Pretty Strong

Before a few years ago, I never considered myself to be physically strong.  Gym was my least favorite "class," and I was practically grateful when I had scoliosis surgery in 5th grade and had to be excused from gym participation for most of that year and the next one.  Never once in yearly health evaluations was I able to do a pull-up.

In high school, my chosen sport was bowling.  My mom wanted me to play tennis, and I distinctly remember looking at her like she was crazy.  Tennis?  You mean, running around after a ball?  In the sun? Trying to not get hit in the face with a ball?  Hand-eye coordination?  Ha!

I've never wanted much to do with physical exertion.  I prefer activities that don't involve breaking a sweat.  You know, like reading.  Knitting.  Napping.  Things like that.

I fully acknowledge that going to the gym is a useful activity if I want to keep eating as much as I want to and still fit in all my clothing (more useful than napping, regrettably).  However, I've never been great about sticking it out at the gym.  I've had a few gos at it over the years, without really knowing what I was doing or enjoying it that much.  It just didn't ever appeal much to me.  All that walking and biking without getting anywhere.  The sweating.  Not knowing what to do with weights in general.  Just, ugh.

Then I discovered pole dancing.  And then I started to get stronger.  For the first time in my life, I had upper body strength.

The transformation was certainly not overnight.  It was ages before I could do certain things that other people got practically immediately, like invert.  But, I got there.  And now I can do some pretty cool things that I never dreamed I'd be able to do.

Around the beginning of January (and having nothing to do with New Year's resolutions, thank you), I started going to the gym again, for the first time in a few years, this time with Team Bellers as my new workout partners.  This time, I had a different purpose.  Before, I've always had the goal of just "losing weight."  Not that I ever achieved it.  Or really felt like I achieved much of anything besides getting sweaty and hanging out with whatever workout partner I had at the time.

Losing weight isn't my goal anymore.  If it happens, I obviously won't be complaining.  But my goal now is just to "be stronger."

I've been stronger than I look since I started doing pole.  Repeatedly lifting your body weight will do that to a girl (or a guy).  I've had people offer to help me with something I'm carrying and then been surprised at how heavy it was once I handed it over.  I like that.  I like being strong.  I like not being helpless, not being a wilting flower.

The last time I took a stab at working out, several years ago, I distinctly remember my ex telling me that he didn't want me to work out too much because he didn't want me to get "too muscular."  He implied that I wouldn't be attractive or feminine if I were too strong.  This was just another in a long list of "too's" I couldn't or shouldn't be, according to him.  I couldn't be too tall.  I couldn't be too sexy.  I couldn't be too muscular.

Well, fuck that.

Last Friday, I flipped a tractor tire for the first time.  And I deadlifted my own weight.  I bench pressed 70 pounds over a month ago.

I pole dance.  I haul heavy equipment around for work.  I help move cabinets and bookcases.

And you know what?  I don't think I'm any less attractive or feminine for my ability to do any of that.  I'm hardly bulging with muscles.  I'm not going to be a bodybuilder by any means, and I don't want to be.  I have biceps, of course.  I'm stronger than I used to be.

And my boyfriend is the one there, telling me he knew I could do it, or telling me I can bench press more weight.  And that doesn't make him somehow feel less secure in his manhood.  Why should it?  I still want to be with him, and he wants to be with me.  That's the important thing.  Not whether or not I fit into some stupid controlling, demeaning box of being "just right."

Ladies (and gentlemen), let me tell you something I've learned: don't ever let someone's ridiculous idea of what and who you "should" be stop you from achieving what you want to.  Don't limit yourself for someone else's approval.  Don't put yourself in someone else's box.

It's not worth it.  It's not worth worrying if you're good enough, or attractive enough, or submissively feminine enough.

What is worth it?  Having a partner who is a cheerleader instead of a puppet master.  Having friends who think it's ridiculously awesome that you flipped a goddamn tractor tire.  Being confident in who you are and doing what makes you happy.

It's all so, so worth it.

The Missing Minute Hand, and Other Little Things

My boyfriend told me today that life is what happens in the minutia.

He's right.  He usually is. (He'll disagree with me on that one, but don't listen to him.)

Life has many big moments, of course.  There is birth and death, marriage and divorce, hirings and firings.  There are magnificent highs and horrifying lows.

But, honestly, I've always been more fond of the little things.  I've talked before about the little things in relationships and how important they are.  But the little things aren't just reserved for love and friendship.  They're everywhere.

And even though I sometimes get hung up on the big moments, on the milestones and exciting news, I've actually always been a girl with an eye for details.  I notice things.  I notice people.  And I have way too many accessories for my own good.  I should know, I just reorganized half of them.

So it's fitting that this week has been almost exclusively about little things, about the seemingly unimportant things.

It's been about tearing up at the groom's speech at the Valentine's Day wedding I worked.  He was adorable and gushing and kept telling his bride that he would never take her for granted, which hit me harder than I expected.  I hope that his promise means that he will appreciate the minutia of married life and will take time to do the small, not-at-all unimportant things that end up meaning so much in the days and years to come.

It's been about trying to improve the little things.  Now that I've got overall happiness, working appliances, a healthy love and social life, it's time to fill in the details.  I don't just mean going to the gym and to pole class, but trying to get my life organized.  Trying to be functional both at home and at the office, and to make both a little more aesthetically pleasing.  All of which lead to an impromptu IKEA trip on Tuesday to buy a few little things to get started on making my work space more me, or to start "classing up the place," as Ben said.  (Naturally, and in the spirit of being the resident vintage girl at Fish Eye Fun, I'm going for as 1960s Mad Men as possible with my office space.)

This week has also been about buying a pocket calendar to keep track of the days I write.  Another little thing.  Mark has his own to keep track of the days he works on projects, and I fully admit that I stole the idea from him.  So far, I think it's helped me.  For one thing, I love a challenge.  For another, the thought of all the things we both want to do and accomplish is overwhelming if I don't do something to make it less daunting.

I keep saying that I want to "get back to writing," which is as overwhelmingly vague as it gets.  It's terrifying, really, to think about writing a book, or even a short story, or (sometimes) even a poem.  Or making a work of art, or a work bench.  None of this is going to happen in a day.  It's far better, far more digestible, to think about the individual pieces.  Write something.  Anything.  Even if I hate it and throw it away the next day.  Or even if it's this blog.  It's better than nothing.  It's the little things, again.  It's nailing on one board, writing one paragraph, drawing one rough sketch.  It's the only way progress can ever be made, and I forget that all too often amongst all the big tumultuous things that have happened recently.

Finally, this week has been about the minute hand on my living room clock repeatedly falling off.  That really doesn't mean a damn thing except that it needs to be fixed, but it does tie in nicely to the theme of the week.  I suppose I could make some poetic comparison about that missing minute hand being subtle reminder to pay attention to the minute things, but Lord, that's going a bit far, don't you think?

New Year, New... Everything?

So, 2016 started out great.  I worked a gorgeous New Year's Eve wedding at the History Museum, kissed the love of my life at midnight for the second year in a row, and had a really lovely and lazy first two days of the year.  I actually had the thought driving around on Sunday that it had been a wonderful two days.  I joined a gym (more on that later), I relaxed, I had dinner with my parents.  I read and knit and watched Netflix.

Clearly, I jinxed myself.  Because then January 3rd came. And everything fell apart.  Literally.

It was Sunday night, and Mark and I were sitting on the couch watching Netflix after dinner when he asks why it's so cold in the apartment.  Not-so-surprising answer?  Because the furnace isn't working.  It kicks on but the gas never lights.  So we break out all the space heaters and blankets for the night.

We also discovered that my upstairs neighbors' tub is leaking, both into my bathroom and into the basement.

On top of that, here's some more backstory: my dishwasher crapped out a while ago, possibly thanks to a minor mouse problem.  This hasn't really bothered me, because I hand wash most dishes unless I've done a full day of baking.  But the rental company scheduled the new dishwasher to be put in on Monday.  "First thing in the morning." Ha. Ha. Ha.

So on Monday morning I call and tell the constantly-beleaguered maintenance request woman that a) I have no heat and b) the upstairs neighbors' tub is leaking.  Then I put on my Eeyore onesie and sit by one of the space heaters to wait for my new dishwasher to arrive.

And I wait.

And wait.

And then I get annoyed with waiting, because it is now noon, three hours after a repairman was supposed to be here.  I've gotten no calls about him arriving.  So I get dressed and leave to start running the errands I need to do.

And as soon as I get to my first stop, the repairman calls to say he's on the way with my dishwasher.

Of course.

Long story short, Monday version: this guy spends four hours trying unsuccessfully to fix the furnace, does not install dishwasher, does not look at leak.

Long story short, Tuesday version: repairman returns, "fixes" furnace, installs dishwasher and leaves a note saying it doesn't work and someone will be back tomorrow, does not look at leak. Furnace works until 5:30, when it stops working again.

(In the meantime on Monday, my dryer breaks.  Unfortunately, that's all on me.  Mark attempts to fix it but is, thus far, unsuccessful.)

Moving forward to this morning.

I call the rental company again to tell them the furnace is still broken and that I'm now on my third day of no heat. They finally do the smart thing and arrange for an actual furnace repairman to come out (which won't, of course, happen until tomorrow morning).  Meanwhile, a second repairman comes to look at the dishwasher and informs me that it does work, but the first repairman just didn't know how to turn it on.

I'm just... done.  I'm done.  I'm ready for my vacation this weekend.  I'm ready to not worry about what all is broken in my apartment and when it will all be fixed and when I need to buy a new dryer.  I'm ready to be somewhere warm for a few days.

Those short first blissful two days of 2016 seem like a long time ago, as everything has gone downhill from there.  I'm trying to be my usual positive self, but right now I'm just frustrated.  I'm frustrated with my rental company, with the apparently incompetent repairmen they send out, and with appliances in general.

(We actually got to the point last night of wondering what I'd done to deserve this.  And then we stopped wondering that, because the list would be appallingly long.)

In other, un-appliance-related news, Mark is convinced that it's my New Year's resolution to get in shape.

Except he's wrong.  Really.  Totally.  It has nothing to do with being a New Year's resolution. He doesn't believe me, and I guess I can't blame him, seeing as how it all started right around New Year's.  I joined a gym on January 2nd.  I started doing yoga.  I went back to pole class for the first time in ages last night.

The evidence is pretty damning, really.  I admit it.

But it wasn't a New Year's resolution.  It's just me being finally fed up with feeling fat and out-of-shape and missing the way I used to feel and look, and missing being able to do cool things like flip upside down on a pole.  And after the craziness of December, I actually have time to do things like go to the gym, go to pole class, and do yoga.

Plus, I'm 30 (almost 31), and my ex-husband told me a few years ago that I was past my prime.  And I really, really love proving him wrong as much as humanly possible.

So yes.  It's the beginning of January and I'm starting to exercise.  Judge me if you will.  But if all goes well, I'll totally be able to kick your ass in a few months.  If I don't freeze to death from a broken furnace first.

So there.