In Which I Swear I'm Not an Advertisement for Pure Barre

Or: How this is the "Oh, I've got this!" week over in CollectingBlues' world. 

One of the things that really sold me on starting to do barre last fall was how absolutely competent I felt about it. I wasn't *awesome* at barre, but it was something I could do, and feel good about how I felt as I did it. 

I knew that if I kept going (and, um, upped the frequency with which I went), I'd be able to see improvements in how it went. And after not that long, I saw improvements in how my abs and arms looked. 

What's continued to be exciting and awesome about it? 

Seeing that I can meet goals I never knew I had. (And really, few things feel better than a new pair of sticky socks.) 

Like, I never knew that a goal of mine was to be able to hold a plank for the full 90 seconds. I'd always dropped down to my knees, and figured that well, such was life. But then, one class, I was able to hold it for the full time. And I never dropped to my knees again -- not even after the broken toe, when the instructor told me that hey, it would be a good modification if I didn't want the pressure on my foot.

And then, within the past few weeks, I've finally done something I've wanted to do almost all of my life. It makes me sound horribly out of shape, but I'm not ashamed to admit that finally, after 35-some-odd years (because I'm pretty sure no one expects a 3 year old to do it), I can curl up from the floor without using my arms or legs for power. It's all in the abs. 

I was shocked when I realized during one class that I thought I could finally do it. And I was surprised during the last class when I was able to do it again. 

Sometimes, barre's also a good way to do a gut check.

Lately, I've not been loving my arms. I don't know what it is about the arm fixation lately, but they've felt huge. 

Where does barre come into this dysmorphia? 

I can look in the mirrors, and see that no, nothing's jiggling. Nothing is out of place. And that maybe they might even look thin. I can see that what the mirror says is not what I am perceiving. 

Don't get me wrong. It's not all perfect. Like, the time a week back or so when the instructor casually told us to put a leg -- quite literally -- up on the barre.

My legs have never done that. Never had that flexibility. I'm pretty sure I had some hardcore Resting Bitch Face at that moment.

You know what, though? I still did it. I don't know how I managed to get my leg literally up on the barre, but up it went. And so did I. 

About that Confidence Thing

Or, more precisely, a competence thing.

Feeling competent is... I don't want to call it a trigger point, but it is definitely an issue point. I so rarely feel competent at, well, anything. And that, in turn, makes me anxious. Which then just leads itself to the food aspect more. Which usually results in me either working out or clamping down to try to feel like damnit, at least I can control something. 

And we've already established that small engines -- or really anything involving mechanics and engines -- are fantastic at making me feel like I am the worst person in the world.

Cue my panic when, on the drive back from the concert, my tire light goes on "somewhere" in Ohio. I say "somewhere," because I am still legitimately not sure where I was. 

But I was two miles from a service plaza. 

There were a small handful of thoughts that kept churning through my brain during those two miles. 

• OMG the tire is going to blow off the car and I'm gonna cause an accident and I'm gonna die.
• I know it's just a slow leak, because I filled the tire on Friday. But OMG I'm gonna die.
• Shit. This is going to be expensive.

This service plaza,  as it turns out, only had a very old machine labeled "Air." Me being me, I'm used only these days to the nice automated ones that Get Go has. That turn on automatically, and turn off when pressure is reached. 

It turns out that when you're an idiot about the old school ones, you can end up deflating your entire tire in a matter of minutes. 

Which, if you're like me, is when you sit down on the curb, debate crying, and pull out your phone. And think that it's really a shame that you can't call AAA or the VW Roadside Assistance program from a service plaza and say, "Hey, I'm sorry I'm an idiot, but I'm somewhere in Ohio, and I just deflated my tire using an air pump, and um, can you help me figure this out?" 

Fortunately, I have an iPhone. Which means I have Google. And I could see that this is actually not an uncommon problem if the pump isn't fully clamped on to the valve. So yay for problem solving. 

Because I didn't have a tire gauge with me, I wasn't sure how long to fill it. But I figured when I heard a "pop!" that it was a sign it was probably at least filled enough to get me back to Pittsburgh. 

But fortunately, I've also learned that if you can find experts, life gets a little easier. So I called a tire shop, explained, and got an appointment set up for Monday night. 

The car, of course, wanted to get the last laugh. The signal was still on when I restarted my car, but I was proud of me. Instead of panicking or crying, I had a fleeting moment of "The salesdude said something about hitting the reset button. Maybe I'll try that."

And sure enough. It worked. 

I may feel incompetent in cars, but at least sometimes the trick of "What's that button do?" still works.

"She Only Drinks Coffee at Midnight, When the Moment Is Not Right..."

"See, her confidence is tragic, but her intuition magic..."

I sound like such a hipster when I say it or write it, but I loved Train before they became trendy. 

Like P!nk, Train showed that you could be... not what everyone expected you to be. You could be edgy. You could be silly. And you could be deeply complex. And you didn't have to be happy or whole all the time. It was OK to just be whatever you were at the moment.

"Meet Virginia" summed up all of that in one song for me. And it's been the song that is truly my anthem through all these years.

I'd never seen them in person until six years ago. It was the summer that Birdman broke up with me, and my best friend, in her total awesomeness, drove down here so I wouldn't have to go to the post-game Train concert alone. And when they did "Meet Virginia," I bawled. 

I've seen them almost every year since then. I've bawled at "Meet Virginia" most times, and I'm usually breathless during "Drops of Jupiter." Because these songs? These are the stories of my life.  

There was the concert where I drove seven hours to see them -- but only stopped at hour five because the car really needed gas. There was the one where I went with a fresh surgical incision on my thigh -- and where one of the security people, upon seeing my reaction to the whole show, moved me to the front of the section for the encore. There was the concert where I left the hotel at the crack of dawn because I had to be back for a work meeting even though I was technically supposed to be on a vacation day.

And then there was this past weekend. I almost think that was the most magical of them all. 

In one of those awesome signs of the universe, a gentleman offered to trade seats with me. His seat was separate from his wife and child's, and he asked if I wanted to switch. 

He was in the pit.

There was no question. 

I've never seen Train like this. I've never stood and heard that guitar solo in "Meet Virginia" as close as I did that night. Or watched the "Drops of Jupiter" encore, and thought, "Wow, I'm right in the middle of the most amazing thing I've ever seen."

I really don't know how I can top that concert experience. How do you sum up and beat what feels like a culmination of almost 20 years of an artist and group knowing exactly how to put your feelings to lyric and song, and then hearing them perform those feelings only 20 feet away from you?

"Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day, and head back toward the Milky Way? And are you lonely looking for yourself out there?"

The Century Mark

It was only about this time a year ago that I started running seriously. 

Where by "seriously," I mean, "DAMNIT. I'm finishing that stupid 5K because everyone and their sister can do it and I'm going to finish the damn thing." So I went out and did my piddly little half hour, three times a week, and hoped that on the day of, it wouldn't suck, and I could do the 3.1 miles.

This week? I hit the blog century milestone. 100 miles run since March.

When I first started running, my only goal was to finish the 5K, and do it in a less than 15-minute mile.

The century milestone? I passed my pace time than I did at that very first 5K -- and then, I'd run past that 15-minute goal like it was nothing. (11:49/11:50, depending on which timer you go by.)

And major kudos to Lancome Absolu Velours. I applied in the morning before work, reapplied before an afternoon meeting, and it still looked just as good after the run as it did when I left work. Worth every single penny. 

No, I didn't intend to match it to my top. Sometimes, these things just happen.

Right. That Sewing Thing.

In some ways, it's a relief that I haven't been sewing as much lately. 

I know the whole goal was to sew more, and stop hiding on the couch with the knitting, but for a while, I was a little concerned that I was moving through fabric and patterns so quickly. Especially considering 

But, when a quest for a maxi dress led to "Well, I might as well just make it," I realized that before I made that dress, I really needed to finish the dress on the dressform. 

So there you have it. Unless I buy another dressform, I need to just keep sewing to move to the "need" projects.

Pattern: Vogue 8969

Another pattern from the wayback files, as illustrated by its out of print status. I did take advantage of the OOP sale earlier this year, though, and rebought the pattern in my new size.

As the name promises, it was indeed very easy. Probably if I hadn't gotten distracted from sewing -- and if I hadn't been groaning at the idea of basting a zipper -- I could have finished it in less than a week. But it's amazing how much "I don't wanna do a zipper" can do to one's sewing mojo. 

Because I am short, it is not knee length of me. But it does sort of fulfill that quest for a midi dress, so I'll take it. I probably could have altered it more to make it shorter, but meh. I'm cool with the length. 

Only one modification, which I now sort of regret. The pattern called for pockets to be added, but I was hesitant about putting them in after so long of not doing anything complicated. When I tried it on, I immediately realized that yup, should have done the pockets, and it was pretty silly of me to not want pockets in a dress. Lesson learned for the next time.

Fabric: Liberty of London Kenzos Leaf Green/Blue Cotton Poplin

Another Mood find of course! 

When I saw this while looking for poplins, I knew that I had to have it. The print was me, the colors were definitely me, and I loved that I could finally find affordable Liberty fabric on this side of the Atlantic. 

It was a pleasure to sew with, and a reasonable price. Would definitely use the Liberty poplins from Mood again if I need them.

I thought about lining the dress, but decided that the fabric was lightweight and drapey enough that it didn't need the assistance. And indeed, when I tried it on for the first time with the full zipper, it hung precisely like what I was picturing. 

I could see making this again in a different print. It's a nice basic summer dress, and fit exactly like it should through the bust. It's looser in the waist and hips than I need, but it does fit like what the line art shows, so I'm OK with that. 

And now, I have my Liberty dress. 

Making Things Right

For almost six years now, I've maintained that I needed a "redo" of the U2 concert I attended in 2011. 

Thanks to an awesome offer from the woman who was my boss' boss at the time, I'd ended up with two pair of list minute tickets. My parents were able to get there, and Birdman initially said he'd go -- and then called back to bail. 

And that was the night that I realized things with Birdman were very wrong. So although it was an awesome concert, it was also one where I sat there wondering what was going to happen next. 

Then he broke up with me the next day. 

So when U2 announced that they were coming back to Pittsburgh, I knew I had to go. And it wasn't that cost wasn't an issue -- cost is always an issue -- but rather that I was not going to miss this concert, and I was not going to see it from the 500s at Heinz Field. 

I take my redo events very seriously. 

It seemed appropriate that this appeared at one point during the concert. 

A brilliant rainbow, ever so briefly there at the end of the stadium. And over the duration of the concert, it was an amazing feeling to be part of something bigger -- and something stronger. 

I feel like my touch and go relationship with U2 is a tangible expression of my touch and go relationship with me over the years. Sometimes, something hurts, and you spend a stupid amount of time blocking it out and switching the channel. And then, sometimes, you get to the point where you can follow Bono's instructions and "Sing your heart out." 

You sing your rallying cries, and you let the music carry you to a place where you can rejoice -- or where you can cry. You get angry, and you kick ass, and you take names, and you wonder how the hell you can ever bounce back from something. 

And then you see that crowd of cell phone lights, and look at that rainbow, and hear that music again, and remember that it is all much bigger than I am -- and it is OK to not have it all figured out yet. 

Yes, I'm still running. 

Finish What You Start

I survived the spring of sleeves!

Although don't get too excited. I still need to seam the projects and do the finishing details. 

That takes them to full-pieced sweaters, though, so I decided it was totally OK to cast on my new project: Sylvi. And because Sylvi is done in bulky yarn, it's knitting up very quickly. 

One pattern modification to Sylvi (minus those rough starts in the cable that I'm now calling a design element). The pattern says to start with the sleeves. I'm not doing that to myself. So I'm jumping to the back panel, and then going to the sleeves at the end, like I always do. Because nope nope nope. I can't take more sleeves after just having done sleeves for months. 

Lesson learned: Just because something may be boring, don't skip it to get to the fun stuff. Because otherwise, in order to actually finish what you started, you're going to end up with lots and lots of boring stuff. 

It's Not Me. It's You. (Or Them)

This post got me thinking. 

And not in a bad way, in the way that some of the comments on the Internet often do. 

But rather, about how people can really be jerks in how they treat and speak to other people. 

I've always wondered whether I was truly just an awful horrible person who was incompetent at everything, or whether I've just had the misfortune of being around people constantly who truly suck. 

The post in question reminded me of a former colleague. She seemed to have a backhanded way of saying everything. "Look at you getting a sweat there!" she'd comment when she saw me after a workout in the building's gym. Or, talking about food habits, "Well, you always like to eat a lot of meat, don't you?" Because she'd picked up on the habit that I made a roast on the weekend... but she didn't realize that well, I then didn't cook meat at all during the week.

It took me a long, long time to realize that no, I wasn't a horrible person for making a roast once a week. And I wasn't fat and out of shape because she happened to see me put in a tough walking workout. (I mean, I was fat and out of shape compared to today, but I was in better shape than she was.)

To the contrary, she was just an awful person who liked to put other people down. All. The. Damn. Time. (I mean, admittedly she would also lie about where she was during the work day, so I probably should have realized that I was not the awful person here.)

An isolated incident with a bad person I could probably tolerate. But I've never been very good at separating the bad and awful people's opinions of me from my own perception. 

And reading that thread made me realize. Yeah, people are just awful. 

• The people who decided that I needed to be in remedial gym (protip: when you've got chronically tight hamstrings and it turns out that endurance is your thing, it doesn't mean that you just generally suck at athletics)
• The parental units who went along with it (and similarly, the paternal unit who told me girls in middle school didn't have "tummies," and the maternal unit who, this past Thanksgiving, told me she didn't want to hinder my meal habits...)
• The choir director who called me busty
• The tennis instructor at Wellesley who told me I had the hand-eye coordination of a toad (almost 20 years later, this one still doesn't make sense)
• The dietitian who cut me to 3 ounces of protein a day, with no supplementation in other areas ... and thinking that even though I was active, since I wasn't thin, it didn't matter 
• The dietitian who said that if I was serious about losing weight, I should restrict to under 1,000 calories a day, and consider meal replacement shakes (when discussing both of these with the Dietitian, she made a face and comment that basically came down to "Great, now I get to fix the problem these people created")
• The person who asked "who intentionally places grey hair"; corollary: the person who starts sentences with "I don't want to harsh your mellow..."

An interesting thing I've been experiencing over the past 18 months of therapy (wow, I've actually stuck with this now longer than I did the first go-round on U.S. soil...) is that I have less and less of a tolerance for people who bother me. 

I used to think that maybe I just had less and less of a tolerance for being bothered, and that that was a sign of weakness, but I'm starting to see it as maybe a reinforcement of boundaries. 

After all, why should I give people the space to bother me, and to let their intentionally hurtful words actually bother me?

It's not OK to be a jerk, and I'm not going to let the negative people in my life continue to act like jerks toward me. If that means that people exit my life in that process, I'm OK with that. 

Trying to Find a Beacon Through the Bullshit

The Internet can be really good at making you feel like a freak of nature ... or even worse, a giant fuckup. 

(You can tell I'm in a Mood about something when the expletives start falling like rain. I think that's part of why I realized that Dr. BIEL got it when she randomly exclaimed during a session,"What if you said fuck it, and walked away and let the building burn?" After similar outbursts from Therapist 3.0 and the Dietitian, and the fact that Dr. New Person looked horrified when I said "Crap!" I'm now also firmly convinced that a provider who doesn't let themselves swear in front of a patient likely doesn't get how my mind works.)

While trying to weather the perfect storm, and before getting to the point of frantically messaging providers because I was losing my blasted mind, I went down the rabbit holes of the Internet. 

Some day I will learn that the rabbit holes of the Internet do me no good. 

The Dietitian said that she doesn't think I accept or tolerate what my body wants to do naturally. That that's why I couldn't cope with the sudden increase, and why I started spinning.

That may be true.

But what's also true, and more prevalent, is that I don't trust or accept random acts. Give me data, and give me facts. 

So as I went down the rabbit holes, I got more frantic. Because everything I could find about sustained weight increases after an endurance event (because now, I begrudgingly accept Wikipedia's definition about endurance, even though I think that 5K is pretty darn short, since that's my short-run during the week now) that that the weight should come off fairly quickly. And if you were an athlete who gained weight that wasn't coming off, it was purely on your shoulders. That you were eating too much. That you were eating more than your activity. That you did something wrong, and that's why it was happening. 

And when you're like me, and you know precisely what you are eating, and you know that it's not what you're burning, and you can't find anything that explains the situation?

THAT FUCKING HURTS AND DRIVES YOU CRAZY.

The truth? That I'm going to post here because deity knows you don't find it on the Internet well enough?

THAT ISN'T UNIVERSALLY TRUE. You can eat at a deficit, and still end up gaining water weight that takes between three and six weeks to fall off. As much as it feels like a failure, and as much as other sites and bloggers tell you it's your fault, that's not necessarily true. 

Sure, that probably happens with some people. That you eat to your old training levels, and maybe are over slightly. But it isn't the sole truth and the sole situation. 

In my situation -- because while I want to put this out there, I'm also not going to be all "YAY ALL ATHLETES ARE THE SAME" -- the sports med doc explained it as my body getting really angry after the toe. That I went from lots of activity, to suddenly no activity, to suddenly running a half marathon, and then doing nothing. 

That the body likes status quo. And it doesn't like being tossed around that much. And that most people will retain for three weeks or so after a half, and six weeks after a full. (And, she noted, that maybe I'd want to think about that nutrition thing some more, and maybe considering actually fueling and hydrating during and after workout.) 

Sure enough, to her word, at week three, things started turning around. Still not perfect, but OMG so much better.

And you know something? Despite what the Internet told me, it wasn't my fault. 

What Does the Data Say?

I noticed the disconnect when I was trying on a skirt at Ann Taylor Factory. 

"I'm trying on a size 4. I think I'm fat. That's fucked up."

And then I realized why I still saw -- and still see -- myself as fat. 

• When you've got a woman at the Playtex outlet whispering at you that "we encourage women who are busty to go a size up" for a strapless bra (although HA, stranger. The size up was too big, and I needed my actual size)
• When as much as I try, my rib cage doesn't currently allow anything smaller than a fit and flare size 8 to actually fit... 
• When a size 8 is too big, and a size 6 is too small... yet the size 6 is still too big in the upper bust and the hips, so it's not like it matters anyway.
• When even the size 4 is too big for a pair of shorts ... but then you remind yourself that hey, in designer clothes you still need that size 8 dress. 

It's no surprise that women's bodies are up for constant narrative and societal ownership. And, everyone has their own story to tell. So you get lots of different stories about the same thing, and sometimes, it feels like how the individual tells her own story doesn't matter much at all.

But where things start to get challenging are when you look at one set of data, and try to reconcile that with another set of a data that you're getting. Where the numbers say one thing, but society's interpretation of the visual paints a different story. 

That's one hell of a mixed methods approach.

There's a reason I didn't do much mixed methods work in my MPH projects.

So society tells me that I'm generally considered small. But that my ribcage makes me larger. That hey, you can see that ribcage through my back. But that I'm busty. That you're supposed to eat, but oooh, you're being "naughty" or decadent if one of the few things you're eating that day happens to be a cookie or a slice of cake.

No wonder there's a disconnect in how I see myself, and how I start to tell my story. Even the societal observers don't know how to tell my story. 

Still Bitching About Popcorn

In things that surprise no one: I am a little bit opinionated. 

So it should come as no shock that after the popcorn drama at AMC, I proceeded to email AMC and ask why they'd gotten rid of the smalls -- that it was a strong factor in my deciding either to not buy concessions there, or (really, if they didn't have the classic nights, it wouldn't be an idle threat) to just go to another theatre.

Because seriously. No one needs a tub of popcorn that starts out at 600 calories and is large enough to feed two people. Unless you are buying it and sharing it with another person.

A senior manager responded, and apologized, and explained that they had streamlined their offerings, but did offer a Cameo size, and that I should request that the next time I am there. 

I thanked her, and said I wasn't aware, since no one had mentioned it to me, or to the others in front of me who had asked for a small. 

"It's our least popular option, because it is fairly small," she responded. 

And this is where I redirect my opinionated-ness, because the poor manager dealing with my email didn't deserve a diatribe. 

Of course it's your least popular option! 

I don't doubt that part of that is because it's small -- considering that when I ordered a small once, the concessions employee showed me the bag, and asked if it would be enough. But, when you don't tell people about the option, no one's going to order it. You would think that if a customer asks for a small, the odds are pretty good that they actually want a reasonable amount of popcorn -- so why, at that point, not say "Hey, we don't have that anymore, but we've got something close"? 

And hence, my Googling began. Because now I needed to know how many cups it was, what the calories were, etc. 

Surprise surprise. Nothing about it on AMC's site. Only on review sites, and even then, usually complaining about the size. Nothing about nutrition.

I finally found the ounce figure. It's about the same size as the previous small, but a little bigger -- not enough so, though, that I feel bad about it. And I certainly would prefer that over trying to estimate how much popcorn is 2/3 of a bag. 

So you've got a company maintaining that smalls aren't popular, while they don't actually market the availability of a small popcorn. I get that smaller sizes aren't profitable. I understand that line of thought. 

But this? This is exactly why we've got issues with over-eating in this country. Even if you try to make a more responsible choice, barriers are thrown up in your path. You're encouraged to eat more than you need, and finding the better options is next to impossible unless you bitch and whine about it.

Because it's really sad when a 600-calorie tub of popcorn is still one of the lowest-calorie options at a movie theatre. 

This is why the United States is fat. 

In Which I Admit that I Care

I always took pride in being unconventional. 

• In making do the best I could with what I had. 
• In making a lot of my clothes. 
• In not spending much money on makeup (honest, there really was a time). 
• In only outsourcing the tasks that truly needed to be outsourced because I lacked the knowledge or physical strength.

Somehow, I've started to feel simultaneously guilty, and simultaneously not guilty, for caring about things that I didn't used to care much about.

For going to barre and spending a stupid amount of money on fitness and studio memberships. 

For paying my stylist to wax my brows and dye my hair. 

In many ways, life was easier and cheaper when I just didn't give a flying fuck about as much. 

I used to say that well, I had more time than money, and thus I could do a lot of stuff that most people would outsource. Baking, home repair, gardening and landscaping, hair dye, fitness. 

At some point within the past few years, I came to the conclusion that yes, I could do this stuff, but that damn, it was consuming a heck of a lot of brain space. And if I could toss a little bit of money at the problem, even if it meant stretching my budget or carrying minimal credit card debt, that my brain suddenly had some space to decompress. Which I suppose has its own merits. Or so I'm told. 

And then, there was the stuff that I hadn't cared about, and now felt guilty about caring about. 

• Caring about actually wearing makeup every day. 
• Massages after a race weekend. 
• Waxing because it felt better than shaving (and more thorough). 
• Clothes that I didn't have to make because it turns out that buying clothes is a little less time consuming when you're on the slimmer side of things. (Although, sidenote, I've noticed that now I'm sizing out on the other direction, and that's just damn weird.)
• Nice matching planters for my container plants. 
• Actual plant trellises and supports rather than making do. 
• Not staying in the cheapest hotel just to save a buck. (Not going for the most expensive, either, but definitely keeping my brand loyalty and using Google Maps to determine whether the distance is worth it.)

It's a weird adjustment, to realize that not only I do care about some of these things, but that it's OK to care. 

I'm a girly girl, and that's OK. 

I like nice clothes, and that's OK. 

I like it when the vegetable garden and fruit plants look maintained and coordinated, and that's OK. 

And if I decide at some point that I don't like those things? Well, that's OK, too.