Here It Goes Again

I haven’t written an entry in a while, but that’s because I’ve been a busy little bee buzzing away happily. I found my motivation. Well, that’s not entirely accurate, because I’m not sure when it got back or where it’s been (and my motivation isn’t talking). The important point is that it is back and I am enjoying the sensation.

Though I’m not sure I’ve got any insights into the mysteries of motivation, I have realized that a big boost of confidence in one area of your life will spill over into other parts of your life. My job has become challenging again, rather than just being a challenge. There are new and interesting tasks at hand and, so far, I’ve been accomplishing them well. I am meeting the challenge and being appreciated for it. At work! Who would have thought!?

Strangely enough, this has made other little bothersome things in my life seem less bothersome. I’ve already crossed a few “to do’s” off my Should List. I’ve even taken on a new personal project that could become quite complicated, but I’m going for it anyways. Perhaps, I’m just a little heady in the rush of positive emotions. Perhaps, I do thrive on stress and I just wish I was one of those laid-back gals. I’m not sure it matters, I’m just enjoying my motivation while it’s here.

Some Grief, Some Joy

I spent Labor Day at my grandparents’ house. For the past few years, various members of the family have met there to enjoy one another’s company. Somewhere along the way, we solved the logistical problems of feeding a large group of people multiple days by deciding that a different branch of the family would cook each night. Last year, the dinner assignments split naturally among my mother and her siblings. This year, we were short an uncle and his branch to prepare food. My mother, half joking, suggested that my cousin and I take up the slack and make dinner one night.

I went for it. After all, I am a wannabe foodie and I knew that my cousin has some wicked entertaining skills—we could totally take on dinner one night! I am proud of my cooking skills. I have had lots of helpful instruction from various people in my life, and have watched a lot of Food Network, but a considerable amount of my skill is the result of me experimenting on myself. While I don’t think I have a natural talent for food creation (I would never be able to come up with a dish on “Chopped”), I know the cooking basics and can work a recipe. I consider my modest cooking abilities to be an accomplishment of practice and study and am always excited by the chance to show off a little.

The problem is, I have stage fright. That’s the best way I can put it. It is very similar to public speaking for me. I can know my topic, I can practice my speech, I can feel confident in myself...until I stand up in front of people. Then, without fail, my stomach back flips, I break a sweat, and my tongue seems much larger than it did before. No matter how prepared I am for a speech, I will always be nervous while giving it. I can have a recipe down, I can have cooked it a hundred times successfully, I can know my kitchen inside and out, but as soon as someone is in the room while I’m cooking I become hugely self-conscious. As soon as someone is about to take a bite of what I’ve cooked, I am convinced it is horrible-tasting poison.

I come from a loving and supporting family. I was in no way heckled while cooking. In fact, both my cousin and aunt were extremely helpful as I eeked and oohed my way through fixing dinner (eeking and oohing being my traditional method of dealing with nerves). My Mom, who I was determined to give the night off, even tagged in for the occasional assist. It was a team dinner, no doubt, but I knew that the main dish was still my choice and my responsibility, and the thought of that nearly gave me hives. I comforted myself with the thought that we could always get pizza delivered, even as my entire family was making affirmative comments. Only after everyone had eaten, after many compliments, after two family members asked for the recipe, could I relax a little bit and believe I hadn’t poisoned my loved ones.

What I find fascinating about all of this is that I feel at the same time both the need to show off my cooking talents and the secret doubt that I’m culinary disaster waiting to happen. I both want to cook for people and am terrified to cook for people simultaneously. I know I will continue to welcome opportunities to prepare meals for others, but history tells me that I’m going to freak out a little every time I do so.

As we were eating the shrimp and pasta dish that I had prepared, my aunt noticed I wasn’t eating very much. (My entire body was clenched as I waited to see if my grandmother would keel over onto her platter.) She told me that when she entertains that she often has “cook’s mouth.” She’s spends so much time and energy making sure everything is perfect for her guests she is unable to enjoy the meal for herself.

The idea of cook’s mouth makes me feel better about my love/hate relationship with cooking for others. Perhaps that duality is just a result of caring so much about the people I’m cooking for. (I really don’t want my grandmother to keel over while eating.) Perhaps, the stage fright is just proof of how invested I am in perfecting my dish. Or, perhaps, I’m just a tad insecure.

Still, I keep cooking. I keep welcoming the opportunities to cook for others. I’ll just have to keep on managing the minor freak outs as well.

Doing Pretty Good

I have a sinus infection.

I have been congested and have had headaches, including one that went into migraine, but I thought to myself, “Stupid allergies.” I’ve also been somewhat achy (“Stupid working out.”), and keep going between feeling really hot (“Stupid Texas summer.”) and really cold (“Stupid Texas air conditioning.”). Then I was in tai chi class and was sweating buckets (“Stupid humidity.”), but tried to power through even as I felt weaker and weaker (“Stupid limbs made out of cement.”). At that point, my tai chi instructor walked over and told me to go lay down because I looked like I was about to pass out. When I got home that night, I cooled off, ate something with lots of protein, and generally rested. However, I couldn’t help but notice that I still felt light-headed. The next morning I felt the same.

Finally, I went to the doctor. I told her all about the light-headedness and the nearly passing out. Luckily, my doctor was a better detective than me and she thought to ask questions to find the other pertinent symptoms. After a very thorough examination, which included an EKG, a blood test for anemia, and a head x-ray, I got the diagnosis of a sinus infection.

Rather than feeling relieved that I didn’t have some bizarre light-headed disease, my first reaction was to be embarrassed. I had another sinus infection? Shouldn’t I know what those feel like by now? As I added up all the symptoms it seemed perfectly obvious...you know, right after somebody pointed it out to me. How could I have not realized it was a sinus infection?!

A few of my friends have been dealing with medical problems lately. I’m at least number four on the list of sinus infections, there have been a couple stomach bugs, and then there were some more serious, long-term issue diagnoses. All these problems run the gamut of corporeal existence, but I noticed a theme as I was discussing them with my various friends.

Embarrassment. Every one of my friends seemed to be embarrassed by the idea that their body was weak in some way. At least two friends used the word shame when discussing their medical condition. There was even a sense of guilt expressed.

It’s not a far leap, I suppose, for women in our society to be embarrassed by a medical hindrance. After all, we tend to spend a lot of time being self-conscious about our appearance. I suppose it all falls under that master category of “physical defect.” I know more than one woman who has trouble taking a compliment—

“Your hair looks nice!”

“I just wore it pulled back today because it’s windy outside.”

—so it’s no wonder then that we react poorly when someone actually confirms that something about our bodies is wrong. It’s as though someone announced out loud the dirty little secret we all know: our bodies aren’t perfect.

Even though this is just the universal human condition, we tend to act like it is some terrible mistake we have made. We immediately analyze our behavior to see how we brought this upon ourselves, how we could have avoided it, how others will treat us if they find out. We find we need to forgive ourselves for something we never chose to have happen to us. We find we have to account to others how this situation could have occurred.

Even for something as dumb as a sinus infection. I can’t tell you how much it bothers me that I haven’t done my laundry because I am exhausted from being sick and taking antibiotics. I feel I need to explain myself to people for the fact that I’ve been sleeping more than housekeeping. I have a good reason, really! Please, don’t judge me too harshly! Certainly, not as harshly as I tend to judge myself.

When I was in the doctor’s office, I received a reminder why I shouldn’t be so hard on myself for uncontrollable physicality. As the doctor reviewed the results from my EKG, she said, “You have a beautiful heartbeat. You work out, don’t you?” I was so surprised that I didn’t have a chance to retort with my usual, “Not as much as I should.” The fact of the matter is that I don’t feel I work out enough because I’m not losing weight. The outside part of me—the part that I’m used to feeling guilty about—seems to be pretty much same. It took an expert to point out that I do exercise regularly and that it is having a very good effect somewhere.

So I remind myself: I’m a healthy, beautiful woman who does not have medical training. It’s okay if I don’t immediately spot potential symptoms of minor illnesses. It’s not only okay, it’s normal, to occasionally be sick and tired. What is important is that I take care of myself as best I can, that I say “thank you” when someone compliments me, and that I give myself time to recover from minor illnesses before doing my laundry.

(Stupid sinus infections.)

Keep Pushin’

What is motivation?

I know what inspiration is. I remember what it feels like when a new concept enters my mind. I remember what that excitement feels like. I know what satisfaction is. I know how the certainty of completion feels as it moves in my chest. I know what frustration is. I know how it lives in the back of my throat and behind my eyes. I know how it travels in waves.

But, what is motivation?

A clever, beautiful, strong-willed woman of my acquaintance is successful at family, education, and career. If I was asked to give examples of people who have their stuff together, she’d certainly be at the top of my list. Today she suffered a setback and decried that she had lost all her motivation.

It’s been bothering me ever since. I’m not particularly worried about her as she’s the type of gal that regroups and attacks from the left if the right isn’t working. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already moved on with a well-itemized action plan to counteract the situation. What she said, however, has stuck with me.

For a long while now I’ve been struggling. “I’m having a problem with my motivation,” has been a great little sound bite for me to describe this sense of personal struggle. Yet, when I heard it come from the mouth of a woman who seems to be so—I don’t know—well-organized at life, suddenly the statement seemed…

Meaningless? Stupid? Overly-dramatic? No. It was an honest moment of frustration and I knew how she felt and I sympathized. I responded with encouragement because I wanted her to get it back. It: that mystical motivation that we apparently all know we need.

But, what is motivation?

If you peruse Merriam-Webster long enough, you will get to motive. It comes from a variation on the Latin verb that means “to move.” Literally, motivation is what makes you move.

I think it’s what’s you have when you don’t have inspiration. I think it’s why you keep moving even when it doesn’t feel wonderful to move. I think it’s what convinces us that if we keep moving, eventually it will feel wonderful, eventually we’ll get inspired again. I think it’s the metaphorical moat that keeps despair from invading.

After an unexpected and negative outcome, my friend told me she didn’t feel like moving. Oh, how I know how that feels. I guess it seemed funny coming from her because she’s not good at sitting still. She’s isn’t the type to stop moving. I guess it bothered me because I worry that I am.

Am I moving or sitting still with a lot of talk?

I suppose it’s like sanity, if you are worried that you are losing it then you must still have some left. So, I have motivation.

Anybody know where I can pick up some of that inspiration stuff?

I Say No, No, No

“Does Chinese food sound good?”

You would think I—wannabe foodie, Weight Watchers member, generally picky eater—would easily say “no” when Chinese, in fact, does not sound good that evening. Instead I say something like,

“Um...sure.”

In many ways, I’m a very opinionated person. I wouldn’t call myself picky, but boy am I particular. When I consider how opinionated I am on certain subjects, how willing I am to share my opinions on certain subjects, how much of a smart ass I can be, how easily I can hand out advice...it seems strange that I ever have trouble saying “no” when the answer to someone’s question is “no.”

I reason that I don’t not-like Chinese food. Sometimes I even crave Chinese food. So, if my friend wants Chinese food, I can certainly eat it. I can certainly not go with my first choice so my friend can have hers.

I always like to think that when I say “yes” when I’m thinking “no” it’s because I want everyone to be happy. I truly do believe in the golden rule of treating others as you would want to be treated. I think to myself, “What if I wanted Chinese tonight? I would want her to say ‘yes’.”

The truth is, a lot of the reason that I say “yes” when I’m thinking “no” is because I want people to like me. It’s not so much wanting my friend’s happiness, it’s being afraid of my friend’s rejection. That’s a horrible approach to decision making.

For one, and most obvious, something’s going on with my self-esteem when I find myself compulsively yes-ing. There are better ways to gain people’s love and friendship than eating unwanted food. I will not have failed in my ability to interact sociably if I do not go out for Chinese. Two, the idea gives very little credit to my friends. They love me more than my willingness to eat kung-pao chicken. They are not so shallow that they will hang up on me if I say no to Chinese food. Third, I don’t want to be that person. I really do want to make decisions based on people’s happiness, including my own, and not based on my personal fears.

I noticed an upswing in my yes-ing not too long ago. I think I’m afraid certain people in my life are there because of happenstance and not by choice. For example, does so-and-so at work chat with me because she really thinks I’m cool, or because I happen to sit closer to the restrooms than to her manager’s office and, therefore, geographically suited to avoiding work a little bit longer. I think that sort of paranoia is partly due to my natural shyness, and partly due to my ability to be really hard on myself about everything when one or two things aren’t going right.

That’s a lot of psychology to load into a decision on where to eat for dinner. (I hope all of you who have gotten this far in realize that “Chinese food” is a metaphor.)

In response, I’ve been trying out my no’s. (No, not my nose, my no’s.) I turned down going out when I had brought my lunch. I said “no” to driving when I had been driving all day. I said “no” to a favor when I knew I really didn’t want to do it. I told that annoying little voice of doubt that lives in my head to shut up when it questioned all of those decisions. I think no’s are good for me.

One, I’m getting a little of what I want and that makes me happy. Two, none of my friend’s have hung up the phone yet. In fact, if they’ve noticed the no’s, they haven’t let on. Three, I’m a little closer to the completely confident, happy, and trusting person I want to be.

"I'd rather we went out for Thai."

A Life of Confessions

Wednesday is my day to write. I try to write everyday to get the practice in but life does get in the way, so Wednesday is my scheduled day to take the time to write despite laundry or phone calls or whatever. It’s a good plan except on days like this Wednesday where I really didn’t know what to write. I have a Last Saturday assignment I could have worked on—meh. I have interesting life events I could have related in humorous anecdotes—yawn. I have a list of writing exercises I found on someone else’s blog that I could have tried—bleah. None of those seemed appealing to me, so I decided to come up with my own writer’s block breakthrough. As you may have noticed, I started using song lyrics as the titles of my entries. So, I decided I’d let my iPod decide what my latest entry would be about. I set it to “shuffle,” pressed “play,” and awaited my fate: “Lazy Flies” by Beck.

Boy the flies have been bad in San Antonio this summer...

That’s no good! What kind of topic is that for a blog entry? Stupid iPod wanting me to write about flies.

Actually, “Lazy Flies” is a really good song. It is a quintessential Beck song—all esoteric lyrics and moody tonal quality with a bit of goofiness to show it doesn’t take itself too seriously. I envy that type of art when the artist is unabashedly weird or different or just doing what he or she wants and hopes the audience will just jump on board. I mean lyrics like:

Lazy flies are hovering about,
the magistrate, he puts on his gloves
and he looks to the clouds,
all pink and disheveled,
there must be some blueprint,
some creed of the devil,
inscribed in our minds...

That’s not exactly rock and roll, now is it? That’s a whole other type of song experience outside of your typical genres. That’s Beck. It’s amazing to me how uniquely Beck, Beck is. It reminds me of a book I just finished reading, Shades of Grey by Jasper Fforde. No ones’ writing is like Fforde’s writing. There is something just so Fforde about Fforde.

It’s too easy to describe his genre as sci-fi/fantasy. Jasper Fforde is more surrealist-satire-cum-sci-fi/fantasy. His books are set in whole other universes and are so weird yet so well done. I love that! I love how petty rules of reality don’t seem to affect his writing, and how he manages to pull off stories that are so very other-worldly.

That’s the sort of writer I want to be. I think about the latest story I’ve been trying to write. They (the great “They” of myth and tale) say to write what you know so my latest story stars an angsty female who’s confused about where to go in life. (Strangely enough.) Well, no wonder I don’t want to sit down and write about that. I have plenty of that all the time, I don’t want to spend my free time on that. I wouldn’t want to read about that, certainly. I want to read about parallel universes where people can only see the color red and they have to watch out for feral swans. Obviously, I don’t want to write about reality, I want to write weird out-there stuff and hope my audience jumps on board.

The problem is, how do you get people to jump on board. Seriously. How did Beck ever get a recording contract? Who read Fforde’s first book and thought, “Yeah, a detective who jumps into Jane Eyre to protect the main character—now that’s a story.” How do you know when your fun absurd writing is fun absurd brilliance and not just silly tripe?

Silly Tripe would be a great name for a band, but I digress. Currently, I’m trying to get published a book of poems about supernatural ravens who fly across cultures and have witty philosophical conversations before they meet God. As of yet, no one has jumped on board. Still, it was more fun writing that than it is writing about real life.

So, maybe my iPod has a point.

How Can You Tattoo Your Body

Last week, I celebrated my 31st birthday by getting my second tattoo. I got my first tattoo on my 26th birthday and I liked the symmetry of getting the second one 5 years to the day. I also waited five years because I am very particular about permanent additions to my body. I used that time to find an image that meant something to me and to consider if I really wanted it on my body. The five year gap led to some interesting comments, though, from the older members of my tribe including, “I thought you got over that!”

Admittedly, tattoos hit primo fad stage during my college years. You couldn’t sneeze without hitting a classmate’s tribal armband or a sorority girl’s butterfly. Tattoos became as ubiquitous to youthful rebellion as trash can punch and loud music. Let’s face it, everybody who wanted to assert their individuality was doing it. Add that to the fact that to one generation previous, tattoos were something only a certain type of people (tacky people) had, it’s no wonder that the parents of the world consider tattoos to be an unfortunate trend they hope we’ll get over quickly.

And I suppose many of my age group did. Post-motherhood, a friend no longer finds the lone star above her ass in quite the same shape, nor quite so endearing. Another acquaintance only admits she has a tattoo when directly asked. “I was drunk in Hawaii,” she says as explanation of the three-line drawing of a quarter-sized flower on her ankle. Then there’s the coworker who claims to love her tattoo, but made sure to order special make-up to cover it up so it wouldn’t show as she walked down the aisle at her wedding. Like any good impulsive gesture of youth, tattoos are often treated with good-natured embarrassment. For some, they rank alongside prom pictures that feature mullets: that’s just something that we did once.

But then there are people like me. There are a few of us who didn’t get their tattoos because all the cool kids were getting one, and not all of us regret the decision. (At least, we haven’t gotten around to regretting them yet.) One friend still buys shirts based on whether they show off her artwork. Another, upon seeing my new tattoo, fell to classic tat-envy and went a got another piece that afternoon. As I admired her new sea turtle the following day she told me that her next will probably be a bird. “You don’t expect me to stop at 11 do you,” she laughed. I wonder if I ever hit 11 tattoos if my Mom will stop sounding so shocked over the phone.

I don’t expect to hit 11 tattoos (Mom and others who may frown upon such activities), but I love my tattoos. To me, I’m surprised that it is a surprise to anyone. I love artwork. I’ve studied art, I seek out art, I surround myself with art. I receive frequent comments from anyone who visits my workspace or my home on how much I seem to need to cover everything with art. It just seems like a logical next step to me. If I find something beautiful enough and meaningful enough that I want to carry it with me, why shouldn’t I?

No, it doesn’t hurt that much. Yes, there is a chance of infection but if I’m smart enough to find a good dentist then I’m smart enough to find a good artist. Oh yes, it might be a little tacky but it’s my kind of tacky. No, nobody’s every exploded in a CAT scan. And yes, I might regret it someday. Or, if I don’t ever regret it, I might at least be good-naturedly embarrassed by how I spent my 31st birthday. I might even cover it up when I walk down the aisle someday.

Right now, though, I want to show my tattoos off. I love them. The first is the Chartres labyrinth. I love that its four sections represent the seasons. I love that you have to give up control to walk a labyrinth and just trust that it will take you to the right place. I love the implication that just because you don’t know where you are going doesn’t mean you are lost. I love my new tattoo also. It’s based on a design from Mimbres pottery called “Night.” To me it’s like my own little universe swirling on my back. It’s unique, it’s southwestern, it’s pretty, and it’s mine. Both of them have become enough mine to make part of me. I get to become part of the art I love. Why get over that?