Thursday, September 28, 2006
Anxiety Woes.
"I never used to be so anxious and intense," I cried Sunday night at Bryan after a three-day panic attack of sorts. He patiently listened to my woes while I downed Rolling Rock. (Not my favorite beer, but an inexpensive option for times of high stress.)
Work is busy. Relationships are intense. Car issues have me never knowing how I'm going to get to my next location. And no matter how hard I try, I can never seem to Just Let Go. When you venture into houses in the suburbs, you see magnets on the fridge that say "Let go and let God." While the phrase is cheesy, it is applicable. Unfortunately, more times than not, it's not a phrase that I can actually act out.
There is a strand inside of me that cannot deal with relinquishing control. Of anything.
Sometimes this comes in handy. In my job, it makes me very good at what I do. In most other situations, it's a source of anxiety.
Today at lunch, I researched heart palpitations on the internet, because, it seems, I have them. For several days now, my heart has been beating out of my chest. Reading about it just makes it worse. Heart palpitations are rooted in stress and anxiety, both of which I bring on myself.
I started (sans alcohol, this time) to think about my cry to the ever-patient Bryan about my "newly" acquired anxiety. After some thought, I realized that this isn't new at all. In college we got extra credit in pyschology by participating in experiments. After taking a standardized test, I was paid to be part of an experiment on meditation.
I was stressed enough during my freshman year of college to be eligible to be PAID TO MEDITATE.
The stress and anxiety existed in high school, as I attended weekly bitch sessions with my guidance counselor under the label "Stress Group."
What does it take for me to realize I have somewhat of a problem? An inability to follow the instructions on a magnet? A Saturday night potluck panic attack? The realization that my anxiety is affecting relationships? Heart palpitations?
Stay tuned, kids!
"I never used to be so anxious and intense," I cried Sunday night at Bryan after a three-day panic attack of sorts. He patiently listened to my woes while I downed Rolling Rock. (Not my favorite beer, but an inexpensive option for times of high stress.)
Work is busy. Relationships are intense. Car issues have me never knowing how I'm going to get to my next location. And no matter how hard I try, I can never seem to Just Let Go. When you venture into houses in the suburbs, you see magnets on the fridge that say "Let go and let God." While the phrase is cheesy, it is applicable. Unfortunately, more times than not, it's not a phrase that I can actually act out.
There is a strand inside of me that cannot deal with relinquishing control. Of anything.
Sometimes this comes in handy. In my job, it makes me very good at what I do. In most other situations, it's a source of anxiety.
Today at lunch, I researched heart palpitations on the internet, because, it seems, I have them. For several days now, my heart has been beating out of my chest. Reading about it just makes it worse. Heart palpitations are rooted in stress and anxiety, both of which I bring on myself.
I started (sans alcohol, this time) to think about my cry to the ever-patient Bryan about my "newly" acquired anxiety. After some thought, I realized that this isn't new at all. In college we got extra credit in pyschology by participating in experiments. After taking a standardized test, I was paid to be part of an experiment on meditation.
I was stressed enough during my freshman year of college to be eligible to be PAID TO MEDITATE.
The stress and anxiety existed in high school, as I attended weekly bitch sessions with my guidance counselor under the label "Stress Group."
What does it take for me to realize I have somewhat of a problem? An inability to follow the instructions on a magnet? A Saturday night potluck panic attack? The realization that my anxiety is affecting relationships? Heart palpitations?
Stay tuned, kids!
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Inner Girl.
In sixth grade, I had a short-lived crush on a boy who liked the Chicago Bulls. His basketball love caused him to wear lots of red and black. Consequentally, I started searching for and wearing black and red attire, not because I wanted to match him, but because, in my (flawed) logic, somehow he would like me if he saw that we had something in common. This didn't work.
Apparently, dressing like a boy won't make him like you. I was slow to catch on.
Although I stopped dressing like boys in the early nineties, it's taken me quite some time to stop repressing my Inner Girl. The Inner Girl is the part of me that secretly likes the taste of the pink fancy martinis while I sip my über-trendy PBR. The Inner Girl is the part of me that gets excited about window coverings, likes bubble baths (but thinks the bathtub is too dirty to attempt). The Inner Girl craves chocolate, chick flicks and pedicures, while officially, I prefer vanilla, films, and saving money.
I think that I've repressed my Inner Girl because she is so stereotypical. My Inner Girl is way too predictable.
But slowly, I've started to admit that I like soft floral prints, lace, pastels (in taste) and things that are soft and smell good. And truth be known, I'm beginning to suspect that a few of the aforementioned items are what boys like about girls.
I helped Sarah and Adrienne design their booth for an alternative craft fair this weekend. Of the thirty or forty vendors, our booth was, by far, the girliest. Patent leather corsets, skulls and stuffed monsters surrounded us, while we lived in our pastel fuzzy universe for eight hours.
As we watched women stop by our booth to touch a knit kitty or pick up one of Sarah's handbags, we could see tough exteriors melt as their Inner Girls fought their way to the surface. The wares at our table were undeniably CUTE and no one - not even the toughest woman there - could deny it.
Tonight is date night. I'm going to get dressed up, put on makeup and wear my floral apron (my only internet purchase ever). Bryan and I will cook some amazing food and I'll do girly things, such as giggle, blush and grab his hand. A lot. (Because the Inner Girl likes to hold hands. A lot.) On the exterior, we can all roll our eyes and say such things are silly, trivial, non-productive. But the Inner Girl knows better.
(Setting up the booth in Sarah's apartment. We're listening to Neko Case, whose music appeals to the Inner Girl, and drinking wine, an act that is acceptable in most girl interactions.)
In sixth grade, I had a short-lived crush on a boy who liked the Chicago Bulls. His basketball love caused him to wear lots of red and black. Consequentally, I started searching for and wearing black and red attire, not because I wanted to match him, but because, in my (flawed) logic, somehow he would like me if he saw that we had something in common. This didn't work.
Apparently, dressing like a boy won't make him like you. I was slow to catch on.
Although I stopped dressing like boys in the early nineties, it's taken me quite some time to stop repressing my Inner Girl. The Inner Girl is the part of me that secretly likes the taste of the pink fancy martinis while I sip my über-trendy PBR. The Inner Girl is the part of me that gets excited about window coverings, likes bubble baths (but thinks the bathtub is too dirty to attempt). The Inner Girl craves chocolate, chick flicks and pedicures, while officially, I prefer vanilla, films, and saving money.
I think that I've repressed my Inner Girl because she is so stereotypical. My Inner Girl is way too predictable.
But slowly, I've started to admit that I like soft floral prints, lace, pastels (in taste) and things that are soft and smell good. And truth be known, I'm beginning to suspect that a few of the aforementioned items are what boys like about girls.
I helped Sarah and Adrienne design their booth for an alternative craft fair this weekend. Of the thirty or forty vendors, our booth was, by far, the girliest. Patent leather corsets, skulls and stuffed monsters surrounded us, while we lived in our pastel fuzzy universe for eight hours.
As we watched women stop by our booth to touch a knit kitty or pick up one of Sarah's handbags, we could see tough exteriors melt as their Inner Girls fought their way to the surface. The wares at our table were undeniably CUTE and no one - not even the toughest woman there - could deny it.
Tonight is date night. I'm going to get dressed up, put on makeup and wear my floral apron (my only internet purchase ever). Bryan and I will cook some amazing food and I'll do girly things, such as giggle, blush and grab his hand. A lot. (Because the Inner Girl likes to hold hands. A lot.) On the exterior, we can all roll our eyes and say such things are silly, trivial, non-productive. But the Inner Girl knows better.
(Setting up the booth in Sarah's apartment. We're listening to Neko Case, whose music appeals to the Inner Girl, and drinking wine, an act that is acceptable in most girl interactions.)
Thursday, September 21, 2006
The Man.
So I've been reading a knitting blog lately. Somehow I've found myself in my late twenties living in the midwest, spending time with highschoolers ("Omigod! He asked you to Homecoming!) while reading knitting blogs in my spare time.
My favorite part of the knitting blog is a line on the right hand side that says, "Where are we going, and why are we in this handbasket?"
I spent my Sunday evening hanging out with the high school youth group, trying to explain why this was funny.
"We're going to HELL in a HANDBASKET," I'd say, "Get it?"
To no avail.
When I walked into the office this morning, my coworker was rocking out to Rage Against the Machine. Clint and I have similar taste in music, but sometimes he comes in with things that I just can't approve of. I've never been able to "get" Rage Against the Machine. So far as I can tell, there's no melody, no counter melody, no ryhthm. You can't dance to Rage Against the Machine at Homecoming. (Not really relevant, just trying to tie it all in.) But the main thing that turns me away from RAtM is that they sound so angry. ANGRY.
I walked over to Clint's desk this morning and said, "Fuck the Man! I'm ANGRY."
"Yeah," Clint agreed, "Fuck the Man!"
"Does anyone really know who the Man is?" I asked.
"I don't know. But apparently a lot of people hate him."
"Hey," I say, knowing that I'm going to fail once more at my attempt to verbalize something that's probably only funny a) in context and b) in print, "Do you want to hear something funny?"
"Um."
(Usually Clint doesn't want to hear whatever is followed by my "Do you want to hear"'s. He doesn't want to hear about my date last night, what I think about Radiohead, or anything else I throw at him. But I usually tell him anyway.)
"My new favorite line is, "Where are we going, and why are we in this handbasket?""
Silence.
"I don't get it. Does it have something to do with the *Wizard of Oz*?"
I explain it to him putting the emphasis on HELL and HANDBASKET. Not even a chuckle.
"I think it's funny," I explain, "because no one really knows what a handbasket is."
"Yeah. What's a handbasket?"
"I don't know," I said, "But I bet the Man has one."
The blog: crazyauntpurl.com
So I've been reading a knitting blog lately. Somehow I've found myself in my late twenties living in the midwest, spending time with highschoolers ("Omigod! He asked you to Homecoming!) while reading knitting blogs in my spare time.
My favorite part of the knitting blog is a line on the right hand side that says, "Where are we going, and why are we in this handbasket?"
I spent my Sunday evening hanging out with the high school youth group, trying to explain why this was funny.
"We're going to HELL in a HANDBASKET," I'd say, "Get it?"
To no avail.
When I walked into the office this morning, my coworker was rocking out to Rage Against the Machine. Clint and I have similar taste in music, but sometimes he comes in with things that I just can't approve of. I've never been able to "get" Rage Against the Machine. So far as I can tell, there's no melody, no counter melody, no ryhthm. You can't dance to Rage Against the Machine at Homecoming. (Not really relevant, just trying to tie it all in.) But the main thing that turns me away from RAtM is that they sound so angry. ANGRY.
I walked over to Clint's desk this morning and said, "Fuck the Man! I'm ANGRY."
"Yeah," Clint agreed, "Fuck the Man!"
"Does anyone really know who the Man is?" I asked.
"I don't know. But apparently a lot of people hate him."
"Hey," I say, knowing that I'm going to fail once more at my attempt to verbalize something that's probably only funny a) in context and b) in print, "Do you want to hear something funny?"
"Um."
(Usually Clint doesn't want to hear whatever is followed by my "Do you want to hear"'s. He doesn't want to hear about my date last night, what I think about Radiohead, or anything else I throw at him. But I usually tell him anyway.)
"My new favorite line is, "Where are we going, and why are we in this handbasket?""
Silence.
"I don't get it. Does it have something to do with the *Wizard of Oz*?"
I explain it to him putting the emphasis on HELL and HANDBASKET. Not even a chuckle.
"I think it's funny," I explain, "because no one really knows what a handbasket is."
"Yeah. What's a handbasket?"
"I don't know," I said, "But I bet the Man has one."
The blog: crazyauntpurl.com
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Buckeye Fever.
Classes start tomorrow at Ohio State University, and no matter how far away from academia you are, it's difficult to ignore the effects that the institution has on the city of Columbus. From now on, parking will be more difficult in my favorite neighborhoods. From now on (at least on every Saturday through the end of the year) our city will either be eerily silent (away games) or absolutely obnoxious (home games). "Ohio State" brand products have made their ways onto the grocery store shelves as well as nearly every other genre of retail in Central Ohio.
Today I saw scarlet and grey Ohio State pasta. Nothing like Buckeye pride as you tell your opponents to "eat it."
As much as I love my alma mater in Athens, Ohio, and as much as I roll my eyes at the side effects of Ohio State football, the culture of OSU really has become a stable ingredient in my reveries of autumn in Ohio. When I lived in Chicago, I found myself bragging about our football team, about the enormity of the school.
Some people think of spring as being the season to start new, but for me, it's autumn. There's something about new books, new pens, back to school clothing. Even though absolutely none of it applies to me, I feel excited when I see young freshman moving in.
Perhaps someday I'll be in academia again. Until then, I'm pretty content living nearby. (Neaby: close enough to see students, not close enough to have one burn a couch in my front yard after fourth quarter.)
Classes start tomorrow at Ohio State University, and no matter how far away from academia you are, it's difficult to ignore the effects that the institution has on the city of Columbus. From now on, parking will be more difficult in my favorite neighborhoods. From now on (at least on every Saturday through the end of the year) our city will either be eerily silent (away games) or absolutely obnoxious (home games). "Ohio State" brand products have made their ways onto the grocery store shelves as well as nearly every other genre of retail in Central Ohio.
Today I saw scarlet and grey Ohio State pasta. Nothing like Buckeye pride as you tell your opponents to "eat it."
As much as I love my alma mater in Athens, Ohio, and as much as I roll my eyes at the side effects of Ohio State football, the culture of OSU really has become a stable ingredient in my reveries of autumn in Ohio. When I lived in Chicago, I found myself bragging about our football team, about the enormity of the school.
Some people think of spring as being the season to start new, but for me, it's autumn. There's something about new books, new pens, back to school clothing. Even though absolutely none of it applies to me, I feel excited when I see young freshman moving in.
Perhaps someday I'll be in academia again. Until then, I'm pretty content living nearby. (Neaby: close enough to see students, not close enough to have one burn a couch in my front yard after fourth quarter.)
Friday, September 15, 2006
A Photo.
We had a Cambodia reunion last night. The people who went on the trip gathered in one place and we shared photographs, stories, drinks. Here's a photo taken outside the Killing Fields in Phnom Phen. My photography skills were greatly surpassed by a friend's, so make no mistake. This was taken by my friend Brian (not to be confused with Bryan.)
Children begging.
More on the Killing Fields later.
We had a Cambodia reunion last night. The people who went on the trip gathered in one place and we shared photographs, stories, drinks. Here's a photo taken outside the Killing Fields in Phnom Phen. My photography skills were greatly surpassed by a friend's, so make no mistake. This was taken by my friend Brian (not to be confused with Bryan.)
Children begging.
More on the Killing Fields later.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Indiana Ramblings.
I've spent the better part of this sunny September afternoon wandering around Bloomington, Indiana, longtime home of Indiana University and temporary home of Bryan's Russian Conference. He's spent the majority of his time here hanging out with the Russian women, who may not actually be Russian, but certainly spend a significant amount of their time studying and researching the language.
Bloomington has a nice little downtown area that couples up to the campus. Neither are very remarkable, but together, paired with my recent lack-of-car issue, the areas are very attractive to me. I want to live in a pedestrian society. Every city I've ever lived during my "adult" life - Edinburgh, London, Chicago, Athens - has been a pedestrian-friendly city.
Back to the Russian conference. Bryan and his women will present to hundreds of Russian scholars - and me - this afternoon. I'm excited to learn a little about what it is that he actually does but I know that I'm going to feel out of place. I have to. I'm stepping into a world that's different than anything I've ever experienced. Much like Cambodia.
The concept of feeling out of place is becoming a familiar one to me this summer. Only I can find a way to compare two weeks in Cambodia to two days in Indiana.
Oh well.
I never mentioned why it was that I decided to tag along on this midwest adventure with Bryan. I'm supposed to be writing about my experiences in Cambodia. Instead, I've found myself writing about anything but.
Oh well.
I've spent the better part of this sunny September afternoon wandering around Bloomington, Indiana, longtime home of Indiana University and temporary home of Bryan's Russian Conference. He's spent the majority of his time here hanging out with the Russian women, who may not actually be Russian, but certainly spend a significant amount of their time studying and researching the language.
Bloomington has a nice little downtown area that couples up to the campus. Neither are very remarkable, but together, paired with my recent lack-of-car issue, the areas are very attractive to me. I want to live in a pedestrian society. Every city I've ever lived during my "adult" life - Edinburgh, London, Chicago, Athens - has been a pedestrian-friendly city.
Back to the Russian conference. Bryan and his women will present to hundreds of Russian scholars - and me - this afternoon. I'm excited to learn a little about what it is that he actually does but I know that I'm going to feel out of place. I have to. I'm stepping into a world that's different than anything I've ever experienced. Much like Cambodia.
The concept of feeling out of place is becoming a familiar one to me this summer. Only I can find a way to compare two weeks in Cambodia to two days in Indiana.
Oh well.
I never mentioned why it was that I decided to tag along on this midwest adventure with Bryan. I'm supposed to be writing about my experiences in Cambodia. Instead, I've found myself writing about anything but.
Oh well.
Friday, September 08, 2006
I Understand.
It was the first day of sixth grade. It was my first day of school in a new school district. We'd moved over the summer, and I was excited to make new friends. I'd gone clothes shopping with my mom and had a perfect back-to-school outfit. I wore a bright pink long t-shirt with short black leggings, white and pink alternating schrunch socks, white hi-top sneakers and a matching NKOTB headband and bracelet. As I said goodbye to my dad on that first day of school, he hugged me, got a little choke in his throat and told me that I looked great. My father works with tween girls' fashion, so according to his retail store, I did look great.
I went to school with my pink and black and white ensemble and my large plastic rimmed glasses and attended a D.A.R.E. presentation of some sorts. For some reason, the cop at the front of the classroom wanted to stress friendship.
"Suppose," he said, not knowing that I was a new student, "there was a new kid in your class. What could you do to make him feel welcome?"
A girl whose name I later learned to be Kelli raised her hand higher than any of the others.
"Yes?"
"Well, you could invite him or her to sit with you at lunch," Kelli suggested.
Any anxieties about making friends completely disappeared. Not only did my dad think that I looked really cool, but I already had someone who wanted me to eat lunch with her.
"That's a great idea! Anyone else?"
No other suggestions surfaced, so the cop moved on with his speech and concluded. It was time to go to lunch. I lingered in the classroom waiting around for Kelli, as the other kids vacated. She started to leave the classroom but halted in the doorway and turned to me. I started to smile and walk toward her.
"Jill, right?" she asked.
"Yeah," I started.
"Is it cool with you if we don't really eat together," she asked, "my table's kind of already full."
And thus began my first day of middle school.
"Yeah. That's fine," I said, "I understand."
It was the first day of sixth grade. It was my first day of school in a new school district. We'd moved over the summer, and I was excited to make new friends. I'd gone clothes shopping with my mom and had a perfect back-to-school outfit. I wore a bright pink long t-shirt with short black leggings, white and pink alternating schrunch socks, white hi-top sneakers and a matching NKOTB headband and bracelet. As I said goodbye to my dad on that first day of school, he hugged me, got a little choke in his throat and told me that I looked great. My father works with tween girls' fashion, so according to his retail store, I did look great.
I went to school with my pink and black and white ensemble and my large plastic rimmed glasses and attended a D.A.R.E. presentation of some sorts. For some reason, the cop at the front of the classroom wanted to stress friendship.
"Suppose," he said, not knowing that I was a new student, "there was a new kid in your class. What could you do to make him feel welcome?"
A girl whose name I later learned to be Kelli raised her hand higher than any of the others.
"Yes?"
"Well, you could invite him or her to sit with you at lunch," Kelli suggested.
Any anxieties about making friends completely disappeared. Not only did my dad think that I looked really cool, but I already had someone who wanted me to eat lunch with her.
"That's a great idea! Anyone else?"
No other suggestions surfaced, so the cop moved on with his speech and concluded. It was time to go to lunch. I lingered in the classroom waiting around for Kelli, as the other kids vacated. She started to leave the classroom but halted in the doorway and turned to me. I started to smile and walk toward her.
"Jill, right?" she asked.
"Yeah," I started.
"Is it cool with you if we don't really eat together," she asked, "my table's kind of already full."
And thus began my first day of middle school.
"Yeah. That's fine," I said, "I understand."
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Anyone Still Here?
So I was reading a new blog yesterday - about knitting hats - when I realized that I have my own blog. I must admit that writing eluded my life for a few months, but with the cold weather setting in, I've been itching to hone in on things that make me happy. Like writing, knitting, drinking coffee outside and smoking. (I'll refrain from the smoking and just continue to have dreams about it.)
Let me catch you up to date ("you" being any lingering readers).
I'm still a home owner. I'm three months away from finishing off the first year of the largest commitment of my life. I had a slight incident involving my home warranty and two plumbers that made me want to sell the place and move into my car. But I've since recovered and now I can wash my face without the bathroom sink overflowing.
I'm still dating Bryan, who is just starting graduate school. I once swore that I'd never date a graduate student again, but I also swore that I wouldn't date someone younger than me. I've broken both resolutions, and things have worked out okay. I should just be thankful that he's not a republican and get ready for the side effects of higher education. (One of which is my recurring desire to go to graduate school. I still have that GRE book floating around, but I don't exactly know how it is that I can go to school AND pay a mortgage.)
My car is in the process of dying and I'm in the process of abandoning it on my street. Every adult male in my life wants me to buy a new car, but I'm playing a game where I can see how long I can resist doing anything about my transportation situation. It will probably turn into a game where I can see how long my friends will put up with me, but so far I've survived six weeks sans car in Columbus, Ohio.
Two of those weeks were spent in Cambodia. I went to Southeast Asia on a mission trip this summer to work at a "Vacation Bible School" at an orphanage in Phnom Phen. I can't write much about this yet, because I haven't quite processed it. This weekend I'm going to Indiana University to hole up somewhere, writing and processing the trip, while Bryan presents groundbreaking research on the Russian language to smart people.
I don't want to get too crazy, so I'll close up here. More to come soon, I promise.
So I was reading a new blog yesterday - about knitting hats - when I realized that I have my own blog. I must admit that writing eluded my life for a few months, but with the cold weather setting in, I've been itching to hone in on things that make me happy. Like writing, knitting, drinking coffee outside and smoking. (I'll refrain from the smoking and just continue to have dreams about it.)
Let me catch you up to date ("you" being any lingering readers).
I'm still a home owner. I'm three months away from finishing off the first year of the largest commitment of my life. I had a slight incident involving my home warranty and two plumbers that made me want to sell the place and move into my car. But I've since recovered and now I can wash my face without the bathroom sink overflowing.
I'm still dating Bryan, who is just starting graduate school. I once swore that I'd never date a graduate student again, but I also swore that I wouldn't date someone younger than me. I've broken both resolutions, and things have worked out okay. I should just be thankful that he's not a republican and get ready for the side effects of higher education. (One of which is my recurring desire to go to graduate school. I still have that GRE book floating around, but I don't exactly know how it is that I can go to school AND pay a mortgage.)
My car is in the process of dying and I'm in the process of abandoning it on my street. Every adult male in my life wants me to buy a new car, but I'm playing a game where I can see how long I can resist doing anything about my transportation situation. It will probably turn into a game where I can see how long my friends will put up with me, but so far I've survived six weeks sans car in Columbus, Ohio.
Two of those weeks were spent in Cambodia. I went to Southeast Asia on a mission trip this summer to work at a "Vacation Bible School" at an orphanage in Phnom Phen. I can't write much about this yet, because I haven't quite processed it. This weekend I'm going to Indiana University to hole up somewhere, writing and processing the trip, while Bryan presents groundbreaking research on the Russian language to smart people.
I don't want to get too crazy, so I'll close up here. More to come soon, I promise.
