So... I figured that by saving this page under "Bookmarks", I'd see the link enough to be guilt-tripped into updating regularly.
... It kind of worked - I've seen it regularly, and have felt daily pangs of "what a sorry excuse for a blogger I" ... I just haven't actually updated.
Whoops.
To placate the gods of cyberspace, (no lightning, please), a short piece to [hopefully] spawn more writing later. I call it:
"Thanksgiving - the Skibicki Version"
[for your reading pleasure]:
Perhaps it's part of our Polish ancestry (though none of us know any of our "native" tongue; our Babci passed on few words to her children besides those they shared at school and probably giggled about.
"What's that mean?!"
"Thank you very much."
"No way!! It sounds far too silly."
"You must be right! My mom's probably just making it up.")
- mais oui, perhaps it's due to our bloodline, but holidays are not complete without the Polish Homemade Bread. Babka, I think. (It sounds silly enough to work.) However... usually, "holidays" means the holidays - Christmas Break. Therefore, the appearance of a loaf... a golden, moist, prune-butter (pvebla?) filled, crumb-topped loaf... at our Thanksgiving celebration...
Madness.
Pandemonium.
.... Joyous rioting.
Some thirty, forty (I lost count somewhere in the cousins area) people, all of them jostling for a piece before dinner. Those *not* jostling where clearly not part of the family, but they didn't know the power of the Babka, and could thus be grudgingly forgiven. However, cousin Katie - sitting guard with a gigantic butcher knife, managed to protect the goodness until dinner was served. (At least an hour of being called the "Bread Nazi". We're a very kind family.)
... well, dinner is finally underway; the adults have filled their plates, the kids are now in line - circling around the countertop and jostling for the person in front of them to move faster so that they could take their sweet time with the mashed potatoes themselves.
As I am just about to take a piece of bread, Jason - friend of cousin Parker - speaks up. I'm pretty sure he says something akin to "so this f******* bread must be pretty special for everyone to be fighting over it."
I could be wrong.
I could have sworn I heard that f-bomb drop.
... however, that is not the issue.
... the issue... is my autopilot response as I grab one of the last pieces of baked perfection:
"Well, in the Skibicki family, we don't f*** around with our bread."
... whoops.
At least I can go down as the first Skibicki to drop that particular bomb at a family gathering. Hoowah!
Happy Holidays, everyone.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Another leaf-scone? Why, Mr. Bigglesworth, I just couldn't.
"But more puddle-tea would be lovely, thank you - Princess Garcia-Duck, this luncheon is absolutely delightful. I must accept your invitations more often."
... what? They were serving cucumber sandwiches and exotic herbal brews - I couldn't turn my stuffed animals down just because the tea was in the second-hand plastic cups that didn't even change colors! Hardship builds character, if you hadn't noticed.
Or... or, maybe you have the same skewed thought process that I do, and, in the recent light of our economic "bite-to-the-jugular" trauma, expected the world to go black-and-white and the word "flappers" to make a come back. That might explain why I have been suddenly addicted to the crooning of Frank Sinatra, and wake up misty-eyed to the soft, dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
... and have sudden urges to don a Fedora.
... but I will resist.
Things aren't good - you may have figured that out by watching the news, reading the paper, generally existing around people who depend on money in order to aid them in oh, what's the word - living. I'm beginning to feel that the kids my age [*cough cough* young adults] are caught in an interesting emotional and educational whirlwind; we're literally just old enough to watch our parents, our teachers, and our slightly-older, independent, self-supporting pals feel the stress of trying to do whatever they can to lessen the blow... and the strain of feeling absolutely helpless. Those slightly younger than us may or may not be concerned, depending on maturity level or just how close this financial crisis hits to home, but I get the impression that they do not scour abcnews.com for the positive word. I can't figure out whether or not to be frustrated by this stance - while I've asked older friends, and my older brother, about the situation, I still feel that I know nothing. At the least, nothing of certainty. What's connected, what will be eventually connected, why this happened, how it could be resolved, when, where, what will have to happen first...
... and then my mind opens the floodgates to the other issues. Storms seem to be getting worse - is that global warming? The weather is bonkers as is, without clouds plotting catastrophic events. The media grows progressively more obsessed with egotistic, narcissistic celebrities that DO NOT CONTRIBUTE ANYTHING TO SOCIETY. Pardon me, Paris Hilton, but do you really need a t.v show that pits __ # of kids against one another to see who can suck up to you the most - er, my bad: be your new bff? If you don't mind a brown nose out for meaningless camera time, you've got a good bunch there. Oh, and the effect on the young'uns? Two kids - who couldn't be more than 11 - rode by me on a moped a few weeks ago while I was biking and screamed - loudly, and with victorious air - "F*@# you, b%&$@#!"
In hindsight, I could have whipped out a few choice curses of my own, but I was too surprised to do anything but keep biking down the road and try to avoid potholes.
... and... in double hindsight (which is like hindsight, only infinitely wiser. [cough]) ... what would that have done but reinforce the idea that, at age 11, they were supposed to hear those things and understand what they meant, and exactly how to use them?
... oh, and let's not forget baby-seal clubbers. Another sign of down-spiraling... so despicable that I can't write anything else about it.
In any case, what I'm trying to say (I guess) is that... right now... the world may as well be in black-and-white. It's not exactly a joyous place in certain respects; there are moments when I look at the pictures on my wall and wonder if we can honestly expect that sort of idyllic atmosphere for the next few years without it feeling forced.
At the same time, though.... on that same bike ride home, after that drive-by-calamity... I witnessed proof that we could make it out of this hole:
A young mom, in overalls and her hair pulled up in a sporting, hair-everywhere pony tail - obviously designed and executed by her adorable 3 year old daughter, dressed and coiffed similarly - was sitting down for afternoon tea. I only glimpsed a... glimpse - maybe a second and a half - but it was enough to hear a giggle, and see the mother graciously begin to accept a cup of "tea" from the stuffed bear next to her.
... I bet they had leaf-scones.
... what? They were serving cucumber sandwiches and exotic herbal brews - I couldn't turn my stuffed animals down just because the tea was in the second-hand plastic cups that didn't even change colors! Hardship builds character, if you hadn't noticed.
Or... or, maybe you have the same skewed thought process that I do, and, in the recent light of our economic "bite-to-the-jugular" trauma, expected the world to go black-and-white and the word "flappers" to make a come back. That might explain why I have been suddenly addicted to the crooning of Frank Sinatra, and wake up misty-eyed to the soft, dulcet tones of Ella Fitzgerald.
... and have sudden urges to don a Fedora.
... but I will resist.
Things aren't good - you may have figured that out by watching the news, reading the paper, generally existing around people who depend on money in order to aid them in oh, what's the word - living. I'm beginning to feel that the kids my age [*cough cough* young adults] are caught in an interesting emotional and educational whirlwind; we're literally just old enough to watch our parents, our teachers, and our slightly-older, independent, self-supporting pals feel the stress of trying to do whatever they can to lessen the blow... and the strain of feeling absolutely helpless. Those slightly younger than us may or may not be concerned, depending on maturity level or just how close this financial crisis hits to home, but I get the impression that they do not scour abcnews.com for the positive word. I can't figure out whether or not to be frustrated by this stance - while I've asked older friends, and my older brother, about the situation, I still feel that I know nothing. At the least, nothing of certainty. What's connected, what will be eventually connected, why this happened, how it could be resolved, when, where, what will have to happen first...
... and then my mind opens the floodgates to the other issues. Storms seem to be getting worse - is that global warming? The weather is bonkers as is, without clouds plotting catastrophic events. The media grows progressively more obsessed with egotistic, narcissistic celebrities that DO NOT CONTRIBUTE ANYTHING TO SOCIETY. Pardon me, Paris Hilton, but do you really need a t.v show that pits __ # of kids against one another to see who can suck up to you the most - er, my bad: be your new bff? If you don't mind a brown nose out for meaningless camera time, you've got a good bunch there. Oh, and the effect on the young'uns? Two kids - who couldn't be more than 11 - rode by me on a moped a few weeks ago while I was biking and screamed - loudly, and with victorious air - "F*@# you, b%&$@#!"
In hindsight, I could have whipped out a few choice curses of my own, but I was too surprised to do anything but keep biking down the road and try to avoid potholes.
... and... in double hindsight (which is like hindsight, only infinitely wiser. [cough]) ... what would that have done but reinforce the idea that, at age 11, they were supposed to hear those things and understand what they meant, and exactly how to use them?
... oh, and let's not forget baby-seal clubbers. Another sign of down-spiraling... so despicable that I can't write anything else about it.
In any case, what I'm trying to say (I guess) is that... right now... the world may as well be in black-and-white. It's not exactly a joyous place in certain respects; there are moments when I look at the pictures on my wall and wonder if we can honestly expect that sort of idyllic atmosphere for the next few years without it feeling forced.
At the same time, though.... on that same bike ride home, after that drive-by-calamity... I witnessed proof that we could make it out of this hole:
A young mom, in overalls and her hair pulled up in a sporting, hair-everywhere pony tail - obviously designed and executed by her adorable 3 year old daughter, dressed and coiffed similarly - was sitting down for afternoon tea. I only glimpsed a... glimpse - maybe a second and a half - but it was enough to hear a giggle, and see the mother graciously begin to accept a cup of "tea" from the stuffed bear next to her.
... I bet they had leaf-scones.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
It's got 120 calories! 25 grams of protein! Only 2 grams of sugar!
Only 57% OF YOUR DAILY SODIUM INTAKE PER SERVING!
...thus ends my brief foray into the world of beef-jerky addiction. [sigh] And I was really starting to enjoy myself... curse the involuntary movements that cause my eyes to scan nutrition labels!
... No, for serious! (See this - this is my serious face!)
Well, you can't see it, but it's a pretty grim expression, I'll have you know.
Reading the information on the back... used to be mere curiosity. When I was much younger, I couldn't care less what I was putting into my body (oh, that could be taken in so many awful ways) food-wise, as long as it was delicious and I could get away with it. Fig Newtons? Screw serving size, I'd eat a whole sleeve of 'em. (A bad example - is anyone able to stop eating those things once they've had one? I thought not.)
On a similar note, Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" just came on my stereo. I agree Marvin... Fig Newtons are worthy of orgasmic-taste-bud-loving. Now, if only my brother had not COMPLETELY CLEANED OUT MY ENTIRE FIG NEWTON STASH, I too, could get it on. For now, I'll continue to sip my coffee ("because it is bitter, and because it is my heart...") and plan a stop at the convenience store later.
In any case - back to the nutrition information and away from my now-all-consuming Fig Newton Craving. Through middle school, I could have three ice-cream bars for lunch and not bat an eyelid. Coca-Cola probably ran through my veins in stead of blood - after sophomore year of high school, while in Germany, I literally went through an entire case of 1 liters... by... my... self. It literally replaced water - if I awoke in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, I'd stumble groggily down to the basement and grab myself a bottle and chug.
... they *used* to have crack in there, right? Past-tense?
After field hockey practice, my sister and I would head to the local Starbucks and deplete our bank accounts by buying the biggest, most sugar packed frozen drink that we could think of... at *least* three times a week. And then go home and eat the scrumptious meal that my parents had prepared, and go back to the freezer for dessert. I figured as long as I was part of the sports teams, I could eat / drink how-much-of whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
... then my mom started pointing out nutrition info, or passing me random bits of data.
Did I know that the Coke I consumed (Coca-Cola, *cough*) had ___ grams of sugar in it? That drinking a can a day would cause me to gain 10 pounds in a year - not counting in everything else I ate or drank?
Did I realize that I was getting older and my metabolism was going to slow down? That I wouldn't be able to use the excuse that my body could process most things without problem?
Did it occur to me that Starbucks frappucino's did have a calorie count - some over 600? (whoops).
Did I even know what the word "moderation" meant?
... and etc. It continues today, except that I've become such a health nut that the subjects and word choices have changed a bit.
Do I really need 12 servings of fruit a day?
Did I understand that it was okay to indulge a little bit in order to prevent sudden fits of binge eating?
... Was I really binge-eating with Kashi cereal?!
99% of the time, I owe my mom a thank you note for making me aware of my own eating habits. However... that 1%... I feel that I've become slightly neurotic about my nutrition labels. No doubt that I'm exponentially better off - I'm constantly aware of what goes in my body and why. I won't eat fast-food, and Starbucks hasn't touched my savings account in quite a long time. I look for meals and snacks that are going to make me feel better - not only bodily-wise, but even mentally.
... the problem is the "indulge yourself every once in a while" bit. I can't help but feel guilty the majority of the times that I do - and if I haven't exercised that day, for example, it's completely out of the question. (Note - I will not resort to drastic measures. Purging is .... well, it's a sickness. I'm out for feeling better, not destroying my body in the process of feeling good.) ... Which is where the nutrition labels come in. Part of me wishes I could completely ignore them at least once or twice a day, just enjoy the treat, and move on. Instead, I scour the sugar content, or fat percentage... for someone who wants to eventually retire to a life of baking sweet-goodness all day, this could be emotionally scarring stuff.
I figure I'm still better off than where I was in say, the Coked-up middle school era and the whipped-cream and chocolate syrup dominated days of high school... I'd just like to see a little more middle ground. I'm getting better at it, but I excel at extremes.
...thus ends my brief foray into the world of beef-jerky addiction. [sigh] And I was really starting to enjoy myself... curse the involuntary movements that cause my eyes to scan nutrition labels!
... No, for serious! (See this - this is my serious face!)
Well, you can't see it, but it's a pretty grim expression, I'll have you know.
Reading the information on the back... used to be mere curiosity. When I was much younger, I couldn't care less what I was putting into my body (oh, that could be taken in so many awful ways) food-wise, as long as it was delicious and I could get away with it. Fig Newtons? Screw serving size, I'd eat a whole sleeve of 'em. (A bad example - is anyone able to stop eating those things once they've had one? I thought not.)
On a similar note, Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" just came on my stereo. I agree Marvin... Fig Newtons are worthy of orgasmic-taste-bud-loving. Now, if only my brother had not COMPLETELY CLEANED OUT MY ENTIRE FIG NEWTON STASH, I too, could get it on. For now, I'll continue to sip my coffee ("because it is bitter, and because it is my heart...") and plan a stop at the convenience store later.
In any case - back to the nutrition information and away from my now-all-consuming Fig Newton Craving. Through middle school, I could have three ice-cream bars for lunch and not bat an eyelid. Coca-Cola probably ran through my veins in stead of blood - after sophomore year of high school, while in Germany, I literally went through an entire case of 1 liters... by... my... self. It literally replaced water - if I awoke in the middle of the night feeling hot and thirsty, I'd stumble groggily down to the basement and grab myself a bottle and chug.
... they *used* to have crack in there, right? Past-tense?
After field hockey practice, my sister and I would head to the local Starbucks and deplete our bank accounts by buying the biggest, most sugar packed frozen drink that we could think of... at *least* three times a week. And then go home and eat the scrumptious meal that my parents had prepared, and go back to the freezer for dessert. I figured as long as I was part of the sports teams, I could eat / drink how-much-of whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
... then my mom started pointing out nutrition info, or passing me random bits of data.
Did I know that the Coke I consumed (Coca-Cola, *cough*) had ___ grams of sugar in it? That drinking a can a day would cause me to gain 10 pounds in a year - not counting in everything else I ate or drank?
Did I realize that I was getting older and my metabolism was going to slow down? That I wouldn't be able to use the excuse that my body could process most things without problem?
Did it occur to me that Starbucks frappucino's did have a calorie count - some over 600? (whoops).
Did I even know what the word "moderation" meant?
... and etc. It continues today, except that I've become such a health nut that the subjects and word choices have changed a bit.
Do I really need 12 servings of fruit a day?
Did I understand that it was okay to indulge a little bit in order to prevent sudden fits of binge eating?
... Was I really binge-eating with Kashi cereal?!
99% of the time, I owe my mom a thank you note for making me aware of my own eating habits. However... that 1%... I feel that I've become slightly neurotic about my nutrition labels. No doubt that I'm exponentially better off - I'm constantly aware of what goes in my body and why. I won't eat fast-food, and Starbucks hasn't touched my savings account in quite a long time. I look for meals and snacks that are going to make me feel better - not only bodily-wise, but even mentally.
... the problem is the "indulge yourself every once in a while" bit. I can't help but feel guilty the majority of the times that I do - and if I haven't exercised that day, for example, it's completely out of the question. (Note - I will not resort to drastic measures. Purging is .... well, it's a sickness. I'm out for feeling better, not destroying my body in the process of feeling good.) ... Which is where the nutrition labels come in. Part of me wishes I could completely ignore them at least once or twice a day, just enjoy the treat, and move on. Instead, I scour the sugar content, or fat percentage... for someone who wants to eventually retire to a life of baking sweet-goodness all day, this could be emotionally scarring stuff.
I figure I'm still better off than where I was in say, the Coked-up middle school era and the whipped-cream and chocolate syrup dominated days of high school... I'd just like to see a little more middle ground. I'm getting better at it, but I excel at extremes.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
No, no - I'm not a whore... That's just my brother!
... and that's just wrong.
Over a month into the "Freshman Living Situation", and I'm beginning to understand that... single room aside, there is no such thing as dormitory privacy. You'd think I'd have figured that out back in, oh, 2006, when I lugged all of my belongings (and probably a few of my brother's and sister's) in duffel bags and Tupperware boxes into my first college room. Even roommate-from-Opposite-Land aside, I at least had the domicile all to myself from 11:45 p.m to 4:45 a.m... a chance to breathe and stretch out and generally enjoy having all 5 square feet to myself.
[sigh] Oh, the Golden Days.
... okay - now I'll be serious. It is glorious having a living space that I can actually do more than merely spin in a circle when I feel the urge to "get up and move around". Every night, before I turn off the final light, I smile and say a little word of thanks for the fact that, while I'll probably opt to keep any extra space, I could potentially have double my freshman year belongings! (That is, if I don't already - Narnia keeps shoving this mystery stuff that I don't remember owning through my closet.) The greatest bit? A blaring, fire-engine red soccer-mom minivan in which to transport those belongings... It's an improvement on the past with some foreshadowing of the future!
[egad, no!]
It's just... it's just... IT'S JUST THESE CRAZY PEOPLE I LIVE WITH.
No, I can't honestly say that - the girls are wonderful. Young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, out into the night for Fraternities and Fun.
... [eyes narrow] It is the men that they attract.
I walk down the hall for my evening shower.
There are freshmen boys in the way, tossing around a frisbee.
I return from my evening shower.
The last remaining male, tossing said frisbee, turns to find me with fuzzy towel, towley-hair, and the washed-up look of a drawn-out scrubbing. Cue a five-second period that seems to last for all eternity, in which he stares, clears his throat, and pivots in the slowest manner possible, then my hastened pace through the rest of the hall.
I go to brush my teeth.
As if by signal, one of my students... one of the guys... ducks in to ask me a question, startling me to slightly spit out my mouthful of bright-green Crest foam.
I wake up in the morning, bleary eyed, and haul my arm-ful of dirty dishes down for some good, old-fashioned washing.
Immediately, out pops A, or P, or B, or possible C or the other P... possibly wondering how a single person goes through 4 bowls, 3 spoons, 2 knives, a fork, and the complete works of Shakespeare - er... a coffee maker.
(You may yourself wonder the same thing. It takes a special type of person, let me tell you.)
I'm prone to believe that I would not feel nearly so... well, awkward, if I didn't teach half of the kids on this floor. OR... perhaps... maybe if I weren't an ancient junior trying to disguise myself among noobs.
Perhaps it is time to consider the option of apartment housing, no matter how brilliant the teaching gig seems to be going.
... but then again... my orange fuzzy slippers wouldn't be nearly as fun to wear if I couldn't coordinate them with my burning shades of blushing magenta.
Over a month into the "Freshman Living Situation", and I'm beginning to understand that... single room aside, there is no such thing as dormitory privacy. You'd think I'd have figured that out back in, oh, 2006, when I lugged all of my belongings (and probably a few of my brother's and sister's) in duffel bags and Tupperware boxes into my first college room. Even roommate-from-Opposite-Land aside, I at least had the domicile all to myself from 11:45 p.m to 4:45 a.m... a chance to breathe and stretch out and generally enjoy having all 5 square feet to myself.
[sigh] Oh, the Golden Days.
... okay - now I'll be serious. It is glorious having a living space that I can actually do more than merely spin in a circle when I feel the urge to "get up and move around". Every night, before I turn off the final light, I smile and say a little word of thanks for the fact that, while I'll probably opt to keep any extra space, I could potentially have double my freshman year belongings! (That is, if I don't already - Narnia keeps shoving this mystery stuff that I don't remember owning through my closet.) The greatest bit? A blaring, fire-engine red soccer-mom minivan in which to transport those belongings... It's an improvement on the past with some foreshadowing of the future!
[egad, no!]
It's just... it's just... IT'S JUST THESE CRAZY PEOPLE I LIVE WITH.
No, I can't honestly say that - the girls are wonderful. Young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, out into the night for Fraternities and Fun.
... [eyes narrow] It is the men that they attract.
I walk down the hall for my evening shower.
There are freshmen boys in the way, tossing around a frisbee.
I return from my evening shower.
The last remaining male, tossing said frisbee, turns to find me with fuzzy towel, towley-hair, and the washed-up look of a drawn-out scrubbing. Cue a five-second period that seems to last for all eternity, in which he stares, clears his throat, and pivots in the slowest manner possible, then my hastened pace through the rest of the hall.
I go to brush my teeth.
As if by signal, one of my students... one of the guys... ducks in to ask me a question, startling me to slightly spit out my mouthful of bright-green Crest foam.
I wake up in the morning, bleary eyed, and haul my arm-ful of dirty dishes down for some good, old-fashioned washing.
Immediately, out pops A, or P, or B, or possible C or the other P... possibly wondering how a single person goes through 4 bowls, 3 spoons, 2 knives, a fork, and the complete works of Shakespeare - er... a coffee maker.
(You may yourself wonder the same thing. It takes a special type of person, let me tell you.)
I'm prone to believe that I would not feel nearly so... well, awkward, if I didn't teach half of the kids on this floor. OR... perhaps... maybe if I weren't an ancient junior trying to disguise myself among noobs.
Perhaps it is time to consider the option of apartment housing, no matter how brilliant the teaching gig seems to be going.
... but then again... my orange fuzzy slippers wouldn't be nearly as fun to wear if I couldn't coordinate them with my burning shades of blushing magenta.
Friday, September 12, 2008
I'd unwind a bit, but I'm afraid that would set off the trip-wires.
A former friend of mine tried to give me a backrub once.
.... I know that's not exactly the stirring opening that you associate with most epics, but this story has actually stuck with me for longer than 5 years. (Almost literally).
We were on the indoor track and field team together for a season in high school - he sprinted / jumped, and I made my "white-girl-field-hockey/soccer-player" attempts at the 400 and 800 meter dashes of sheer-agony. (They put them with the smaller distances, but sprinting for 2 minutes?! Who the hell comes up with these things?!)
... (is it bad if I'd rather just push myself over 7 miles than kill myself over 1/2 of one?... don't answer that.)
In any case - sprinting, whether short term or cruelly prolonged, is the one part of running that I'll get worked up about. It is also - though my accidental 12.5 miler this summer proved me wrong - one of the few things involved with cardio/exercise that can make me literally ill. (That may, however, just be my mental block against it.) Therefore - after the completion of our first track meet of the season (!) in which yours truly managed to further along the argument for longer uniform shorts - the bus ride back was gradually becoming less and less comfortable. Ten minutes in, I'd given up on sitting as a normal human being should and was curled up in a fetal position upon the brown, elementary-school-broken-in leather.
[Enter the friend].
Notorious (such an ominous word) for his extremely-literal-deep-tissue back massages, my buddy took one look at my pathetic attempt to "work out kinks" by stretching absolutely nothing at all, almost literally pulled me back into a sitting position, and offered a trade. If I would give him a quick, superficial backrub (I was notorious for my extremely-awful-deep-tissue back-massages), then he'd spend the rest of the bus ride getting my back into typical human form.
Fair was fair - less-than-mediocre for what promised to be ridiculously thorough. I agreed, and quickly attacked his back, figuring that maybe the "open-assault" mindset would put more power into my impact.
... it was a good thought, at the least - one that could have been executed by someone more talented than I.
30 seconds later - after quite a bit of badly-masked laughing and a few "ow's!", the friend had had enough, and told me to twirl around and prepare to have my life changed.
10 seconds in: "Wow... Dani, you weren't kidding, you're really worked up back here..."
20 seconds in: "... I think this one is starting to come un- nope."
30 seconds: "... have you ever had ANYONE try this before?!"
1 minute: "Oh my God, why didn't you warn me?! It's like trying to knead concrete!"
2 minutes: "I can't... it's not... my hands... MY HANDS!!! MY HANDS ARE CRAMPING UP?!"
.... 10 minutes later - after having abandoned the mission at the 2. 5 minute mark:
"WHAT ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU?!?! STEEL?!! I CAN'T CLOSE MY FISTS!!?!"
... How's that for built-up-tension?
.... I know that's not exactly the stirring opening that you associate with most epics, but this story has actually stuck with me for longer than 5 years. (Almost literally).
We were on the indoor track and field team together for a season in high school - he sprinted / jumped, and I made my "white-girl-field-hockey/soccer-player" attempts at the 400 and 800 meter dashes of sheer-agony. (They put them with the smaller distances, but sprinting for 2 minutes?! Who the hell comes up with these things?!)
... (is it bad if I'd rather just push myself over 7 miles than kill myself over 1/2 of one?... don't answer that.)
In any case - sprinting, whether short term or cruelly prolonged, is the one part of running that I'll get worked up about. It is also - though my accidental 12.5 miler this summer proved me wrong - one of the few things involved with cardio/exercise that can make me literally ill. (That may, however, just be my mental block against it.) Therefore - after the completion of our first track meet of the season (!) in which yours truly managed to further along the argument for longer uniform shorts - the bus ride back was gradually becoming less and less comfortable. Ten minutes in, I'd given up on sitting as a normal human being should and was curled up in a fetal position upon the brown, elementary-school-broken-in leather.
[Enter the friend].
Notorious (such an ominous word) for his extremely-literal-deep-tissue back massages, my buddy took one look at my pathetic attempt to "work out kinks" by stretching absolutely nothing at all, almost literally pulled me back into a sitting position, and offered a trade. If I would give him a quick, superficial backrub (I was notorious for my extremely-awful-deep-tissue back-massages), then he'd spend the rest of the bus ride getting my back into typical human form.
Fair was fair - less-than-mediocre for what promised to be ridiculously thorough. I agreed, and quickly attacked his back, figuring that maybe the "open-assault" mindset would put more power into my impact.
... it was a good thought, at the least - one that could have been executed by someone more talented than I.
30 seconds later - after quite a bit of badly-masked laughing and a few "ow's!", the friend had had enough, and told me to twirl around and prepare to have my life changed.
10 seconds in: "Wow... Dani, you weren't kidding, you're really worked up back here..."
20 seconds in: "... I think this one is starting to come un- nope."
30 seconds: "... have you ever had ANYONE try this before?!"
1 minute: "Oh my God, why didn't you warn me?! It's like trying to knead concrete!"
2 minutes: "I can't... it's not... my hands... MY HANDS!!! MY HANDS ARE CRAMPING UP?!"
.... 10 minutes later - after having abandoned the mission at the 2. 5 minute mark:
"WHAT ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU?!?! STEEL?!! I CAN'T CLOSE MY FISTS!!?!"
... How's that for built-up-tension?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
First and Foremost, I pride myself on my Hypocrisy!
... If my thirteen year-old counterpart could see me right now, she would not be pleased.
For starters, I'm 20. She'd wonder how the hell I'd managed to age 7 years without her noticing.
on a more serious note, I'd think she'd feel a tremor of shock to find me without some sort of team-gear, or sports-team affiliation.
... you know, no olympic medals, scars from climbing everest, wheatie's box deal... the usual lineup.
What every 20 year old previously involved in athletics obtains by 20, right?
She'd probably also frown in my general direction after seeing my romantic tendencies. With deft aim, she'd chuck a few choice books at my nose.
"What happened to true love?!" she'd snap. "What happened to never ending loyalty, blinding faith in finding that one, the total devotion to the first deep, intense, emotional rollercoaster?!"
... [keep in mind, my 13 year old self prided herself on being "deep".]
I'd pick up the book, and rub my nose for quite a bit - hopefully thinking carefully before I answered her.
Hopefully.
"Look, Dani - " I'd start, but she'd cut me off.
"You went down the path that you swore you'd never even set foot on! You can't possibly think this is right!" She'd be looking me in the eyes, but she'd be fuming, and thinking rightfully so.
"Yes..." - the answer would be slow, drawn out. "But - can you fault me?"
Her mouth would open, I'd cut in this time.
"Dani, right now you're used to watching other girls dating boys and pretending that you don't want to see what that's like. You concentrate on the concept of true love because it keeps you separated from your worry that you'll never have a chance at it. Next year, someone will say "I love you" and you will run as fast as possible in the other direction - and it'll happen two years after that, and again, you'll flee. For good reason, but still... at 13, love would overwhelm you. True love could chuck a book at your nose and you still would have no idea what it is - you just would know that you wouldn't want it. Not now. Not at 13. In fact, not for a while."
... She might actually listen at this point.
"I'm not telling you to become the town whore. I'm not even telling you to *try* to date guys - if you decide that a hasty retreat is the best idea, listen to your gut and get the hell out of there. However..."
An eyebrow raise. Touche, 13 year old memory.
"Well, do what makes you comfortable. Just don't expect any knights in shining armor."
Now a sigh.
"Fine - expect what you will. Just try not to be so serious. At 20, its the unexpected that well... uh... well, just roll with the punches. Life gets more interesting that way."
She grips her book.
"I still think you sold out."
My turn to raise an eyebrow.
"I know. I kind of did. But... compromising isn't the same as changing who you are. If you're rigid as a freaking board, someone's going to break you and there's really no way to fix that sort of damage."
"... did you just quote Mulan or something?"
"Maybe."
"You're too old for Disney movies."
"My darling Danielle Elizabeth Meier, if there is one thing you must learn from this encounter, one is never too old for Disney movies."
For starters, I'm 20. She'd wonder how the hell I'd managed to age 7 years without her noticing.
on a more serious note, I'd think she'd feel a tremor of shock to find me without some sort of team-gear, or sports-team affiliation.
... you know, no olympic medals, scars from climbing everest, wheatie's box deal... the usual lineup.
What every 20 year old previously involved in athletics obtains by 20, right?
She'd probably also frown in my general direction after seeing my romantic tendencies. With deft aim, she'd chuck a few choice books at my nose.
"What happened to true love?!" she'd snap. "What happened to never ending loyalty, blinding faith in finding that one, the total devotion to the first deep, intense, emotional rollercoaster?!"
... [keep in mind, my 13 year old self prided herself on being "deep".]
I'd pick up the book, and rub my nose for quite a bit - hopefully thinking carefully before I answered her.
Hopefully.
"Look, Dani - " I'd start, but she'd cut me off.
"You went down the path that you swore you'd never even set foot on! You can't possibly think this is right!" She'd be looking me in the eyes, but she'd be fuming, and thinking rightfully so.
"Yes..." - the answer would be slow, drawn out. "But - can you fault me?"
Her mouth would open, I'd cut in this time.
"Dani, right now you're used to watching other girls dating boys and pretending that you don't want to see what that's like. You concentrate on the concept of true love because it keeps you separated from your worry that you'll never have a chance at it. Next year, someone will say "I love you" and you will run as fast as possible in the other direction - and it'll happen two years after that, and again, you'll flee. For good reason, but still... at 13, love would overwhelm you. True love could chuck a book at your nose and you still would have no idea what it is - you just would know that you wouldn't want it. Not now. Not at 13. In fact, not for a while."
... She might actually listen at this point.
"I'm not telling you to become the town whore. I'm not even telling you to *try* to date guys - if you decide that a hasty retreat is the best idea, listen to your gut and get the hell out of there. However..."
An eyebrow raise. Touche, 13 year old memory.
"Well, do what makes you comfortable. Just don't expect any knights in shining armor."
Now a sigh.
"Fine - expect what you will. Just try not to be so serious. At 20, its the unexpected that well... uh... well, just roll with the punches. Life gets more interesting that way."
She grips her book.
"I still think you sold out."
My turn to raise an eyebrow.
"I know. I kind of did. But... compromising isn't the same as changing who you are. If you're rigid as a freaking board, someone's going to break you and there's really no way to fix that sort of damage."
"... did you just quote Mulan or something?"
"Maybe."
"You're too old for Disney movies."
"My darling Danielle Elizabeth Meier, if there is one thing you must learn from this encounter, one is never too old for Disney movies."
Friday, August 29, 2008
briefly:
i am tempted to believe that the older i get, the more old -fashioned i become... not because i cannot keep up with the times, but because perhaps that is how i have been all along.
... it's just hard to see that when you're thirteen and you think that, if you get your heart broken one more time, you'll curl up as ashes and blow away in the wind.
...
then again, at thirteen, i was physically and emotionally incapable of going with the flow.
working on it.
huh. :)
... it's just hard to see that when you're thirteen and you think that, if you get your heart broken one more time, you'll curl up as ashes and blow away in the wind.
...
then again, at thirteen, i was physically and emotionally incapable of going with the flow.
working on it.
huh. :)
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