Julia once said her mom never minded had any trouble talking to old friends, even ones she hadn't talked to in years. "I can't be mad at them for not calling me. I could call them if I wanted talk. Any silence is mutual." I suspect this doesn't hold true if you try to reach a friend with no response, but the core remains the same; friends, even if you've both changed, stay your friends.
I think of my parent's generation, my grandmother. How often would they see their friends once they moved? I think of my mom's best friend who moved to Utah, and I don't think she's seen her since then, since before her wedding to a charming young Mormon missionary. My grandmother, whose childhood coal town is no longer on any maps, was nearly gone by the time she married my grandfather and moved from Pennsylvania to Connecticut. I think of those Western settlers, writing letters to their friends and family back home. Were they friends then? Were they any less dear from time and distance?
Rereading it, it's an awkward way to phrase things, but it's on my mind for a few reasons. It won't be long before I leave not only Denver, but my country. How will my friendships fair? I don't worry too much, because many of the people dear to me now are hundreds or thousands of miles away, and we've built up a good communication. But it's been more than a year too since I graduated, and I haven't talked to many of those people in a year. It does and doesn't matter. I email Laura, an online-but-made-flesh friend from high school back and forth, months apart. I feel as close to her as I ever have, with a tender trust I feel comfortable assuming is there. I talk to Jess sparingly, but I love her like fire in my chest, a protective, affectionate love like a sister. I write her letters, and think of her daily...
I've changed a lot, in the past few years. I'm more of a bitch, and less emotionally involved with queens and crazies. In part, this is because of Matt. Much of my emotional energy is directed at him, to keep our relationship going and because it's so rewarding. I have a lover, a best friend, and a very nerdy sounding board. I don't have the energy for emotional leeches when I am giving him so much of my loveblood. It's worth it, for everything I get back and, as a bonus, learning not to put up with people who would steal my affections.
And, when I was a young teen, I decided the best thing I could be was completely selfless, equal parts martyr and savior. It worked, for a while. I tried to save a boy, and gave him my everything. Everything. When to told me he preferred loners, I gave up my friends, almost without knowing it. if I could make him happy, save him from himself, it would be worth my pain. You don't realize it when it happens, but martyrs? Saviors? They die. The depression took years to get over, and it's taken me to now to reclaim my sense of self, awareness and ego in one. There's a lightness in my chest when I realize what sort of toxic things I'm missing, how much I don't miss the people I've cut out from my life. It seems silly now, after years of suffering. Really? Was it this easy to avoid drama? To avoid that ache when people hurt themselves and refuse to accept help? Was it so simple, all along, to separate myself from the people who used to be my friends? I guess so. What is the difference, to those present and once-friends, between mutual silence and my gleeful one? Part of me wants to let all the people who I merely drifted away from that they are no longer welcome in my life, but I realized that would stir up more drama, and it's my inner bitch talking. Best to let sleeping dogs die, as they almost say. I'll deal with it when it arises.
There are very few people I feel this antipathy for. For the most part, for everyone but for a small handful of people, I sit in silence. How many people are truly bad for me? Few, I think, and less, as I get older, bitchier, and more perceptive. I sit in contented what I can only hope is mutual silence for most of my friends. Maybe I should.. email some of them..
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Day 101: A Super Bowl of Me
Observant readers will notice the stripe of green is on the wrong side of my head. I am truly, inspiringly :awesome:.
So, here's me. I grew up in suburban Connecticut, led an idyllic life of amusement and nerdity, spent my childhood on my cousin's farm. I got good grades, I had lots of friends, I dyed my hair, I wore weird clothes, I worked on competitive high school robotics. It was a good life. I'm sure you'll hear stories.
I went to a very liberal woman's college (Mount Holyoke (GO LYONS!)), ran the roleplaying club for a while, studied abroad, graduated with two majors, made a shitton of friends.
Let's talk about fat. I'm a big girl. I always have been, and I'm cool with that. I personally like my women with a little meat on them, and I have my occasional bought of "I'm so faaaat, how could anyone ever looove meee" and so on.
At my highest, I weighted 210 pounds. I weighed 182 right when I started college. It was a dumpy, lumpy kind fat, and I hated myself. I promised myself I'd never get so heavy again. For most of college, I remained at 170 or under. I dreaded watching that 182 creepy closer and closer, and delighted when it went lower and lower. The number became a source of triumph and stress. After I broke up with my first boyfriend in England, the subsequent depression brought me down to 160. Matt, being a good sweet boy, promptly fed me. I was 170 when I left England. I spent the summer working on a blueberry farm, and went back to college for a senior year of awesome, stress, bouffet dinners, and good company. By the time the end of senior year hit, I had hit my high mark and was still rising. I was 196 when I moved to Denver. Office work and lunch time take out, with a splash of comfort eating and my house mate's family's veggie light carb only cooking... By the time I moved to my own place, I was 205. I had no idea what to cook, what to eat, how to go about it..
In November of 2008, I had my blood drawn for a bunch of tests. Hypothyroidism runs in my family, and god, oh god, I wanted, needed for it to be the reason why I was gaining weight, feeling sluggish, feeling depressed. I understand so desperately the need to blame something, to have one catch-all cure-all for all problems and ills. There is no One Answer, no diet that'll strip your weight that won't strip your body of nutrients, no pill you can take to erase all your problems, no disease you can treat that'll boost your confidence. Some things are bigger than others, but there is no one Answer to your questions. I wanted there to be, God.
The blood tests showed I didn't have hypothyroidism, but I did have high cholesterol and was pre-diabetic, 101 fasting blood glucose. Right at the very bottom, but sad news none the less. I was sitting in the airport, phone to my ear, holding Matt's hand, my stomach full of bacon and eggs. "So, you're diagnosing me as clinically fat?" The woman laughed sadly. I did too, at 210 pounds. I cried. The shivering, the weight gain, the sadness.. All because my body was dying from over consumption and under exertion. Awesome. There is no One Answer, for me or anyone, and instead of looking for the next Answer, it was time to face facts. I'm lazy and I love food, and if I didn't change, it would kill me.
It means a lot, when the person you love loves you, wants you, needs you when you weigh your most. Matt's never not wanted me, never turned down sex or touching or kisses. It's.. important.
Weight loss was sad and slow, for the next four months. I I weighted about 205, but it was consistant enough to make me believe the 210 was a fluke, and I would never lose weight. And then I read In Defense of Food after buying it on a trip to LA. Now, I don't wanna harp on some One Answer, but it taught me how to eat better. The first five pounds dropped fast. The next ten followed after The Omnivore's Dilemma. Single-handedly, eating whole foods, becoming almost completely vegetarian, and hey, throwing in some exercise helped me go down to 195, though now I'm a bit under that. The last time I weighed myself, I was 193. The goal to beat pre-diabetes is 10%-20% of your body weight, putting my ideal back close to that blasted 180. Funny. Considering my end of the year goal was 190, though, I think I'm doing pretty good. I will have another blood test in a few weeks to check, but fuck, I never thought I would see 193 again.
It's been a work in progress. And it takes up a lot of energy. It's near and dear to my heart, not just losing weight but eating better. I could give a shit about dying animals, but moving away from meet and eating mostly and only vegetables has made me feel better than I have in months and months. AND, thanks to the wonder of birth control, I have wider and wider hips (and ever more boobs) now, and I dream of a buxom and wanton hourglass form for my wedding. But it's more important than that. I don't want to sound super fucking cheesy, but it's true. If I have 100 more years with Matt, it won't be enough. The weeks apart are killing me. I want to spend every day with him until I die, and I won't let my love of cupcakes and the internet shorten that any more than neccesary.
Expect updates on this, too. Without my own kitchen and minus a desk job, I hope to keep this up. Being 20 pounds lighter would be a nice surprise for Matt, but he always warns me not to get too skinny. Chubby chaser. Even still, we're both a long way from him picking me up. Matt isn't even 14 stone (140 pounds), and he's got the physical build of your stereotypical scrawny nerd.
A few weeks into our dating, I was helping him move out of his room at school. He and his mum struggled to carry a suitcase down the stairs, whimpering and grunting and dragging, while I held a half full bookbag. Admiring his chivalry for its intent if not its use, I traded him the bag for the suitcase, and lifted it down the stairs with no problem. His mum let out a confused little gasp, and he said, "And that is why I'm going to marry her."
Not even three weeks into us dating. Jane laughed, and I suppressed the urge to facepalm. I knew then I wanted to marry him--I'd been proposing to him since before I broke up with my ex--but it felt so weird to hear it said. It's still weird, even now. Scary. Exciting. And the truth.
There's muscles in these arms, too, and they do not go unappreciated. And it's nice, for once, having a soft, gentle, femmy thing that I don't even need to stand on tiptoe, or stairs to kiss. We're well matched.
Been 101 days and counting..
So, here's me. I grew up in suburban Connecticut, led an idyllic life of amusement and nerdity, spent my childhood on my cousin's farm. I got good grades, I had lots of friends, I dyed my hair, I wore weird clothes, I worked on competitive high school robotics. It was a good life. I'm sure you'll hear stories.
I went to a very liberal woman's college (Mount Holyoke (GO LYONS!)), ran the roleplaying club for a while, studied abroad, graduated with two majors, made a shitton of friends.
Let's talk about fat. I'm a big girl. I always have been, and I'm cool with that. I personally like my women with a little meat on them, and I have my occasional bought of "I'm so faaaat, how could anyone ever looove meee" and so on.
At my highest, I weighted 210 pounds. I weighed 182 right when I started college. It was a dumpy, lumpy kind fat, and I hated myself. I promised myself I'd never get so heavy again. For most of college, I remained at 170 or under. I dreaded watching that 182 creepy closer and closer, and delighted when it went lower and lower. The number became a source of triumph and stress. After I broke up with my first boyfriend in England, the subsequent depression brought me down to 160. Matt, being a good sweet boy, promptly fed me. I was 170 when I left England. I spent the summer working on a blueberry farm, and went back to college for a senior year of awesome, stress, bouffet dinners, and good company. By the time the end of senior year hit, I had hit my high mark and was still rising. I was 196 when I moved to Denver. Office work and lunch time take out, with a splash of comfort eating and my house mate's family's veggie light carb only cooking... By the time I moved to my own place, I was 205. I had no idea what to cook, what to eat, how to go about it..
In November of 2008, I had my blood drawn for a bunch of tests. Hypothyroidism runs in my family, and god, oh god, I wanted, needed for it to be the reason why I was gaining weight, feeling sluggish, feeling depressed. I understand so desperately the need to blame something, to have one catch-all cure-all for all problems and ills. There is no One Answer, no diet that'll strip your weight that won't strip your body of nutrients, no pill you can take to erase all your problems, no disease you can treat that'll boost your confidence. Some things are bigger than others, but there is no one Answer to your questions. I wanted there to be, God.
The blood tests showed I didn't have hypothyroidism, but I did have high cholesterol and was pre-diabetic, 101 fasting blood glucose. Right at the very bottom, but sad news none the less. I was sitting in the airport, phone to my ear, holding Matt's hand, my stomach full of bacon and eggs. "So, you're diagnosing me as clinically fat?" The woman laughed sadly. I did too, at 210 pounds. I cried. The shivering, the weight gain, the sadness.. All because my body was dying from over consumption and under exertion. Awesome. There is no One Answer, for me or anyone, and instead of looking for the next Answer, it was time to face facts. I'm lazy and I love food, and if I didn't change, it would kill me.
It means a lot, when the person you love loves you, wants you, needs you when you weigh your most. Matt's never not wanted me, never turned down sex or touching or kisses. It's.. important.
Weight loss was sad and slow, for the next four months. I I weighted about 205, but it was consistant enough to make me believe the 210 was a fluke, and I would never lose weight. And then I read In Defense of Food after buying it on a trip to LA. Now, I don't wanna harp on some One Answer, but it taught me how to eat better. The first five pounds dropped fast. The next ten followed after The Omnivore's Dilemma. Single-handedly, eating whole foods, becoming almost completely vegetarian, and hey, throwing in some exercise helped me go down to 195, though now I'm a bit under that. The last time I weighed myself, I was 193. The goal to beat pre-diabetes is 10%-20% of your body weight, putting my ideal back close to that blasted 180. Funny. Considering my end of the year goal was 190, though, I think I'm doing pretty good. I will have another blood test in a few weeks to check, but fuck, I never thought I would see 193 again.
It's been a work in progress. And it takes up a lot of energy. It's near and dear to my heart, not just losing weight but eating better. I could give a shit about dying animals, but moving away from meet and eating mostly and only vegetables has made me feel better than I have in months and months. AND, thanks to the wonder of birth control, I have wider and wider hips (and ever more boobs) now, and I dream of a buxom and wanton hourglass form for my wedding. But it's more important than that. I don't want to sound super fucking cheesy, but it's true. If I have 100 more years with Matt, it won't be enough. The weeks apart are killing me. I want to spend every day with him until I die, and I won't let my love of cupcakes and the internet shorten that any more than neccesary.
Expect updates on this, too. Without my own kitchen and minus a desk job, I hope to keep this up. Being 20 pounds lighter would be a nice surprise for Matt, but he always warns me not to get too skinny. Chubby chaser. Even still, we're both a long way from him picking me up. Matt isn't even 14 stone (140 pounds), and he's got the physical build of your stereotypical scrawny nerd.
A few weeks into our dating, I was helping him move out of his room at school. He and his mum struggled to carry a suitcase down the stairs, whimpering and grunting and dragging, while I held a half full bookbag. Admiring his chivalry for its intent if not its use, I traded him the bag for the suitcase, and lifted it down the stairs with no problem. His mum let out a confused little gasp, and he said, "And that is why I'm going to marry her."
Not even three weeks into us dating. Jane laughed, and I suppressed the urge to facepalm. I knew then I wanted to marry him--I'd been proposing to him since before I broke up with my ex--but it felt so weird to hear it said. It's still weird, even now. Scary. Exciting. And the truth.
There's muscles in these arms, too, and they do not go unappreciated. And it's nice, for once, having a soft, gentle, femmy thing that I don't even need to stand on tiptoe, or stairs to kiss. We're well matched.
Been 101 days and counting..
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Day 100: And so it goes.
On Friday, I put my one month notice in to quit my job.
I can hear my mother's voice on the other end of them phone. "In this economy, Trina? How will you live? Where will you go? You don't even know when you'll be able to leave." Even still, she relents. She knows how important this is to me, and besides, I'll have to go home. She misses me.
Despite some of the less savory aspects, my job is actually a pretty swank gig. My co-workers are fine, the work is tolerable, I'm not micromanaged. The real problem is Matt.
See, on January 26th, 2007, I was studying abroad in the UK, at the University of York. It was the Science Fiction and Fantasy Club's winter semester convention, and I was nervous. I hadn't really made any friends yet, besides my housemates, and I was eager to find someone, anyone to play DnD with.
By now, you're wondering if I am a nerd. Observant readers will have already noticed. I am.
I walked in apprehensive. Standing awkwardly to one side was a group of boys, and recognizing fellow newbies, I joined them. They were amused to see a Yank, I was still giggling that everyone sounded funny. The funniest looking one was red-haired with far too many teeth, glasses, and shoulders so broad he looked like a cartoon. He mentioned dragons and elves, and I asked him, softly, if he LIKED dragons and elves. He hesitated, and then insisted that no, no he did not. Pleased by his answer, I hugged him. I didn't know it at the time, but it was the third hug he had received from someone outside his family, and the second from a girl. I was his first kiss.
Now we want to get married and be together forever. That's the short version.
The long version involves a couple years of dating, trips across the Atlantic, lame love letters and role playing online, meeting families and eating too much ice cream. It's the sweet and bitter tale of long distance relationships.
The long version is me and Matt, my funny looking other half, trying to find a way to be together. It turns out the easiest way, the fastest way, and the best way, is for me to leave my country, my family, and the land that is in my blood and move over to England, to marry. I never wanted to be a young bride, and I never truly wanted to leave America, but these things are trivial when compared to spending the time with the person I love.
Of course, he needs a job and an apartment first. He does not have these things. But the wait is killing me. I miss seeing him, touching him. I hate doing nothing. I work. I sleep. I eat. I have lived in Denver for almost a year now, and have few friends. Being out of the house means being away from him. It hurts. We fight more. I'm going insane. And I know when it's done, I'll be a minimum of 3,000 miles away from the vast majority of everyone else I hold dear.
So I'm quitting my job. I'm packing up my house, and I'm shipping everything to my parent's house, or to Matt. I am, as my father says, going on a "goodbye tour". I am saving up, shipping out, and visiting my friends. I am visiting this country, moving from couch to couch, until I run out of money or run into boyfriend. There will be rules. The goal will be to not go home. The blog will be to track my thoughts and adventures while I do. More about me, and the trip, later.
I can hear my mother's voice on the other end of them phone. "In this economy, Trina? How will you live? Where will you go? You don't even know when you'll be able to leave." Even still, she relents. She knows how important this is to me, and besides, I'll have to go home. She misses me.
Despite some of the less savory aspects, my job is actually a pretty swank gig. My co-workers are fine, the work is tolerable, I'm not micromanaged. The real problem is Matt.
See, on January 26th, 2007, I was studying abroad in the UK, at the University of York. It was the Science Fiction and Fantasy Club's winter semester convention, and I was nervous. I hadn't really made any friends yet, besides my housemates, and I was eager to find someone, anyone to play DnD with.
By now, you're wondering if I am a nerd. Observant readers will have already noticed. I am.
I walked in apprehensive. Standing awkwardly to one side was a group of boys, and recognizing fellow newbies, I joined them. They were amused to see a Yank, I was still giggling that everyone sounded funny. The funniest looking one was red-haired with far too many teeth, glasses, and shoulders so broad he looked like a cartoon. He mentioned dragons and elves, and I asked him, softly, if he LIKED dragons and elves. He hesitated, and then insisted that no, no he did not. Pleased by his answer, I hugged him. I didn't know it at the time, but it was the third hug he had received from someone outside his family, and the second from a girl. I was his first kiss.
Now we want to get married and be together forever. That's the short version.
The long version involves a couple years of dating, trips across the Atlantic, lame love letters and role playing online, meeting families and eating too much ice cream. It's the sweet and bitter tale of long distance relationships.
The long version is me and Matt, my funny looking other half, trying to find a way to be together. It turns out the easiest way, the fastest way, and the best way, is for me to leave my country, my family, and the land that is in my blood and move over to England, to marry. I never wanted to be a young bride, and I never truly wanted to leave America, but these things are trivial when compared to spending the time with the person I love.
Of course, he needs a job and an apartment first. He does not have these things. But the wait is killing me. I miss seeing him, touching him. I hate doing nothing. I work. I sleep. I eat. I have lived in Denver for almost a year now, and have few friends. Being out of the house means being away from him. It hurts. We fight more. I'm going insane. And I know when it's done, I'll be a minimum of 3,000 miles away from the vast majority of everyone else I hold dear.
So I'm quitting my job. I'm packing up my house, and I'm shipping everything to my parent's house, or to Matt. I am, as my father says, going on a "goodbye tour". I am saving up, shipping out, and visiting my friends. I am visiting this country, moving from couch to couch, until I run out of money or run into boyfriend. There will be rules. The goal will be to not go home. The blog will be to track my thoughts and adventures while I do. More about me, and the trip, later.
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