Needs Improvement

Here’s the thing: I don’t usually fret over my weight.  I mean, like everyone, I have my moments of weakness where I worry about it and kick into high gear regarding working out and eating well.  And when I do that I feel awesome.  I look good and feel good and I’m one hundred percent positive that I will keep up the good work and be fit and healthy always.  

And then something happens, as usual.  Lunch plans at work, or dinner plans after work.  Sleeping in on the weekend or a hangover that won’t go away.  I slip.  I’m human and I can’t keep up the schedule I start when I’m really pumped about because, as time passes, I get less pumped about it.  There’s a show I want to watch or a book I want to read or a bottle of wine I want to drink  um, share with a friend.

So when I moved down here I promised myself that I would make working out a priority – not the number one priority, but I would bring it to the top 5.  Well, at least the top ten.  So Wes and I joined a gym and in the past three weeks I’ve been down there at least three times a week, sometimes more.  And I’ve felt better.  I’ve noticed a difference in the way I look and the way I feel.  

Now, with this fancy new gym membership we got four free (!) (okay, I’m sure it was built into the price but I already paid for it so it’s free!) sessions with a personal trainer.  Last night was our first one and I walked away feeling not so hot.  For anyone who hasn’t been to a personal trainer, one of the first things they do (at least at 24 Hour) is measure your BMI.  Now, I’m not saying I’m in fantastic shape, but I’m getting there and I wasn’t worried about this BMI test.  I wasn’t expecting the greatest (in this case, “Athletic”) but I was thinking that I’d be at least “In Shape”.  Turns out, I’m not.  I’m in the “Needs Improvement” category.

Needs Improvement?  I was immediately craving pizza and a bottle of wine.  I mean, I’ve been working hard and I come in here and what they tell me is that I’m not working hard enough.  I have to cut my meal portions – instead of a full sandwich for lunch, just have half a sandwich.  Half a sandwich?  I’m trying to get in shape, not starve myself (okay, to be fair, she did say “don’t starve yourself” but that was after the part about cutting meal portions).  

Walking out of the gym, I felt like shit.  And I admit, I took it out on Wes because he was in the “In Shape” category and it made me mad.  It frustrated me that women have to work so much harder to be in shape.  

So, yeah, I’m frustrated because not only does my workout need improvement, but so does my social life.  I don’t make friends easily, and it’s doubly hard when you have no social interaction at all because, um, I don’t have a job and I don’t know anyone here.  

Maybe the likely solution would be to find a job, but here’s the thing: 1)  that’s not so easy here in So Cal and 2) I don’t want to find one yet.  I’m lucky enough to be in a position to not have to go back to work right away and I want to savor it.  Obviously, it would be better and more fun if I had someone who also didn’t have to work, but for right now I’ll just work on my reading and and feeling better about myself – regardless of what that stupid BMI reads next week.

Futbol

I started playing soccer in seventh grade after a friend of mine, who hailed from several other cities where soccer was popular.  When I was in seventh grade, in Idaho, it was still gaining popularity when I started.  In fact, if it weren’t for said friend I probably never would have started.

Growing up, my mom kept me out of contact sports and put me in things like gymnastics.  While my brother played tee-ball and then Little League, I just watched.  Of course I wanted to play those sports, but one time a girl was in hit in the face with the ball (I’m sure there’s a sick joke here, but the girl was only 7 or 8, tops, and that would just be crude – even I have my lines) and from then on I was consigned to the side lines.  Apparently, only girls are seriously hurt in sports.  Boys just walk it off. 

I’m not sure what changed in the intervening years, but when I asked to sign up for soccer, my parents agreed.  I don’t remember much about those first years – I’m sure we looked like any group of kids learning to play a sport, which is to say, ridiculous.  But I enjoyed it enough to continue on.  I stuck with the youth soccer league throughout junior high and got better and better.  

I was also, I should mention, part of band.  Not a band.  The band.  I was a band geek, I freely admit. My only defense is this: I played the saxophone.  

My freshman year (which, in my school, was still part of junior high), a friend and I tried out for a traveling team.  We both got on and were both stoked about becoming better players.  Next year, we hoped, we would play for our high school.  The only problem was that I was already part of a team with CYSO and our season was only half way in when the traveling season started.  

Out of loyalty, I stayed with my team.  Okay, to be fair, I was also one of the best players on my team and I was scared about becoming a little fish in a big pond.  I liked being the big fish. 

We finished that season in second place.  

Oh, incidentally, the friend who actually played with the traveling team?  She hated it, so I’m thinking I made the right decision. 

Cut to our sophomore year of high school.  Whitney joined cross country.  And, because soccer coincided with band practice, I had to make a choice.  I chose the saxophone, thinking that I would go farther with that than with soccer (we had some kick ass female soccer players and I’m not sure I could have made the team anyway; that year in band I made second chair out of 14 – it felt like the right decision at the time).  

But then, just before my senior year of high school our conductor was fired for embezzlement and our new conductor was insufferable.  A Navy man who took the fun (and yes, it was a lot of fun) out of band. 

If you didn’t see this one coming: I quit band.  My saxophone is stored away with the same reeds I moved with me from Idaho and the six years I spent becoming a kick-ass saxophone player atrophied in about six months.  

So, were is this all going?  I’m not entirely sure.  Except for this: Wes and I joined some guys from his work to play a small game this evening.  It wasn’t even half field – more like quarter-field game.  And guess what?  I’m still pretty fucking good.

Not great.  But I did hold my own out there – even scoring some goals.  To be fair, the rules were a little loose – I probably would have been called off-sides, oh, about every time I had the ball.  But I was still aggressive and was able to take the ball from some guys who play regularly (or at least, have played a couple of times in the past eleven years).  

I’m not saying I would have been a great player if I had continued.  But I wonder what would have changed if I had picked a soccer ball over a saxophone.  

I chose the road less traveled.  Hopefully I’m better for it.

How it Goes

The question I get most often lately is this: How goes the living situation?  

Because, yes, I’ve publicly stated how scared I was that this would all blow up in my face once we moved in together.  And not because I think that our relationship isn’t strong enough but because I am sort of, well, crazy.  I’m moody, which sometimes leads to not nice words or actions.  I like things a certain way – which is not to say that it’s the right way, just that it’s my way.  So yes, I was worried that once Wes got to see this side of me (believe me, it’s a lot different when it’s not your place and you’re just visiting) he would take a step back and wonder what exactly had changed in the past nine months to turn me into this person who cares about which drawer certain utensils go in (the answer: it doesn’t matter as long as you put it back into the same drawer every single time).  

We have two couple friends who recently moved in together.  I’m not sure what the guys are telling each other (if they tell each other anything at all), but the girlfriends admitted that yes, it is a difficult transition.  One said that she would snap at her boyfriend just because he was there and she was frustrated with any number of things.  The other said that things changed on the fifth day when you realize this is permanent and that the other person is not going home.  

I guess things are a little different for us because it doesn’t feel like I actually live here yet.  I mean, I have no job so I spend my days on frivolous things like reading, exercising, and lounging by the pool.  Since I’ve spent the past nine months just visiting Huntington Beach, I still have that mentality that I’m only on vacation (albeit with all my possessions).  

Which is not to say that this hasn’t been a transition; it has.  It just doesn’t feel like the full transition yet.  

Our apartment is wicked small, which was fine when it was just Wes’ things in here.  But when you combine all of our things together it has this very, um, lived in look, to put it nicely.  There’s just not enough places to put all of our things.  

The hardest part so far, for me, is the grocery shopping.  After having spent almost a decade grocery shopping for just myself and giving no thought to whether other people like skim milk or not (okay, that’s not true; I buy 1% when Wes comes over), it’s hard now to compromise.  He like I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.  I, on the other hand, use actual butter.  So it’s those things that I’m getting used to.  The give and take of sharing not only your life with someone, but your living quarters as well.

We haven’t had any serious issues and I’m hoping that it continues that way.  

I’m also hoping that in the future I’ll be able to do the grocery shopping alone and put an end to this margarine nonsense.  

But until then, it goes well.  It’s a different feeling living with someone who is emphatically not just a roommate.  I sometimes look out the window as we’re driving and have to remind myself that I live here; that we live together.  Then I get excited for all the things we want to do together and it doesn’t matter that his choice of frozen foods differs from mine (read: is gross) or that he doesn’t like the comforter on at night.  It just matters that I’m here now and we have so many more adventures coming our way.

Surfer Girl

Yesterday our alarm went off at 6:45.  In the morning.  Just think about that for a second: we woke up, voluntarily, at 6:45 am on a Saturday.  

But it was for a good cause: we’re trying to learn to surf.  I mean, we live in Huntington Beach – Surf City.  How can we live here for the next several years and not try to surf?  

We can’t, apparently.

So yesterday morning we dragged ourselves out of our cozy bed to frolic around in the ocean in 63-degree weather.  Brilliant, I know.  

We took a lesson back in November and I did really well.  Of course, it was sunny weather, smaller waves, and, of course, the instructor was throwing us into the waves – telling us when to paddle and when to stand up.  It was fun.  I felt like a natural.  And, after my very first time, in which I thought I was going to die, I felt like I could actually get the hang of this; that I could be a Surfing Girl.  

But then yesterday happened.  And I got my ass handed to me.  Big time.  I was no longer this natural Surfer Girl.  I was this inept person from land-locked state, just trying to fit in.  And I wasn’t doing a very good job at it, either.

Every time a wave would curl up around me I would forget everything our instructor taught us back in November.  I just kept thinking, Oh, man.  This thing is going to knock me every which way and I’m sure I’m getting hit in the head with the surf board.  And sure enough, that thing hit me every time.  I swallowed so much water I almost threw up.  After what seemed like hours (but maybe was only half an hour), I finally had to take a break.  My head was pounding and those waves were really starting to scare me.  I mean, really scare me.  

My first attempt to surf was years ago, when I was still living in Santa Barbara.  A friend from work tried to teach me and as we were paddling out and a wave was rolling in, she looked at me and said, “Ok, now duck dive.”  And then she disappeared into the water.  And while I lay on my surf board wondering just what the hell a duck dive was, the wave pulled me under and kept me under. I thought for sure that I was never going to get out of there.  I imagined her having to tell my parents she lost my body (there’s that over-active imagination again).  And then I finally surfaced and stayed on the beach while she surfed.  

And this little ocean trip yesterday felt exactly like that.  As I told Wes: I hate the complete lack of control I feel when a wave knocks me around.  I don’t know when I’m coming up, or where.  I can’t control the board so it usually hits me.  Mostly, I hate not being able to breathe or see what the f is going on.  So I sat on the beach and watched people who know what they’re doing.  And, even from the beach, those waves looked huge.  Too big for me to want to go back out.  

I need smaller waves.  And sun.  I need it to be something fun – like it was in November – instead of this constant fight for breath.  

So we’ll try to find the smaller waves – the ones that seasoned surfers don’t want to ride – and we’ll practice.  I need something to boost my ego after yesterday’s sad display.  

As long as we stay here for the next couple of years, I think I can master those tiny waves.

Housewivery and Recycling

I think maybe just chilling at home and getting all the household chores done could be my chosen profession.  I mean, I’ve really enjoyed the relaxing I’ve been able to do over the past three days.  I wake up with Wes, take him to work and then, depending on how I feel, I either come home to crawl back to bed for a couple of hours or go swimming.  

I’m trying the swimming part more often than not because if I don’t then I pretty much waste the day sleeping.  Nice every once in a while, but I can’t spend my free time asleep.  I mean, I can, but I shouldn’t.  Or at least, I should do something before I take a nap on the couch later in the afternoon.

Oh, I know, at some point this will all get old.  Well, the not earning money will get old.  I went shopping this afternoon and wanted to indulge and splurge on some fancy things, but then I remembered that I have no income.  And buying fancy dresses with my savings is not the smartest thing one could do.  So I refrained.  So, yeah, I’ve got all of this free time but I don’t have friends to spend it with, and I don’t want to blow through my savings in a month.  What I really need to do is find a job working from home.  I see people doing it and I want to know how.  How do you get a gig like that?  I mean, I’m searching Craigslist and I don’t see anything like that.  Well, not what I’m looking for anyway.  

So, instead I’ll continue to enjoy my time off.  I’ll try not to spend every day down by the pool because skin cancer is no good for anyone.  I’ll keep my shopping to a minimum and I’ll keep looking for a job.  

Oh, and figuring out Huntington Beach recycling.  This is the first place I’ve lived in California that does not offer recycling bins.  The first!  What is that all about.  They have some half-assed bottles and cans only, but there’s no place for cardboard, newspapers, etc., etc., etc.  I really don’t understand it.  I thought California was all about the recycling – making it easy so that you do it automatically instead of making excuses to not.

I mean, what is this, Idaho?

Figuring it Out, but Enjoying the Sun in the Meantime

I had a brilliant idea for a post yesterday.  But… that was yesterday and today I’ve got nothing.  

Yesterday I started seriously training for the Nike Women’s Half Marathon that I will be running in October.  Though, I suppose it’s only serious if I stick with it, which means that I need to complete an easy 2 mile run today.  Which I think I can accomplish.  I mean, you know, unless there’s a CSI or Murder, She Wrote Marathon on.  Is there?  Does anyone know?

I’ve been going out on interviews with smaller companies (and I use that word – company – loosely) and, after working for a large company for the past three years, I’ve decided that’s what I’m interested in.  I thought a smaller company would be good, but they’re not offering what I want.  The room for growth is minimal and the roles seem rather undefined.  So, if anything good is coming out of the awfulness of the job search it’s that – I’m starting to know what I want (or, at least, what I don’t want).   

I’m still looking at school, but Wes is right: I need to start thinking about what I want to do in order for school to be worthwhile.  So maybe I should spend some time figuring that out.  

In the mean time, I’ll keep looking for a job and enjoying my summer off.  Speaking of, is 9:00 too early to go to the pool?

Moving On

I’ve just finished my exit interview and am now just chilling in my cube, waiting until the party starts after work.  My last official party at this insane company.  When I started this count down last October I was fairly certain that I would never make it this far.  From this side, though, it doesn’t seem to have been that long of a trip after all.  

Yesterday a couple of work friends presented me with a pretty fabulous picture book, full of pictures of a life-sized cut out of me in various places around campus and with various people.  It’s funny and touching and completely appropriate all at once.  I cried when I read the captions and saw the picture because it’s always touching when you see that you were an integral part of something.  I used to do New Hire Orientation when my boss was out and a couple of new hires saw my cutout and asked for a picture with it.  I’m known around here, and for my Leo ego, that’s a pretty good feeling.

Just right now, two or so hours away from saying goodbye to the last person, I’m starting to get sad.  Sad for all the friends and experiences I’m leaving behind here.  Not just work friends, but all of my friends.  I haven’t really focussed on the leaving part because I’ve been so excited on the going part; the part where I don’t have to fly to be with my boyfriend; the part where I don’t fight constantly with my roommate; the part where I don’t have to depend on public transportation.  I’ve put off focussing on the part where I leave people I love.  

After two large moves (three if you count Utah to Idaho when I was 11), you think I’d be used to it.  But I’m not.  I’m not used to the fact that there are a few friends who slip away – friendships you thought were strong but, in the end, weren’t strong enough to survive the distance.  You know what they say: out of sight, out of mind.  I feel more confident about the group of friends I’m leaving behind here than I have about any other group.  But I still wonder if we’ll all be as close as were when we lived within walking distance.   

I also wonder what will happen in Orange County, friend-wise.  I had a kick-ass group of friends in the Bay Area, and I’m not sure if you can make that again.  I never lived in the dorms during college, so I didn’t form strong bonds from the start.  I made friends in the restaurant I worked – and, as it turns out, that’s not the best place to meet people.  Or, I don’t know, maybe it just wasn’t a good fit.  Maybe everything does happen for a reason and those people weren’t good for me.   And I guess that leaves me with two possibilities: another kick-ass group of friends; or no friends at all.

I’m hoping it’s the latter.

The Weekend Wrap-Up

I spent three continuous days drunk.  Well, the evenings anyway, so I guess that doesn’t really count as continuous.  There was a lot of drinking, is what I’m trying to convey.  Apparently, that’s what my family does best.  

Last year we all got together for my grandfather’s funeral.  It was probably the first time in five years that we were all together – just the family – and we all commented on the fact that it shouldn’t take a funeral to get us all together.  So my mom started planning a family reunion.  Even though she was planning a surprise party for my dad in September.  And everyone said they’d attend, even though right after my dad’s surprise party we threw a surprise party for my mom in San Francisco.  So, after not seeing anyone for five years, we saw them four times in one year.  

When it rains, it pours.  

But, as evidenced by my drunk post from Saturday, my family is pretty awesome.  We have a lot of fun together – even without alcohol.  We went rafting on Saturday – below is Wes getting soaked but taking it like a champ.

I think that our guide put the boat in position to soak me the other times, though.  And later Wes did “help” (read: push) me into the water, so I think he totally deserved this.  

Sunday morning and afternoon we made a trip to a local winery and spent the afternoon listening to some local music and trying to enjoy some wine.  Even with as much as we like to drink, we weren’t able to finish two bottles between seven people.  There had just been too much wine the rest of the weekend.

I’m with Holly on the Star Spangled Banner.  It gets me.  The old patriotic songs always do.  I’m not talking about Toby Keith threatening to shove his boot up someone’s ass.  I’m talking about those “amber waves of grain” and people who would “proudly stand up and defend her still today.”  I think that we got into a war that was pointless and can’t be won, but I still get goosebumps when I hear the old school patriotic songs. 

The grass is always greener on the other side.

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Last week a vehicle carrying four coworkers was involved in an accident.  One person was killed at the scene.  One person came out with superficial injuries (in this case, broken bones count as superficial).  One person is recovering after extensive surgery.  And the other one, a woman with two kids, is still unconscious almost a week later.  

I have a very overactive and morbid imagination and sometimes, randomly, I have visions of family members or loved ones dying.  There’s nothing in the past that would make me fearful of losing people I love or care about – the first person I was old enough to understand losing was my grandfather last summer – but I still think about it sometimes.  I’m not talking about vivid visions of my parents’ bodies on the highway; mostly what I imagine is the after effects: the hospital or some family member calling to tell me what happened.  Wes’ work calling to say that there was an accident.  I think about who I would call and what I would do.  

In my imagination (by the way, that sounds so whimsical.  Please don’t think that I go around hoping for loved ones to die just so I can enact these scenes I imagine in my head.  I don’t.  When I think of this I live in fear that my thoughts will make it come true.) I have to decide who I call first.  Who is going to be the one who can pick me up the quickest.  Am I at work?  Coming home from the gym?  On vacation and away from a phone?  

Luckily, I’ve never had to live this.  

But after hearing about the accident last week these thoughts pop up in my head.  What would it be like to be a passenger in the car?  What are the last thoughts?  What are the families going through right now?  Even with my active, morbid imagination, I can’t fathom what it would be like to actually hear the news.  

If I was a praying person, I would pray for speedy recoveries.  But the victims and their families are in my thoughts.  And I hope that I never get close enough to know what this is like.  

My Family Rocks

I think the title says it all. My family, as crazy as it is, is amazing to be around.  We all have a ton of fun – laughter, drinking, fun.  That’s what you want in a family.

Happy Fourth!

Holy wow!  I sometimes forget what 100-degree weather felt like.  I mean, I know it’s hot and I routinely talk about how hot it is but I’ve forgotten what it physically feels like.  It was 87 degrees when we landed last night.  At midnight!

At midnight, people!  87 degrees at midnight.  When it should be cooling off.  Which, to be fair, I suppose it was sort of cooling off.  But not a lot.

So today we’re hanging out with the family and possibly going to see the Birds of Prey.  What?  Some people think that’s cool.   Who am I to judge?  Luckily, I convinced them to have a small BBQ near a body of water so that when it’s up to 90-fing-degrees I won’t want to die.  So at least there’s that.