Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Second Hand.
I've somehow returned to my weight and size from the days of ole. We're talking size two here. It's something that I don't entirely understand, and feel a little weird talking about, as most women my age are concerned about their weight in a different way. At any rate, I'm smaller, and a little self conscious about it, truth be told.
I sleep on my side at night, and recently, my knees have been digging into one another, and my hip bones are sensitive as well. My mind wanders before I sleep; is this what anorexic girls feel like, or the malnourished? Like a pile of bones?
(For the mothers and the worriers out there: I am not anorexic, nor am I malnourished. I eat. I eat good food. Things with vegetables, meat, butter. And I eat horrible and disgusting crap food, too. And I eat dessert. And I enjoy it. I think that the weight change is simply from cutting back on alcohol and coffee with cream and sugar. I take my tea straight.)
So. My clothes are too big. I took a pile of nice (designer) pieces over to Rag O Rama with an inkling of hope a few weekends ago. Recycle my wardrobe, they suggest on their window. I tried.
"This style is too old for our clientele," the über-hip girl with the 80's hair said to me after I filled out the paperwork. My heart sunk as clothing from London and Chicago boutiques was rejected by people who dress like I wanted to when I was six.
I visited a few second hand shops yesterday in hopes of finding a few pieces to add to my wardrobe, so that I'm not wearing the same pair of jeans and orange sweatshirt every day. Where did I find luck? Not at the women's consignment shop in downtown Westerville, but at Plato's Closet. The teen second hand clothing chain.
The last time I ventured into a Plato's Closet, I was selling a Yanni cd to raise money for my summer in London. Now, it seems, I shop there.
I cleaned up. I got five pieces (does that sound pretentious?) for less than $50. A good deal, considering my old shopping habits.
What's the point here? I hang out with teenagers. I weigh what I did when I was a teenager. And now I shop at a teen resale shop. (A month ago, I was refused admittance at a smoke shop because I didn't have proof that I was 18. And a few months ago, someone asked me if I was in the same class as a 14 year old at the Big Walnut High School football game.)
I feel like I'm going back in time. A second hand experience at being a teenager. This time around, perhaps I'll appreciate it more than I did the first time. Isn't that how those resale shops work? The second owner loves it a whole lot more than the first ever did.
I've somehow returned to my weight and size from the days of ole. We're talking size two here. It's something that I don't entirely understand, and feel a little weird talking about, as most women my age are concerned about their weight in a different way. At any rate, I'm smaller, and a little self conscious about it, truth be told.
I sleep on my side at night, and recently, my knees have been digging into one another, and my hip bones are sensitive as well. My mind wanders before I sleep; is this what anorexic girls feel like, or the malnourished? Like a pile of bones?
(For the mothers and the worriers out there: I am not anorexic, nor am I malnourished. I eat. I eat good food. Things with vegetables, meat, butter. And I eat horrible and disgusting crap food, too. And I eat dessert. And I enjoy it. I think that the weight change is simply from cutting back on alcohol and coffee with cream and sugar. I take my tea straight.)
So. My clothes are too big. I took a pile of nice (designer) pieces over to Rag O Rama with an inkling of hope a few weekends ago. Recycle my wardrobe, they suggest on their window. I tried.
"This style is too old for our clientele," the über-hip girl with the 80's hair said to me after I filled out the paperwork. My heart sunk as clothing from London and Chicago boutiques was rejected by people who dress like I wanted to when I was six.
I visited a few second hand shops yesterday in hopes of finding a few pieces to add to my wardrobe, so that I'm not wearing the same pair of jeans and orange sweatshirt every day. Where did I find luck? Not at the women's consignment shop in downtown Westerville, but at Plato's Closet. The teen second hand clothing chain.
The last time I ventured into a Plato's Closet, I was selling a Yanni cd to raise money for my summer in London. Now, it seems, I shop there.
I cleaned up. I got five pieces (does that sound pretentious?) for less than $50. A good deal, considering my old shopping habits.
What's the point here? I hang out with teenagers. I weigh what I did when I was a teenager. And now I shop at a teen resale shop. (A month ago, I was refused admittance at a smoke shop because I didn't have proof that I was 18. And a few months ago, someone asked me if I was in the same class as a 14 year old at the Big Walnut High School football game.)
I feel like I'm going back in time. A second hand experience at being a teenager. This time around, perhaps I'll appreciate it more than I did the first time. Isn't that how those resale shops work? The second owner loves it a whole lot more than the first ever did.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Truth = Freedom.
Ani DiFranco graced my NPR airwaves this morning and I felt a gush of freedom fill the Malibu.
I don't like Ani DiFranco, I thought, and I never have.
I started to create a list of bands or musicians that, throughout the years, I've pretended to like, in order to fit in with a crowd, gain affirmation or be someone I'm not. Here is the list, in order of appearance in my life.
Harry Connick Jr.
Dave Matthews Band
Ani DiFranco
Elvis Costello
Radiohead
It's freeing. Just say it out loud. I don't like Radiohead. I've never liked Radiohead.
Shhh... Hear that? That wooshing sound? That's the sound of freedom. And me, for once in my life, turning off NPR. Sorry Ani.
Ani DiFranco graced my NPR airwaves this morning and I felt a gush of freedom fill the Malibu.
I don't like Ani DiFranco, I thought, and I never have.
I started to create a list of bands or musicians that, throughout the years, I've pretended to like, in order to fit in with a crowd, gain affirmation or be someone I'm not. Here is the list, in order of appearance in my life.
Harry Connick Jr.
Dave Matthews Band
Ani DiFranco
Elvis Costello
Radiohead
It's freeing. Just say it out loud. I don't like Radiohead. I've never liked Radiohead.
Shhh... Hear that? That wooshing sound? That's the sound of freedom. And me, for once in my life, turning off NPR. Sorry Ani.
Monday, October 29, 2007
No Mayo, Please.
Yesterday, I went to the Wendy's in Sunbury dressed as a Christmas Elf. I thought that it would be amusing to show up to the high school Bible study in a costume, even though no one else would be disguised for the autumnal holiday.
Head to toe in red and green, fresh from a shopping trip at Big Lots, I looked ridiculous. From green eyeshadow to fuzzy socks with stuffed animals attached to them, the ensemble took years off of my look. So many years, in fact, that the fifteen year old boy behind the counter at Wendy's started hitting on me.
I ordered my regular. Number two, no mayo, Diet Coke, small, please. And this guy comes out from the fry line (is that what they call it - the fry line?) to talk to me.
"Are you dressed up for Halloween?" he asked.
"Yeah," I blushed. I was blushing for several reasons. The first one being that I had applied pink lipstick to my cheeks, to give myself a rosy complexion. The second being that I was in public dressed like a Christmas Elf in rural Ohio. The third being that this kid had no idea that I'm 28 years old.
"Nice," he said.
"I'm going to wear this every day until Christmas," I said.
The rest of the conversation was bland. I had a difficult time trying not to continue blushing, trying not to laugh at this guy, trying not to laugh at all.
"Well," he said before I left with my huge bag of grease, "You look really nice."
Had we stayed a little longer, I have a feeling that he would have asked me to winter homecoming. Instead, we left and headed to the Bible study, were I would be surrounded by kids the same age as my new fast food friend. Kids who know I'm 28. Kids who didn't think I looked, "really nice" but more like, "mildly retarded" dressed from head to toe in felt, sparkles and fuzz.
Halloween is more interesting when you're the only one celebrating it. All of a sudden, I feel kind of creepy.
Yesterday, I went to the Wendy's in Sunbury dressed as a Christmas Elf. I thought that it would be amusing to show up to the high school Bible study in a costume, even though no one else would be disguised for the autumnal holiday.
Head to toe in red and green, fresh from a shopping trip at Big Lots, I looked ridiculous. From green eyeshadow to fuzzy socks with stuffed animals attached to them, the ensemble took years off of my look. So many years, in fact, that the fifteen year old boy behind the counter at Wendy's started hitting on me.
I ordered my regular. Number two, no mayo, Diet Coke, small, please. And this guy comes out from the fry line (is that what they call it - the fry line?) to talk to me.
"Are you dressed up for Halloween?" he asked.
"Yeah," I blushed. I was blushing for several reasons. The first one being that I had applied pink lipstick to my cheeks, to give myself a rosy complexion. The second being that I was in public dressed like a Christmas Elf in rural Ohio. The third being that this kid had no idea that I'm 28 years old.
"Nice," he said.
"I'm going to wear this every day until Christmas," I said.
The rest of the conversation was bland. I had a difficult time trying not to continue blushing, trying not to laugh at this guy, trying not to laugh at all.
"Well," he said before I left with my huge bag of grease, "You look really nice."
Had we stayed a little longer, I have a feeling that he would have asked me to winter homecoming. Instead, we left and headed to the Bible study, were I would be surrounded by kids the same age as my new fast food friend. Kids who know I'm 28. Kids who didn't think I looked, "really nice" but more like, "mildly retarded" dressed from head to toe in felt, sparkles and fuzz.
Halloween is more interesting when you're the only one celebrating it. All of a sudden, I feel kind of creepy.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Dirty French Music.
My life has been permanently changed. For two reasons. For one, I went to my first OSU football game this past Saturday; I watched a bunch of men run around, throw a ball, and keep Kent State from having integrity for roughly three and a half hours. I also ate a four dollar hot dog and drank a four dollar Diet Coke. Neat.
So. I think that I'm probably a changed woman. I can't tell you how, but I just feel a difference. Before Saturday, I'd lived my life for 28 years without doing "the wave" with hundreds of thousands of people. (Or whatever. Honestly, I have no idea how many people were there, or how many people were doing "the wave." There could have been eight of us and a lot of mirrors. The point is this: it was a unifying experience and I'm being somewhat sarcastic.)
The second reason my life is changed is because I've developed a new genre of music in the iPod of my mind: Dirty French Music. So far, I only have two artists: Serge Gainsbourg and Stereo Total. I'm not entirely convinced that the latter is French, but they have a song in French entitled, "L'Amour A Trois." Dirty. Dirty. Dirty.
(Upon further research, using a technique I like to call "googling", I've learned that Stereo Total is a French-German Duo based in Berlin.)
Right. So it's kind of true that all French music - or even all words said in French - sounds dirty. But I'm excited to find new artists, new songs to add to this category.
This is what I will be thinking about for the next two weeks. Don't try to talk to me about anything else.
My life has been permanently changed. For two reasons. For one, I went to my first OSU football game this past Saturday; I watched a bunch of men run around, throw a ball, and keep Kent State from having integrity for roughly three and a half hours. I also ate a four dollar hot dog and drank a four dollar Diet Coke. Neat.
So. I think that I'm probably a changed woman. I can't tell you how, but I just feel a difference. Before Saturday, I'd lived my life for 28 years without doing "the wave" with hundreds of thousands of people. (Or whatever. Honestly, I have no idea how many people were there, or how many people were doing "the wave." There could have been eight of us and a lot of mirrors. The point is this: it was a unifying experience and I'm being somewhat sarcastic.)
The second reason my life is changed is because I've developed a new genre of music in the iPod of my mind: Dirty French Music. So far, I only have two artists: Serge Gainsbourg and Stereo Total. I'm not entirely convinced that the latter is French, but they have a song in French entitled, "L'Amour A Trois." Dirty. Dirty. Dirty.
(Upon further research, using a technique I like to call "googling", I've learned that Stereo Total is a French-German Duo based in Berlin.)
Right. So it's kind of true that all French music - or even all words said in French - sounds dirty. But I'm excited to find new artists, new songs to add to this category.
This is what I will be thinking about for the next two weeks. Don't try to talk to me about anything else.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
TV.
Did anyone see "The Biggest Loser" last night? Wow. I was on the edge of my couch seat the entire time. I totally thought the trainers were going to eat those cupcakes.
I'm glad that they didn't though. I mean, they have to practice what they preach, right?
Those guys have some strong character.
Did anyone see "The Biggest Loser" last night? Wow. I was on the edge of my couch seat the entire time. I totally thought the trainers were going to eat those cupcakes.
I'm glad that they didn't though. I mean, they have to practice what they preach, right?
Those guys have some strong character.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Learnin'
I took a non-fiction creative writing course this summer online through Columbus State Community College. (As clearly evidenced by the increased flow of incredible essays, quips and prose presented on this blog.) This class reminded me what joy it is to create, to learn, to practice a skill that reminds me who I am in times when distractions and stresses seem to thwart that truth.
The question is, what do I do next? How do I move forward? For me, education is addictive. I want one class to turn into three and three to turn into twenty. Recently, I've been toying with the idea of studying Greek; I want to be able to better understand the meaning of the words in the New Testament. Is it possible that I can study something from the past and find a way to apply it to my future? Or, more simply, will learning an ancient language help me to better communicate through the written word?
We'll see.
Meanwhile, I have to hone in on what I want. Once upon a time, the Director of my program in undergrad pulled me into his office to tell me that I needed to make a decision. He wanted me to choose to be excellent at one thing, rather than good or okay at a dozen things.
In a way, I'm still that girl. I still have dreams of becoming a pianist, returning to photojournalism, writing life-changing prose, creating true art out of textiles and becoming a historian. Do I have to choose one?
Maybe one a quarter.
Next quarter, though, it's Greek. (For now.)
I took a non-fiction creative writing course this summer online through Columbus State Community College. (As clearly evidenced by the increased flow of incredible essays, quips and prose presented on this blog.) This class reminded me what joy it is to create, to learn, to practice a skill that reminds me who I am in times when distractions and stresses seem to thwart that truth.
The question is, what do I do next? How do I move forward? For me, education is addictive. I want one class to turn into three and three to turn into twenty. Recently, I've been toying with the idea of studying Greek; I want to be able to better understand the meaning of the words in the New Testament. Is it possible that I can study something from the past and find a way to apply it to my future? Or, more simply, will learning an ancient language help me to better communicate through the written word?
We'll see.
Meanwhile, I have to hone in on what I want. Once upon a time, the Director of my program in undergrad pulled me into his office to tell me that I needed to make a decision. He wanted me to choose to be excellent at one thing, rather than good or okay at a dozen things.
In a way, I'm still that girl. I still have dreams of becoming a pianist, returning to photojournalism, writing life-changing prose, creating true art out of textiles and becoming a historian. Do I have to choose one?
Maybe one a quarter.
Next quarter, though, it's Greek. (For now.)
