would wake the puppies. And they need their sleep. They're growing dogs. There's also something singularly sweet about having a tiny bitty super soft baby animal all curled up by your heart. It makes me all melty. AND now they're starting to recognize their names...and that makes me possessive-like. MY puppies. MINE. 

I feel lucky - lucky that my Craigslist experience was relatively uneventful. I don't know that I would look for bedding or shoes or a potential date from that resource, or even recommend it to others in search of such things...in this particular case, I can just be grateful that it was a total find...and that I am completely in love with what I got. :)

#lifehacks, no I mean like hacking, like coughing...

Dear Life,

I want to take this opportunity to thank you, most sarcastically, for the illness with which you so charmingly bestowed upon me for the last two weeks and counting. Sickness is about as fun as sitting motionless on the 405...in the worst summer...in a car that has no air conditioning...with a passenger who is loud, sweaty, needs to floss and smells like old chili, but doesn't know it. There's only so long that you can be amenable with the mentioned circumstances before you really badly just want to push the car over the Hollywood sign, or lay into the passenger (from a distance, please) about simple logistics relative to hygiene. But having a cold, and then the flu, and then strep (and other fun sinus infections simultaneously) is not fun, nor fair, nor equitable. And this vicious strain of illness, Life!?! It just won't let a girl go! It grips ambitiously to any weakness in bronchioles that lead to alveoli (part of the lungs), or remote propensities for a throat to become infectious. I don't need to give the boyfriend-who-doesn't-want-to-let-go analogy, Life. You should get this pretty quickly and easily without my gnashing of teeth or wringing of hands - even though it's amusing to watch. Bottom line? Boo, Life. Just boo.

Did you know, Life, that like, 4 people in my office also succumbed to your ruthlessness? We're going to install a lysol tent at the entrance of our building. All employees, visitors, EVE.RY.ONE. will have to walk through it and be sprayed/hosed to limit/hopefully completely eliminate/no, violently dissolve in an invasive fashion the spread of communicable viruses/germs/microbials. Yay for email, because if we actually had to talk to each other face to face, it would be like the toy bin at a preschool - we'll pass those germs here and over there and everywhere - but for wretched, definitely unwelcome colds. I actually wrapped my door knobs with tape. And I am going to wear a face mask and gloves when I go into my management meeting. Because I'm sick of being sick! It's wearying. And annoying. And expensive - thank you EVERY KNOWN DRUG for coughs and flus and sinus pressure that makes you want to cry. Ugh - illusive. And feeling like you've been hit by a truck is only amusing in theory. All those remedies that vaguely promised relief...my poor liver.

Yay for technology and being able to work from home for the last two weeks in pajamas. When my codine-laced cough syrup (that was supposed to make my throat NOT feel like I had swallowed a bottle brush) kicked in, it was nice to pretty much pass out, and come-to a couple hours later, and not miss too much. I think my work-peeps appreciated that payroll still happened despite not sitting in my chair, and not being in my office. Yay for my sidekick, Ham, who made sure I was connected even though I was way out there.

Yay for my kid who is currently home-schooled, who would peek his head in every so often to ask if there was anything that I needed. Yay for his compassion and hospitality. Yay for the orange tree in our back yard that magically produced a glass of tart deliciousness. I have no idea who did it for me, it just appeared between my periods of black-out.

Yay for past episodes of Criminal Minds. Yay for kleenex with lotion in it. Yay for watermelon. Yay for my mom giving me a super soft blanket that made me feel cozy but not suffocated. Yay for my friend who brought me delicious chicken soup. Yay for my man who would let me talk to him about geography and weird curiosities for hours on end because I accidentally took a day-time flu relief pill instead of a night-time flu relief pill - you know, the one that would have made me comatose for 10 hours...whoops. Let's talk about Holland! Achoo. Poor man.

So, dude, Life - I think I've met my quota for sickness for a LONG while. Can't we do sickness like jury duty - at maximum once a year - and I may miss for a few years while other people take their turn? That would better, I think. And more efficient. Just think it over.

xo

#posers...no, really...I pose people. that's my job.

Dear Life,

Now that the holidays are over and I finally put the stockings away (YESTERDAY), I can come back to some humorously ironic sense of normalcy. Humorous AND ironic in a sense that only a primarily single mother of 3 children-who works more than full time-and is finishing a second graduate degree-and has a photography business-and is trying to get a music career off the ground would readily understand. But I know you feel me, life.

So, speaking of photography business, let's talk photo gigs (as this will nicely segue into my rant)...service oriented professions CAN be wonderfully gratifying. I mean, being privy to a front-row view of major life events, or even capturing real-time memories...pfff...there's nothing like it. It's also a tremendous responsibility. And getting paid to make art from nouns that can transform into something that shows unique beauty is flat amazing. The flip side is that in some cases, sometimes, generally, people are/can be a little crazy, a touch inconsiderate, and flat out not so nice...I won't even touch the bridezilla topic, other than to say yes, I've totally worked with them...and no, I'd really rather not again in the future.

#art for minimum wage
I think it positively HILARIOUS (in a harshly sarcastic way) that people are (more than once) under the mistaken impression that photographers 1) are obligated to take their event. And then think, 2) that said photographer must discount that time. I've had a handful of people over the years who have tried to wheel and deal the photography aspect of their event like they were buying a car. It's crazy. Ask yourself what you would like to be paid if you were spending anywhere between 4 to 8 hours on-site, only then to have to go home, upload, sort, edit, and post all of the images you've collected...for EACH job. What would your time be worth? What would your end product be worth? Perhaps you would reconsider offering your photographer $10 an hour. Don't get me wrong, there are a TON of peeps with cameras out there who think they've got an eye and can do what a professional does. I'm certain they would be stoked for the/any opportunity. But I also can guarantee that you will very much get/not get what you pay for.

#it's an investment in memories
Life, there's not a fellow respected photographer that I've ever met that doesn't spend deliberate, dedicated time processing, reviewing, even editing (for their client's sake, even if the client didn't pay for retouching - they just do it because it improves the overall), before they turn those images around. For a work-intensive project (like a wedding, or senior photos, or portraits, or, or, or...), it adds up to HOURS of work before you receive a site link or an appointment for a viewing. A SEASONED photographer goes for at LEAST $100/hour for a shoot. That's a per-hour minimum. That's someone who is has a candid/photojournalistic style. Someone that is more fashion-photography oriented will go for much higher depending on the experience and effort that they pour into your project. Some will/won't charge for travel time (depending on the location), but you should know that this whole process is their livelihood. Photographers are generally IN the business because they love to do it. But these hours matter. And they will work to make sure that they capture and create something that will take you back to those exact moments every time you glance at that photograph.

#the help? huh?
Some people also will treat photographers like they're sub-human...which is ridiculous. You WANT us to catch great moments, right? When you treat us like we're less...well, it may coincidentally happen that you end up with lots of photos of your guests with their mouths full, or blinking, or whatever. Not really. A professional will be annoyed by it, but will totally maintain. Even if we want to give you an album full of blinks and oopses in reply to your poor attitude. We may just save those photos for ourselves to giggle later. Not that I've done that...right?

#that's stealing
Despite all of this (wait, I'm saving my last peeve for last, but this is a good one), it's APPALLING that people think they can steal work! Ever had a photograph with a watermark that was on a website mysteriously appear on facebook in a weird cropped format that was clearly taken by a cell phone from a computer? Scandalous. If you made a deal with the photographer, they would probably allow you the rights to use fully on facebook. But come on. If you haven't paid for the work, it's not yet yours.

OKOKOK, I know you're saying that some photographers are REALLY expensive and I just really wanted that ONE image and and and. NO. There are THOUSANDS of photographers that are out there are are reasonably priced. Some will ask you what your budget is to see if they can work something out. If you have a relative, they may even do it for less. And if you have a friend who is a photographer, they may do it just because they love you. MAYBE. But that's for them to decide. I've given plenty a session as senior gift, or the like. It DOESN'T mean that I will do it for every client. (Some one that was referred was annoyed that I quoted her full price. Her friend had only paid "this" much. I had never met this person, didn't have a working relationship with them, but I had the referrer as a long time client.) I've also discounted work because people will allow me to use their images on my site as portfolio work. I've also have photographers discount their work because I've advertised for them by way of a blog, etc. There is an honest way to use work that is not yours. Get permission. Work it out. Just don't pirate images from the little guy. That $10K that you agreed to/invested in for your wedding - that's paying for a mortgage, for braces, for a family to live...it's paying that photographer to pour their heart into their work and give you something remarkable. Don't think they have a gig like that every day. And be respectful of that contribution. Again, if it was yours, how would you react?

#magic camera
So, I think the most common funny is when people comment on my camera. In the following context: "Wow, that's such a beautiful picture! That must be some camera!" Yep. Yep, it's COMPLETELY my camera. My camera just magically creates art when I click this little button thingey on the top. Never mind that I've been handling an SLR since I was 11. Never mind that I've been professionally shooting and in the market for the last 15. Nope - thank mercy and heaven that I have a good camera! That's like someone making the most exquisite dinner and someone correlating the result to the quality of the oven. Wow, that must be SOME oven. Yah.

The truth is that someone could have the BEST CAMERA ON THE PLANET and still take shoddy, non-descript pictures. A camera is a tool/instrument. What makes it work and create results is the talent/skill/ability of the operator. Think of it in a cooking perspective: when, say, Bobby Flay uses a pan, HE works it. When a novice uses the same pan, for the same dish, it may have some noted variations or results. The pan in and of itself cannot make a dish, only aid in the the means. It's the same concept with a camera. Likewise, a master could create amazing results with a point and shoot, or even an insta-matic, and for fun, sometimes photographers do. It alters perspective. It limits some aspects of the process, but the challenge is good for growth and thinking outside of the box.

Case in point, I did a photo gig for my company. I took some manufacturing-esque photographs of items totally unique to our shop. People off of the street would not recognize some of these items, in fact many of them have an abstract feel to them, but employees walking through the plant know what they are - handle them every day. This was an artistic expression of these, sometimes mundane, articles that were posed in a different light...and noticed through this medium. I had them blown up and then it was decided to have them installed all over the facility. And that comment came out, "Wow, that must be some camera." Not really. I used my iPhone to take the images. And not a fancy 6S. My little, non-spectacular 5 series. Maybe I just got the magically-special iPhone.

 Do you think somewhere there's also a computer that will draft my work for me, or shoes that can run for me, or where can I pick up that stove that makes my dinner for me?? That would be greeeeeeat.

Say cheeeeeeese,
j.

#how many more reps??

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Dear Life,

This workout gig is sometimes way challenging. I mean, I know that it's SOOOO good for me and helpful. I can admit those great benefits NOW while I'm cozy in my bed and hammering out this story, but at the time of forced exertion, I really just want to swear spitefully and spit or something. Usually, I just end up dripping alligator-tear-sized sweat globules all over everything. And it's pretty gross. I hear that some women "glisten". That's not me. I sweat hard. And sometimes it gets in my eyeballs. And it uber annoys (uber as in a lot, not uber like the ride). And I just want to scowl...but I don't. I actually smile through it. And I tell myself (in my head) that it sucks...but I say out loud that I LOOOOOVE it. Even the exercises/sets/reps that I would rather kick in the teeth (if they had them). And I cheer on my fellow paying-for-torture victims, I mean, friends...and then, YES (fine), I leave and I'm all glad that I did it (and that it's over) and the other satisfying junk. But I KNOW you know what I'm talking about.

#self-help
So, this is the story of a girl who was once very athletic and mesomorphic, who is now the mother of three, who went through some SERIOUS post-partum and stuff, who also had attachment/rejection/abandonment issues, who consequently had issues with food, who then had weird disassociation issues with food, who then faced other life things, who then AGAIN turned to said weird food issues, who then realized on her own that she could be/do better, who tried (seemingly) a billion things and wished for better, who, then, felt defeated, who then started training, who then flopped, who then was insane and out the gate trained for a flippin' half marathon, and then did it, who, then, proved to herself that this flabby body had some strong stuff underneath and decided to cultivate that slowly, but steadily...because it's hard. Way hard. Because if anyone is going to fix THIS (motioning to all of myself), it's going to be me. My way. My terms.

#it helps to see the potential
Once upon a time, my ex-man and I decided that we were going to join a big fat gym and the spiffy membership included a Hot Jock trainer (he really was both Hot and a Jock). My then-man was the type that was super dynamic and athletic-like, and could easily build muscle and so, the Hot Jock focused most of his energy with him. I think he pretty much wrote me off. It was awkward for me to be in that environment when my "official" training experience in a gym was directly relational to building stamina and strength to be a better competing athlete. It was weird and awkwardly intimidating to be in a room with men and women...many of whom were there to meet-market in workout clothes...I just kinda went covert-shy and tried/prayed to be invisible. When Hot Jock actually got around to working with me one-on-one, he realized that I had an unusual flexibility (thank you, years of dancing), and was ironically strong (thank you, Hawaiian genes). Oh, and that my style wasn't to swear at him and be a witch with a B. I remember seeing his handwritten notes after a couple of sessions that said I was in poor physical shape...but it had been scratched out and written beneath it was "great potential - great range of motion and endurance. Easy to work with." So there was something to me...even if he didn't see it at first.

#totally NOT one size fits all
Bodies come in all shapes and sizes. There's not one perfect type/kind. It's funny, because I guess looking at me, there are often assumptions that I can't do...whatever. But, given the opportunity, one will discover that there's a LOT I can do. For instance, carry my side of the couch up two flights of stairs one handed. Or, still do a back flip on a trampoline. Or, still carry ALL of my mother's groceries in from the car up the stairs in one trip. I can still pick up my 15 year old...and can fireman hold my man...just for fun. I could probably also rip a car off of my kid if the adrenaline was sufficient...or detach someone's face if my off was pissed enough. But that doesn't happen too often, so I can just talk about that, not actually show my Hulk. Not today, at least. My previous point is that in a world of skinny, I have come to realize that my inclination or propensity is not ever going to be twiggy. When I get there, it will be hella strong, but not thin-like...and I would rather be the former than the latter. I would rather do 5 pull ups than be 95 pounds. Just sayin'.

#David Lopez @ VCF3
When I met David (name NOT changed, because, well, he's rad and has been a huge supporter) (Except, I'm going to call him Super David...and initialize his name for the rest of the story (SD)), it was at a baseball field years ago. His wife and I had been friends during our high school years and I LOOOOVE HER which also made me easily befriend him. Our (then little) boys were on the same youth league baseball team, which meant we would have at least two days a week gettin' together and chattin' it up. During that time, I learned that SD had been a trainer for 8ish years at a large gym in the area and had decided to go it on his own. My past-experience with Hot Jock had admittedly left kind of a bad taste in my mouth for trainers. But I sincerely trusted SD, because contrary to my externally-based former exposure, I knew what would be different is that HE wouldn't judge me or write me off for not being in elite-fit shape. I knew he would be tough on me and push me to places that would work me out of my comfort zones, but he wouldn't break me in the process for his own amusement. I also watched him work with his children, which gave me a perspective of the kind of responsible, deliberate, but with a sense of humor person that he was. I made a choice and I gave him a shot.

For the sake of my story, I have to air my flaws, one of which is that I fall straight on my face at being consistent in fitness. I'm REALLY good with things that I'm good at. But this is not one of those things. I admit that I will go all-in HARD...and then my life interferes and distracts me...and then it becomes super easy to justify not going, or not doing, or getting stressed out and not eating rabbit food, but instead, being content to eat almost a whole bag (fine, A WHOLE BAG) of something deliciously salty...or delectably chocolatey...or perfectly cake-like...or cinnamon-roll-like...or something irresistible like that...you know, hypothetically. Part of the experience of fitness is purely mental. It's a LOT work, a greater part nutrition, and an even more epic part mental. It's a butt kicker...I mean, brain? kicker? Whatever, you know what I'm trying to say. The challenge is more expansive than JUST limited to the physical. So, falling back into known habits, it's common. Justifying the quit is typical. And my reasons WERE good: I was finishing my first master's, I was dealing with some hell-ey things at work, I was getting sick, my kids needed me...I couldn't keep things together, so I cut out the workout part of my life. Because I could. And while a part of me wallowed in guilt, another part of me was happy not to have to get up at 4:30am to drive to a workout...but rather, happier to wrap the duvet over my head to have an extra few minutes of morning nap time before I went to work. It would only be for a little while. I thought I would pause for a month or so until things calmed down. So, yeah...I paused...

For, like, a YEAR. Seriously, don't judge me.

What I appreciate most about SD is that when I reached out to him, hesitantly, humbly, he was cool. He wasn't an elbow-face because I had been gone for so long. He didn't ask me how many boxes of peanut butter crunch cereal I had eaten for dinner in the last month. He didn't try to break my face on the first day. And he didn't make me run around the adjacent building pulling a sled with a 45 pound weight on it straight out the gate...no, he waited a few months for that one specifically (and it was brutal, but I did it - and he totally knew I could, even when I didn't know I could). He flat-out accepted that I was at a completely sub-level compared to everyone else and he gladly worked with that. I don't think everyone is that patient...or that understanding. Again, Hot Jock blew me off initially...and what was (gratefully) obtuse in this moment with SD was that I was inclined to try harder because I knew I could trust his judgment and his expertise.

So, another flaw is that I am guilty of sometimes letting myself off the hook. My excuses play into that. They're my mechanisms. I recognized that, and planned accordingly. To prevent my own sabotage, I recruited a personal support fail-safe: my little brother. The valedictorian. The track sprinter and hurdler. The 18 year old with, like, 7.4% body fat...it's way mis-matched. We can't complain to each other the way I could with someone my own age, or whatever, but this has been surprisingly better. It wasn't about being physically similar, rather being present for this torture, I mean, experience together. I would HAVE to go if he was there, right? Right. Even if he kicks my tush in everything. Even if he can do 100 pull ups (jerk). Doesn't matter. Going. Doing.

I have to throw in that SD is a bad ass. I mean, he's this ex-marine guy...he's the kind of guy that is waaaay nice, but you don't want to cross this guy or give him reason to be mad...EVER. The outcome for you would be painful and just very bad. You would end up being the one peeling yourself off of the wall. When he means business, HE MEANS BUSINESS. It's funny, because when my brother first started, on the way home from his first workout, he was a little scared. He asked questions like, "Has he ever yelled at you??" And my answer was simple: No, I've never given him reason to.

So, SD does super early (5am) classes. He does the night class (6pm) on Monday and Friday (which ended up being more friendly with my schedule). On Tuesday and Thursday, it's another trainer...and this is where my story begins...I mean, like, with a point, begins.

#PITA
I've already established that the fitness/training relationship is initially very awkward. For good reason. You're putting EV-RYYY-THING out there...and trusting that they 1) won't roll on the ground and laugh at you while pointing, 2) won't break you for their own sick and twisted amusement, and 3) will know how to modify moves in the event that your legs, knees, back, shoulders, coccyx, gallbladder, or your face, are/is broken. And interfacing with a substitute...(while great because you don't miss a workout) presents some challenges for one like me. I mean, it's fine, but it is "interesting".

SD was doing something one particular day when I had started coming to the evening classes. I didn't realize it until it was too late. When I walked in with my brother, I looked at her, NOT SD, then I looked at my brother like, 'who is this lady?' And then, I made the unforgivable mistake - I made eye contact. UGH!!!

It was a Tuesday. Not SD is a sickeningly super cute lady. It's difficult not to describe her in a not-nice way, because the truth is that she's way nice. And her workouts are good stuff...but to add to the drama of my story...and to clearly articulate my unreasonable (meh) annoyance, I must go back to the beginning where I didn't care that she was nice. In my mind, she was only about trying to kill me.

There I was, one of a group of many struggling workout persons (ahem-victims) just trying to get through the reps properly without being killed. Remember when I wrote about Hot Jock? And the good stuff that I got out of the SD workouts?? I HAVE a really good functional and form foundation (more from SD than anyone else). I KNOW how to properly squat (even with a torturously heavy kettle bell). I KNOOW how to lunge (even though I would rather stick needles in my eyeballs than lunge...especially so when its also with an absurdly heavy kettle bell). I KNOOOW how to do freaking high-knees (even though I feel like an elephant doing high-knees with or without a kettle bell). I KNOOOOW how to do burpees (even thought I would rather lick my feet than do any likeness of a burpee). And even though I have complete malignity toward said exercises, I still DO them...willingly, fully, correctly...because I know why I'm there. It's like being a kid and having to eat your spinach (even though I love spinach - I get it, it's a bad example, but it's the only one I could drum up to illustrate my point!), they may not like it, but they'll eat it. So, here I am, doing my thing...minding my form, not doing it crazy fast (because I ALWAYS worry about giving it 100% at first and then being the limp noodle on the floor after the first rep...oh, and then not being able to use my arms or legs for at least 3 days thereafter...). From a self-preservation standpoint, I always push myself, but usually not toward immediate fatal fallout. Again, don't judge me.

When I got to the place where I was BURNING and taking it a little slower (to get through the whole session), she was all over me. And I nodded politely. Then, when I was burpeeing until my arms were shaky, she was all over me. And I smiled through a slimy, sweaty face...like my laundry lady who doesn't know/care what the love I'm talking about. And she wasn't, like, being a hole all over me, just giving me pointers and trying to make it better for me. Did she not get it??? I WAS TRYING TO BE INVISIBLE!!! But no, this lady was trying to be helpful! And FRIENDLY!! And TALKATIVE!!! DON'T TALK TO ME!!! Don't walk by modeling your well-sculpted shoulders!! Or your perfect bubble butt!! Or your, like, SIZE 00 waist!! Just let me be elephant-like by myself!!! STOP with your PERKY encouragement!! Do I LOOK like I want to hear your happy, ring-like voice telling me I can do it?!? So, I nick-named her (shamefully). PITA: Pain In The Abs.

So, talk points: 1) PITA, CLEARLY, based on the shape she's in, knows her stuff. You don't get shoulders like that from throwin' back Dr. Pepper's and toaster pastries. And I get that. SD also would NOT have asked her to sub for a class if HE hadn't have trusted her. I knew all of this. I just didn't care. 2) I am an outwardly happy participant, but inwardly? It's a war: I'm a complaining, insecure, grouchy worker-outer. These are my flaws. I'm just making you privvy to my honest madness. 3) MY attitude totally barred me from accepting her help - LEARN FROM ME, PEOPLE, PLEASE. And it's not because her advice and instruction wasn't true or valid or qualified...it's just that I was prideful and prejudiced and biased because (simply) she wasn't SD...and she wasn't what I wanted...and didn't know me...and there was no acceptable SD substitutions...and I didn't care. Pbthtt. In this instance, I didn't want or like change...so there. 4) I just wanted to complain because she was more better than me...I'm admitting it.

I sent SD a facebook message that night. To whine. Politely. And he patiently put me back on track. Because sometimes I'm a weenie. And I know it. The honest truth is that I would feel the same distrust and harsh suspicion for a different hairdresser, or a different dentist...even though I CHOSE to do it. I'm just stupid-lame that way.

I poked holes in my over-inflated ego. I did what SD said, and I stuck with it. I still prefer SD more than anyone else, but I've come to embrace everything that PITA has to offer, because, like I said, she's REALLY, REALLY nice. And trying to help me/us get better. And even though I was a jerk in my head and was secretly scowley, she let me be. But I know better. Just because it's a different style or approach or personal spin...it doesn't make it a bad thing. I get great stuff out of both trainers. Just in different methods and through different theories. Neither of them let me off of the hook, it's just one (SD) knows better what I'm capable of because of time and testing, and places emphasis on that potential. I've given him a chance and that flavor totally works for me. Also, the very thing that irritated me about being pre-judged by trainers is exactly what I was doing in reverse to PITA. My training issues have NOTHING to do with her...and making her the scape goat for my hissy-fit was just a launch pad to another justification. Only this time, it wasn't. Because I WANT to get better...and I need every ounce of help I can get. Including her's.

#break it down
I totally, publicly, sincerely repent of being mean...and calling her a nick-name...even though it was a really true and appropriate moniker. There was some SERIOUS pain in my abs, and an overabundance of burpees and lunges. It's the spirit behind it that was unnecessary...and unkind. I just got over myself because I knew if someone would have done that to me, it would have hurt my feelers. See??!? I'm not totally without a heart...and I know better.

The moral of the story is that my dumpy attitude contributes to my means of success. Sowing good things, brings good things in every way, shape, thought and action. Applying that mental piece in a positive way is vital. If I think it's a drag, it will become even moreso as a manifestation of my mental state. Mental is a powerful key to personal adaptation and achievement. Feeding positive thoughts into that machine is what will bring positive results. Anything negative becomes amplified. We become what we cultivate.

Love who you are. Be mindful of how you face personal adversity. Sow kindness. Give what you can to all things. Accept that some days, your best will be failure, but that will be a catalyst for growth, change and self-evolution.

Whatever your journey, you can do it...even if it means you have a few reps of burpees. You'll get through it. You may surprise yourself.

xo

#bald because of work

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Dear Life,

In my line of work, with people, there are all kinds of quirky things that are manifested. For instance, the other day, a guy that was going to start work (like, his first day), called to tell us that he couldn't start THAT day because his niece had been kidnapped and he needed to do what he could to collect the ransom and that he was sure it would be fine tomorrow...really? Remind me to put him in my address book in the event that I need a quick resolver to my kidnapping issues. And I say this totally tongue in cheek. I would wish that situation upon no one, but we have photographic evidence and clear knowledge that he wasn't collecting a ransom. Rather, resting from a long party weekend. Advice: if you have cousins or friends or family members that work in the same company, chances are those pics of you all strung out with your lady friends, will make it's rounds...potentially all the way to HR. And REALLY? KIDNAPPING is the ONLY excuse you could scrape from the bottom of the barrel? Not just that you were sick? Or something?

I'm also astounded by the frequency of blatant disregard of FED-ER-AL regulations. Common things, like Harassment law. And these examples are not coming from things I've seen in the organizations I've worked for (I'm totally relieved for that), but, things other professionals have talked over, things that have been brought up at State conferences, etc. For instance:

Any time you call an Asian woman a "chow mein", or if you ask her if she has problems seeing through her slanted eyes, you're begging for a kick in the teeth...or a bite out of your wallet by means of hard core litigation. And please, don't be blind by thinking that only your company will take heat for your lack of professionalism. New laws allow personal liability as well.

Any time you try to intimidate someone out of a position, by being a hole, or by pressing your people unnecessarily because you don't want to term them (to avoid paying unemployment), you're violating the law. This, friends, is called HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT. Did you know that bullying is now included as harassment? All disparaging, false, malicious, obnoxious, intent to harm comments are putting yourself in a position that creates personal and organizational liability, AKA law suit. All to avoid paying unemployment. If you have a person who cannot adequately perform, do the right thing, properly document, use every opportunity to show that you've trained, provided tools, and then progressively disciplined. There's a correct way to terminate...that doesn't make you look like a jerk and doesn't open your doors for scrutiny or fines.

Any time you move someone (who came forward to make a harassment complaint) out of a department because you just think it'll be easier on them, you risk (highly) a retaliation claim. Unless THEY have asked for it. Sometimes, your petty efforts to make nice, really create shoe-in for retaliation cases.

At any time, as a manager, if you listen to an 'off-the-record' claim, and do nothing about it, you risk a harassment claim. As a ward of the organization, you have a DUTY to bring claims forward and protect the company. The law is applied to organizations who are aware of harassment as well as organizations who SHOULD HAVE KNOWN about those issues.

Any time you demand a standard of your people that you're not applying yourself as a manager, you risk losing the trust and respect of your team. Double standards will prove only one thing: you're a poor manager.

Yes, Life, I'm griping. Because so many of these things lack common sense!! Why is it so difficult to treat people like people? Why do we become less humane with one group of people than another? And I know there's a lame amount of law and regulation that applies to nit-picky situations, but it's because there have been circumstances that have CAUSED THESE PROTECTIONS TO BE PUT INTO PLACE.

That's all. Play nice. Know your rights and obligations.

And for heaven's sakes, TELL THE TRUTH!

The end.
xo

#gettin' over it

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Dear Life,

I had a stark realization this weekend about the extent of my weirdness. And, of course, as a public service, I thought I would share it with you purely for your enjoyment. Because I'm nice like that. Kinda. Sometimes. Maybe.

Did I tell you, Life, that I'm a photographer on the side? I have my "real" job where I Resource the Humans, and then the mothering gig (my favorite for reals), and then some (intimidating and simultaneously soothing) music stuff, and then photography...not ever necessarily in that order. I've omitted some of the other things because they don't pertain, and also because I can't remember right now...lots of other less/more attention-grabbing stuff crowding my ability to accurately recall and succinctly articulate.

This weekend, I half-dragged my brother with me to be the second camera for a corporate picnic at a (relatively) local theme park in Valencia. It was lovely. The day was perfect. The kids were actively engaged in games. Employees were with their families. The atmosphere was very relaxed. I got some great candids of people talking and laughing (those are the best). The host was kind enough to throw in tickets to the park for me and the brother for the rest of the afternoon and we decided to hit up a couple little (yeah, right) rolley-coasters before we headed home.

#look, mom, no hands
First, let me say that there was a time when roller coasters were the only things I was really afraid of. Not the dark, not spiders, roller coasters. I was truly (like, paralyzed) terrified of the small dip on Pirates of the Caribbean. I would seriously hyperventilate at the thought of doing twisty-turnies...and there was no way, no possible bribe lucrative or persuasive enough that could coax me to set foot on anything that looped. Because I thought if I tried it, or thought about trying it, I was going to die. Rather, I was going to be twisted, spiraled, and basically hurdled (or dropped) toward my death. The vision was vivid. And I imagined being the one rider in the history of the park whose seat belt sadly, unfortunately, mistakenly opened during the highest point of the man-breaking loop...and then, further imagined myself laying there, broken on the dirty, overpriced soda-caked, candy licked and dropped, popcorn-littered, chili corn dog stick-littered, roach fodder floor for an eternity while the ambulance was summoned, and then struggled patiently to get through all of the rubber-necking crowdlings. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Couldn't risk my life like that. To be safe, I just stayed away. And watched from afar. Like, 10 miles afar.

#hydro-trajectory aerobalistics
Well, I say that I had no other fears or phobias, but I admit that I had a fear of heights for a long time. I was the kid in 5th grade at the last day swim party that hiked up to the high dive, only to stand up there on the edge looking down pitifully scared for 20 minutes, freaking out, crying and eventually climbing back down. Of course everyone at the bottom of the ladder was yelling at me to jump. No way, Jose. It was terrifying. And even when I was in high school and picked up springboard diving it was always limited, happily, to the 1 meter board..until I carried it on to college and my coach told me that the number of state competitors in the high dive was minimal...which meant that if I decided to compete, even if I stunk, which I might have a little, I would have a legitimate chance at pursuing the diving thing, possibly all the way up to State Championships...which meant that I got over the heights thing really quick-like. Dangling a potential State Championship in front of my face was a sufficient incentive for me to (quasi) ignore the nudging fear as I launched and propelled myself even higher into the air (without a harness or a wetsuit) and glanced over my shoulder. It didn't matter that I could see almost ALL of the city...or the ocean...or the islands in the distance (yikes). Well, SOMETIMES it didn't matter. Sometimes it still freaked the Love & Rockets out of me.

The experience as a whole was actually a really great thing...that is, until I broke 3 ribs by landing an attempted dive wrong. Failed dives off of the 3 meter board or higher platforms make landing on water, like landing on a concrete sidewalk. In fact, that day, I thought it would have hurt LESS to have just thrown myself on the ground from that height instead of basically belly, or rather, side-flopping because of an over-rotation. I thought of all of this while floating just under the surface of the water that had betrayed me...in pain...not wanting to move...or acknowledge tears of both sharp, burning pain and equally (or more) of agonizing frustration...knowing full well, I would HAVE TO do the dive over again despite the injury, so that I wouldn't, then, be afraid to keep trying...and to get over all of the mental blocks that come from pain. Only later, after my lungs locked up, would an x-ray show the full extent of the damage. And when I asked the doc what I could do about the pain I felt when I would simply breathe, he told me to breathe deeply...and to do it often. Ribs can't really be casted. And restricting the range of motion of the rib cage can cause all kinds of other issues. He told me, eventually, I would become immune to the pain. Rough advice added to a rough day.

#burned to overcome
Second, let me say that I also had a deep-rooted personal fear of abandonment and rejection. This one, I won't pour into. Too many details. Too much of a bummer. Long story short, the embodiment and fruition of that fear came in full, unavoidable force...more than once...and I was put in a position where I had to deal with this fear. While I will not air out the details, I can fully divulge that after all THAT went down, things like rolley-coasters were a snap. And, to prove it to myself, I try adrenaline tracks as often as I can. Except for the vertical drop ones...those still make me feel like my brain is being slammed up against my skull. But at least I know that because I tried...and didn't fake that I had tried.

#bringing the big stick
The brother and I were with a small group of friends in line for a ride I had never experienced. It was huge and had fire and all kinds of crazy gimmick things. It was built to be intimidating...but I took a quick personal inventory while we were standing just underneath it, listening to the strapped-in riders say their Hail Mary's and screaming at the plummet, and it hit me that I felt nothing. There was no usual anxiety, no creative thoughts and advanced acting necessary to bow out gracefully. Even getting strapped in myself, when I should have been freaking out, there was excitement in place of terror. The dragging up the ramp (because instead of facing the climb, the riders were reversed, facing the sky, unable to see how much higher we still had to go...) was nothing but calm...and the drop was pure fun. As well as the rest of the loops with rotations thrown in. Way fun. Again! Again! Again!

I did have laughy-fear on the second ride, only because instead of being vertical to the track, we were horizontal. As we climbed higher...and climbed higher...and climbed higher...and (holy cow, STILL?!?) climbed higher over the dark ground and trees, where only the quiet lights and poles that supported this monstrosity...I will be honest, that the thought of me cascading to my broken death crossed my mind. For a second. But it was then that my momentary fear was utterly dismissed as I squealed in excitement in a barrel roll.

But this isn't the only part of my post, Life. What I should also mention was the part that was directly designed to scare my socks off...but didn't.

#immune to the scare factory
Given that it's October, the park (and every other theme park everywhere) was set up for scary/fright/haunt Halloween mazes. We had to walk through a scare zone to get to the second coaster and back through it to get out. It was dark. Lots of neon. Actors were then menacing, with their prosthetics masks glowing like a nightmare. They would swarm those who clung to friends, or tried to hide their faces from the dark goblins. If people weren't willing to look at the scary characters, they would still scream in a way that would trigger shaking, crying, screams in reply, running in terror, and jumping of fright.

Usually, I'm a super scaredy cat. I will NOT go to horror movies because I can't handle them. I can't handle the anxiety. I can't handle the Psycho-like chords they play to get your scary buy-in. And you know, thinking about it, it's probably because of the music that I'm always eeby-geebied-out. Huh...I just put that one together.

While we were waiting for a funnel cake on our way out, there were maybe 5 actors that were aggressively roaming the entryway, back and forth, to scare the tar out of the new people coming in. Everyone in line was standing to face the spectacle...because it was obvious that when ones back was turned, a gargoyle-looking guy wearing metal on his shoes and fingers would come up and scrape that stuff on the ground (like a nail on chalkboard effect) and shout loudly at the same time to startle the holy hello kitty out of you. Maybe I should have been terrified...but I wasn't. I was actually more fascinated by their make up. I kept wishing that I could stop one of them for a second to get a closer look at what the artists had done. And I had questions!! Was the makeup airbrushed? Or was it some other technique? Were they using prosthetic latex? Or some other kind of tool for the ears? Did they use the same prosthetics every night? Or did they have a week cycle before using something else (like in theater)? How long to do they roam? Do they do retouching during the night? Was the mask itchy when they got sweaty? Did it smell like new tires? Was that annoying? Did it interfere with the smells of the park? Did it make it like, rubber popcorn smell? How were they casted? Did they audition? How many people tried to swing at them each night? How long did the makeup application process take? But they wouldn't stop to talk to me. They were too busy startling the poodle out of young girls, or teenage boys who acted like no one could crack them...

I should have been scared. Every NORMAL person was scared. I wasn't scared. Even when the guy with make up that looked like he was an Orc that had been bludgeoned in the left eye stealthily came up closely behind me and started breathing down my neck...it's a twisted sign when, instead of being rightfully chilled to the bone, it's oddly ticklish. Here he is, trying to do his best serial killer with asthma impression, and I'm giggling like a two year-old. He actually said "meh" before he walked on to a more appropriately responsive victim. And I didn't act that way because I was trying NOT to be scared. I just WASN'T scared. Not there. Now, maybe if he had a chainsaw thing, I would have flipped-the-love out, but there was no audio ambiance to add to my chills...and so it was just room temperature scares for this girl. Who was much more entertained by the terror of others. Now, I will credit all of the actors because for those with weaker constitutions, I don't know if they slept that night...or will...for the rest of the week. I'm just weird.

Meh.
xo