Thursday, March 10, 2016

Recovery

I went on Twitter monologue about recovery today. Since the tweets will soon be buried, I wanted to collect them all here so my thoughts are preserved - and more easily shareable. (Please do still feel free to share the original tweets! That's what they're there for.)

























































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Friday, August 14, 2015

It's my body, and I'll diet if I want to

Body image is a HUGE discussion topic in the media (both mainstream and social) these days. Both women and men are judged against harsh, barely-attainable standards for their appearance, with their character being called into question if they fail to meet these lofty expectations. No one particularly criteria seems to be as derisive as body size, however - those who are larger than average are considered lazy, weak, incompetent, or undisciplined. Weight-loss is praised at every turn and everywhere you look, some new diet or pill or patch is promising extreme - even unhealthy - results. (This one simple trick!)

If you've seen me - in person or in photos posted online - it's pretty immediately apparent that I am fat. This isn't self-deprecation, it's merely a fact. I don't take insult to simply being called fat, because it is a factual statement about my physical appearance. Well-meaners who tell me "oh, you're not fat!" seem patronizing to me - I'm loath to call them out on it, because I know they are trying to make me feel better about myself. But I don't NEED to feel better about myself. Being fat is part of my identity. It doesn't define me as a person any more than my skin tone, hair color, or freckles do. Yet, I'm supposed to be ashamed of it. It's not like it's any great secret, so why all the taboo associated with owning up to it? When people tell me, "oh you're not fat," what it seems to mean is "I don't equate you with any other stereotypes associated with fat people - you don't smell, you aren't lazy, you don't walk around eating burgers all day, you work, etc." The problem with this, of course, is society has assigned a set of attributes to "fat people" based on one characteristic that may or may not occur as a result of these other habits. I may be fat, but I'm a "good" fat person. I don't wallow in it. I take care of myself. I try to lose weight. This is, apparently, commendable.

But here's the thing - I don't strive to be a "good" fat person. This is not my goal in life. And I don't owe it to ANYONE to lose weight. I love the fat pride movement for spreading this message, even in the face of harsh, often cruel, criticism. A fat person has not committed a sin against society. A fat person doesn't need to lose weight so they are more pleasant for everyone else to look at. A fat person has just as much control over their body as a thin person. It may be shocking to realize that some people WANT to be fat. There are happy fat people. There are successful fat people. Perhaps most shockingly, there are FIT and HEALTHY fat people.

The flip side of this - and the teeter-totter I currently live on - is that you can accept all the above as true and still be trying to lose weight. (This has the added benefit of being scrutinized by both sides - you believe being fat is okay, but you also think losing weight is okay. Clearly, you are a plant and cannot be trusted.) Depending who I'm talking to, I have to either sound ecstatic I've lost weight, or contrite and apologetic. While the vast majority of people I choose to associate with are super supportive, the rest of society seems to be firmly in one of two camps. The obvious, larger sect claims I haven't lost nearly enough weight yet and therefore none of my success matters (and I obviously do not understand eating well and exercising because I am still large - never mind the fact I was 25 pounds larger a few months ago). The second, smaller camp is the body size appreciation movement who treat me like a traitor if I decide I want to change my fatness.

My choice to lose weight is a personal choice. I have made it for a lot of reasons, none of which are related to society's opinion that larger people, especially larger women, are unworthy. I love who I am and I love my body. But I love my body BECAUSE it's my body - which it will still be 50, 100, or 150 pounds lighter than I am now. While there are plenty of perfectly healthy fat people, I have developed high blood pressure and I want to lose weight to try and bring that down. I also enjoy running (jogging... waddling...) and having less body to lug around when I do makes it more enjoyable. It irritates me when seats are too small for me, and I'd like to avoid that discomfort. It's harder to paint your own toenails when you are fat and I enjoy having nicely colored toenails. The list goes on and on, but the important thing is they are all for MY satisfaction.

I spent a lot of years buying into the nonsense that fat women were less desirable, less admirable, less worthy. I still live in a reality where that's the prevailing belief - I simply chose not to subscribe to it. It is a difficult path - getting to a place where you love your fat body in a world telling you you shouldn't. And I have complete respect for people who have gotten to that point and decided losing weight is not for them because it means they accept themselves as they are and have decided their personal happiness is more secure at this size. But I've decided I would like to. It's hard to balance the two mindsets, but the realization that I'm doing it for me, for things I want, and valuing the journey and myself and my body along the way has helped me reconcile the debate in my head. As a life-long geek, I've frequently said I won't change my personality or my passions just to fit in, that being true to myself was more important than conforming to the crowd. If I have no reservations holding that belief with my mind, why should I struggle to extend it to my body, as well? And being true to myself means doing what I want to best increase my happiness. Right now, that means losing some weight. But if I get rid of the things holding me back before I hit "thin," then I will stop at whatever point serves me best. If I am healthy and happy and able to do the things I love without discomfort, no one's opinion of my body or my appearance is relevant. End of story.

This doesn't mean stray insults never hurt. This doesn't mean I don't get frustrated when I'm shopping for clothes and nothing fits just right. This doesn't mean I don't struggle to run, even if I like doing it. It just means I am happy - both with where I am, and with the fact I'm trying to change that. It's a process. And I can love the process.


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Tuesday, August 11, 2015

New

I had jury duty today.

This is not a particularly notable statement - under normal circumstances, it would garner no farther response than a distracted "ah" or maybe a grunt of commiseration.

My level of anxiety about "newness" tends to augment most "normal" circumstances into unabated nightmare scenarios in which anything can - and will - go wrong. I have been summoned for jury duty three times before, but one time I was living in a different county than my legal address, and the other two times my juror number did not have to report. So this was NEW. I hadn't been there. I didn't know what to expect.

Everyone has a comfort zone. Even people who thrive on adding new experiences on a regular basis have a trusted set of familiar locations, habits, and situations. I see every new opportunity, however, as a perfect storm of unanticipated circumstances. "Going with the flow" and "letting things roll off my back" has never been my style. (I've heard both of these phrases so many times throughout of my life, I should probably cross-stitch them onto throw pillows just so I can punch them as needed.) I'm a fast learner and I pick things up quickly, but every "first" is filled with anxiety, even when it's something I want very badly or have been looking forward to. When I start something new that I really enjoy, I yearn for a time when it will be comfortable so I can focus on enjoying what I'm doing instead of the stress bred by unfamiliarity.

I realize a lot of people will identify with all or part of this. I am not alone in preferring the comfortable, and even among that subset, I am not alone in having a strong adverse reaction to these sorts of situations, a bit above normal discomfort but still slightly below full-on panic. Still, a lot of people don't understand where this comes from - especially in a circumstance like today, where the source of my anxiety was a standard, commonly-disliked obligation everyone's been reluctant to participate in in the past. The irony here is that I was no more adverse to performing my civic duty than I am to any other "new" experience. It was precisely the newness of it I was opposed to.

I rationalized everything to myself repeatedly in the days leading up to my jury duty date - most jurors are serving for the first time, or have done it so infrequently in the past they won't know the procedure any more than I will. I am not on trial. I will not be scrutinized. I can't do anything so dumb that I will derail the entire legal system of Orange County, Florida. They'll just be glad I actually showed up instead of trying to duck out with any possible excuse. And all of these things were true, of course. This didn't stop me from worrying about a plethora of opposite situations - I would get lost on the way in and be late, I would be scheduled another day for some reason and not be able to get it off work, I would be put on a long trial despite the financial hardship it would cause me with no way out, a family member would have a terrible accident and I wouldn't be released to see them... and, well, they just got more irrational from there. It's pretty amazing what an anxious mind can completely justify as reasonable, actually. The possibility of some apocalyptic scenario causing the End of Times while I was sitting in the juror lounge was not beyond my fathoming.

But you know what? I DID get lost and was a few minutes late. And it was fine. Everyone was friendly. No harm befell me, no earthquakes tore the state off its continent, no loved ones met untimely demises. I just sat in a room for four hours on my phone and got sent home with a letter proving I was there. Done.

And next time, it won't be new.

This post isn't really about jury duty. It's about my apprehension in the days leading up to it and the feeling of dread I just can't shake before I partake in something NEW. It's about not being alone in that and speaking up in a way that's hopefully a bit more constructive than whining on Twitter about not wanting to do things I haven't done before. The fear I feel is real, but it doesn't need to control me and it certainly doesn't need to dictate how I handle a new situation once it arises. There's nothing logical about this sort of anxiety, but the more I can accept that it's there and feed it with evidence I've survived new things before instead of handcrafted recipes of utter disaster, the more I can truly convince myself it's going to be okay. Things don't have to be okay NOW, I've learned - but knowing they WILL be okay can bridge the gap between "I don't know how to handle this" and "wow, I DID handle that!"

And I did.
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Saturday, September 6, 2014

Purpose

One of the reasons I don't blog as much as I should - or as much as I'd like to - is that I feel this blog doesn't have an identity of its own. When I want to post about something, I think to myself "no, that's not in the direction of this blog." But then I realize that it has no direction. I can take it anywhere I want, and change the course at will. I am a passionate person about a great many things and perhaps lacking a cohesive focus won't help me build a solid base of followers, but not blogging at all because I'm afraid to cross boundaries certainly hasn't been helping, either.

I have many fields of interest and time may see all or none of them represented here. I'd assume topics I may feel the urge to explicate in length may involve photography, religion (both cross-culturally and in regard to my own faith), space and space exploration, my cat (who doesn't?), political issues I feel strongly about (from both ends of the spectrum), world events that I believe deserve notice, weight loss (or lack thereof), and mental health and suicide prevention. I don't tend to blog about work or my personal life very often, which begets a chasm between where this blog will likely go and the general Truman Show level most blogs endeavor to achieve. But here's the cool part about my personal worldview - that's fine! There's a niche for everyone on the fantabulous internet. I am not a mom, nor do I have a design to be one, but I can appreciate a good mommy blog because it gives me insight into a lifestyle I don't lead. I believe understanding and appreciation of differences is a huge step toward peace and equality and I make a point to seek out those different from me because it makes me a better person to appreciate others. So I don't fit in with them. I don't want to, and I don't have to.

I hereby, then, establish this blog's identity as an extension of myself - as random and unfocused as that may be.

And who am I, then? I'm a married woman in Orlando, Florida in my late 20s. I was born in Hawai'i and will always consider that home, even though I've lived in Florida for two and a half decades. I have a husband I love with my whole heart, even when it's not easy to do so. And sometimes I'm not easy to love, either. I have a degree from the University of Florida in Anthropology with a specialization in archaeology and a minor in religious studies. I am an animal lover. I have a cat named Loki and my world revolves around him. I have a camera, and this has changed everything. I have two part-time jobs I'm unlikely to talk much about - one I love, and one that makes money. I love rockets and the expansion of mankind from this rock onward to the stars. I love my Catholic faith and it's made all the difference in every aspect of my life. I struggle sometimes with anxiety, and it's not always pretty, but I believe being open about this (everyone! everywhere!) is the only way to change the world. I love science-fiction and fantasy because it's not bound my reality. I'm a gamer on occasion, a writer on occasion, a cross-stitcher on occasion. I love playing card and board games and wish it wasn't so dated. I love to swim and water makes me happier than anything else in the world, except maybe staring at the stars in the night sky. I'm afraid of fireworks and dragonflies. I take everything too personally and care too deeply about things I can't change. But when I care about something, my passion knows no bounds. I seek to be a better person every day than I was the day before. My past has made me who I am, and even the terrible parts helped me grow. I'm not ashamed of it because without any part of it, I'd be less of a person than I am today - good and bad. But all those parts are me, and I'd be forsaking my own identity to disown any of them.

I don't make sense and I'm a little eccentric at times. I love glitter and stuffed animals and decorating desserts with sprinkles. My picture is probably next to "random" in the dictionary. Following me anywhere is probably a whirlwind attack on your sensibilities. I can't promise it will be worth it, but I can promise it will be honest and true and that I will always seek the entertain and sometimes maybe even say something worthwhile, too.

I remember when I was in elementary school, we had an author come to talk to us and his advice was "write what you know." And this what I know - who I am, and how I feel. So that's what I'll write.
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Friday, July 4, 2014

Good Bye

My grandfather passed away on June 1. I probably have a lot more to say about that, but not right here - at least, not right now. What I DO want to share, however, is the memorial poem I wrote for him. I'm not making any great strides in literary history, but that's not what I was going for. I was trying to sum up 90 years of life in a few stanzas that I wrote in between yelling matches with my computer and some sobbing. So it's not great. But it's exactly what I needed it to be.

My favorite hero isn't from
A distant world so far away
Just an island in the sea
And a ranch with horses, cows, and hay

Among his many super powers:
Unyielding faith in God Himself
A gift for humor, wit to match,
Love of family above all else

In his eyes, a gleam of mischief
On his lips, a joke or song
On his face, a stalwart smile
By his side, a cat or dog

Each day a daring feat was carried out
Each deed contributing to his story
From picking mangoes and running cranes
To singing songs of morning glory

From him I learned to truly love,
To care for someone with all your might
Forsaking all for those in need
And fighting on through dark of night

But now my hero's flown away
And left us here to fill his place
Each day I feel his loss and grieve
And pray for healing through God's grace

So I fall back on how he lived
And make my way through all the rubble
With love in my heart and faith in my God
And sometimes just a bit of trouble

Though he's gone, I look to him
To guide me in my life down here
I live as he taught me to;
A piece of him is ever near


Good bye, Papa.
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Sunday, May 25, 2014

#YesAllWomen

In the wake of this week's Santa Barbara shooting, there's been a hashtag going around Twitter: #YesAllWomen

It seems the shooter was anti-woman due to lifelong rejection and this predicament garnered small amounts of sympathy across the internet with complete disregard to the fact that the women who were killed are the actual victims in this case.  It seems his vendetta didn't stop there and he had an entire manifesto of people and types of people who deserved to die. Admittedly, I have only read the cliff notes and news blurbs about the actual tragedy, but I did take a good, long look at the #YesAllWomen hashtag.  I even contributed my own tweet:



But I feel like I couldn't contain the entire sentiment, and why it struck me so harshly, in 140 characters and have it hold its own amid the tweets of domestic violence, assault, and severe discrimination.

Was I ultimately harmed? No.  Was I able to make my purchase?  Yes.  Was there any tangible end result to my story?  No.  But I walked into a hobby store and into the camera department to purchase something.  The antique fossil of a gentleman working there kindly informed me the device I wished to purchase wouldn't work.  When I pressed him farther, he said it would only work with the camera set to Manual, and, knowing nothing about me other than what he could see, assured me I couldn't use a camera like that.  Even when I insisted I could, he took the device away and said he was doing me a favor.  I insisted, and left with the device.  Many might say "no harm, no foul."  But I was humiliated, and I felt helpless and belittled, standing there, begging for the right to purchase something.

This is a significant indication of a pervasive culture belief that it's okay to deny women something "for their own good" and an enforcement of the belief girls just don't "do" certain things - in this instance, photography.  If you tell any number of truly tragic stories of violence against women or sexual assault, 99% of listeners will reply with horror and sympathy - and rightly so!  But when I tell this story, I'm usually told to get over it, or that it was no big deal.  But what scares me about it is the fact this sort of discrimination is so nonchalantly accepted as insignificant when, in reality, it comes from the same root problem - and underlying, persistent belief that women are inferior and less capable.  And best, this means Mighty Men must save poor, helpless women from themselves.  At worst, this means women are commodities for Mighty Men to use as they see fit, for pleasure or punishment, with no regard to their bodily autonomy or human rights.

While embarrassing me in a hobby store isn't going to impact my future in any meaningful way, that way of thinking, that habit of marginalizing someone and treating them as inferior based solely on their gender presentation, is a dangerous line of thinking which begets instances of violence, assault, and segregation.  There is outcry against the end result, but condonation for the mindset that allows these egregious human rights violations to continue to exist.

You can't put out a fire by blowing out the flames while the embers continue to smolder. The point or origin must be addressed, and it lies right there, in a hobby shop, at the camera counter.  In the office with no female managers.  In the White House.  On the football field.  Everywhere women are discounted based solely on one fact, with no regard to their total personage.  And the blind eye society turns is just fanning the flames.

#YesAllWomen
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Saturday, November 9, 2013

Judge me by my size, do you?

I ran my fourth 5K of the year this morning. And by "run," I really mean "jogged, then power walked, then kinda waddled for about a mile, but totally finished at a sprint while everyone at the finish line was looking!"  My pace was a whole four seconds faster than the last run I did, and, darn it, that's improvement.  I had a lot of time to think during today's race - particularly between miles 1 and 2, which are my weak point, physically and emotionally - about how I'd never really be a runner and this was a disaster and I was totally fooling myself to pretend I'd ever improve.  But I came to another realization, too - underneath all the discouragement and mental self-flagellation, I had a stone-cold confidence about the situation. I was confident that I wouldn't time well, and I certainly wouldn't place, that it would be hard, and I'd fight myself the entire way... but that I'd keep going, I wouldn't stop, and I'd finish strong.  And I did.

At my first 5K back in April of this year, I was more nervous than you can imagine.  Not only was the physical aspect overwhelming, but I was embarrassed.  I wondered how someone my size and my fitness level could even pretend moving their hulking mass 3.1 miles around the course was a good idea that had any possibility of NOT ending in utter disaster. I could feel the eyes of everyone around me as I imagined they haughtily scoffed in my direction and wondered what the fat girl thought she was trying to prove and how long it would be until she dropped out. But, I didn't drop out.  I finished.  And I thought I was going to die.  I spent the time between miles 1 and 2 chanting in mantra-like cadence "this was a bad idea, this was a bad idea."  But when I hit that Mile 3 marker and saw the finish line, I felt like King Kong on steroids. (Bonus points if you get that reference.)  I ran under the finish line and felt like I was going to explode from sheer excitement.  My time was 54:10, but no one could say anything that could make me any less proud of what I'd accomplished.

My second and third runs were those novelty-type runs that are popular (and awesome) right now - Color Run and Aqua Run.  At both runs, I found myself surveying the crowd, seeing if I stood out as the fattest one there, and trying to avoid the judgmental stares of those around me.  But I ran Color Run faster than my first run, and, even more importantly, I felt better after I'd finished.  In contrast to my run in April, where it took nearly two days before I even felt like a person again, I finished Color Run feeling awesome.  Aqua Run I didn't time, but I had fun, and I played around, and I finished and again felt awesome.

This morning, I arrived at check-in and I could again feel people staring me down.  This was a much smaller event, only about 64 runners.  I was petrified of coming in last.  I had visions of being the last runner left on the course, of running to the finish line as they were breaking it down and yelling "No! Wait for me!" as everyone laughed at the fat girl who couldn't run.  Instead, the small crowd of runners were very supportive, smiling and chatting as we waited to start.  Still, there were wayward glances here and there.  But I realized, for the first time, that I didn't care.  I truly did not.  I had done three 5Ks already this year.  I had business being there.  I knew I would finish, no matter what they thought when they looked at me.  I know at my first few runs, my mind was awfulizing the stares and glances and making them seem worse, more malicious than they were, because the deep-rooted shame I had about my own fitness level was exacerbating what was already there and transforming it into crippling disgust.  I thought I was going to fail, so I assumed everyone else thought that, too.  Today, I came out knowing I would succeed and that made all the difference.

Today was a harder run for me than the last two. It was chilly, which was rough on my asthma, and I had a terrible cramp down the back left side of my body that didn't let up from about a half a mile in.  But, still, something amazing happened.  For the first time, I passed other runners!  People who started ahead of me finished behind me.  I never thought I would pass anyone, and yet, I gleefully realized, not only was I not last, I was gaining on those ahead of me!  Also, short of the first minute of two of the race where everyone is sorting themselves out from the start and organizing the pack, no one passed ME until a few late runners caught up near the end.  I finished strong, ran under the finish line, and crumpled onto the curb to collect myself.  But I. Felt. AWESOME.

"Running While Fat" is definitely a phenomenon I know other overweight runners have experienced.  It's hard to be around fit runners who you know can lap you without breaking a sweat and not feel drastically unqualified to step onto the race course.  But I'm finding my confidence building.  It's empowering to know that, while they may finish in a third of the time I do, I'm heaving three times the body mass they are around the same course and still finishing strong.  Maybe I will never be a "runner."  But I'm finding myself out there on runs as I realize I'm not letting my weight define who I am an what I can do.  As I divorce myself from the image of that fat girl who can't run, I'm finding the woman inside who doesn't care what anyone else thinks, who just wants to push herself to be better than she was the time before, and who might be just a little amused at the stares of people who never thought she'd finish as follow her across the finish line.
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Friday, February 1, 2013

"The Columbia is lost. There are no survivors."

The title of this post is the quote from then-president George W. Bush I used to title the post I made on February 2, 2003, after spending a day in utter shock, unable to digest what I'd seen unfolding the morning previous.  The post, made on Ye Olde LiveJournal, reeks of 17-year-old self-importance and just enough childish naivety to punch me in the gut as a re-read it.  In a very grave sense, Columbia was my generation's disaster.  Apollo 1 happened long before my parents even met and Challenger was lost when I was two and a half months old, but I watched Columbia.  I saw that now-iconic image of fragmented orbiter streaking through a blue Texas sky as it showed up on television, live, staring through tear-clouded eyes and begging for some other explanation than the one even my teenage mind knew to be true.  Tragedies didn't happen in MY space program.  They were a thing of the past.  My heroes were invulnerable.  My shuttles were flawless.  And yet... this was happening.  I saw it, I felt it, I experienced it in a way I can't relate to Apollo 1 or Challenger.  That doesn't lessen the sadness I feel when I remember those two tragedies every year, but Columbia is personal, and slices just that much deeper.

I never met any of the astronauts that died that day - though I share a somewhat uncommon name with one of them, which led me to immediately identify with her - but they were the faces of all my aspirations.  While the next ten years of my life took me in a very different direction than I ever envisioned my life going, at that point, I was hell-bent to be an astronaut.  I would accept no less.  Aside from making my role models strikingly and gruesomely mortal, it was also the first time I realized how dangerous the career path I yearned for could be.  And by accepting the gravity of this, I gained that much more respect from the seven men and women who had just given their lives without a second thought to put stars in the eyes of children like me who longed to continue their mission and push humanity to strike out among the stars.  "Hero" status isn't earned by those who act "cool," but by those who take on real risks - and are sometimes called to cash in on that gamble - without any concern to their own lives, but the contribution their work, and sometimes their sacrifice, can make to everyone else.  The seven astronauts lost on Columbia - and the seven on Challenger, and the three on Apollo 1, may have lost their lives, but achieved immortality through this.  They became larger than anything they were on earth or in space.  They are infinite, they will never fail to serve as constant motivation and a reminder of those who have gone before to inspire those who are still to come.

Every year this tragic week in NASA history passes by without a current manned program in this country is that much more tragic, in my mind.  I know, better than most, that space exploration is NOT dead; it is alive and thriving and just waiting to advance.  But I look at the lives we've already put down in deposit and it hurts my heart that it seems that advance is put on hold.  And I remember, and I ache.

February 1, 2003 was a Saturday.  I was a junior in high school, and I wanted to sleep in.  My mother said she would wake me so I wouldn't miss the sonic booms, and I could watch Columbia on TV as it glided in for a smooth, perfect landing.  I'd listen to them welcome the astronauts back to Earth, and I'd smile at the end of another mission... and then I'd probably go back to bed.  It never dawned on me that my perception of the entire space program would change that day.  I vividly remember my mother waking me up and saying, "Laurel... something is wrong with the space shuttle."  And I saw that something was very, very wrong... and in my world, at that moment, everything was wrong.  I'd lived my whole childhood with a burning passion for all things NASA, and I had full confidence that nothing would go wrong.  But it wasn't the end.  And it never will be.  As long as we look up at the sky and believe that the greatest risk isn't in failing to succeed, but in ceasing to explore, Rick Husband, William McCool, Michael Anderson, David Brown, Kalpana Chawla, Laurel Clark, and Ilan Ramon will continue to inspire us, and they will never be lost in the hearts of everyone who knows we belong among the stars.

Godspeed, Columbia.
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Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Grateful for Gratitude

At this current moment in time, I have two jobs.  Both are more-or-less "part time," though labeling either of them in such terms is complicated.  What's easy to explain, however, is that they play off each others' schedules well and I can frequently get a 5-6 day work week without a problem.

Today, however, they didn't mesh with each other quite as well as I'd like, and I wound up having to work BOTH jobs today.  Luckily, my first obligation was only for 3.5 hours, and the second was 6.5, with an hour in between (that didn't feel like much of a break, as I frantically rushed from one job to the other, changing clothes in my car).  It wasn't an outrageously long day, but it was demoralizing, and it was exhausting.

About halfway through the day, though, it dawned on me just how lucky I was to have this problem, though - I spent nearly 2 years unemployed or underemployed, feeling utterly useless and like a waste of a person because I couldn't contribute to my own financial well-being.  It was a dark and difficult time in my life, and for a good portion of it, it didn't seem like it was ever going to get better.  And now, here I am, not only with two jobs, but with a third I had to turn down.  I am good at both jobs.  I make money and I help support myself and my little family.  I work hard, come home exhausted, do my best, and bring home a paycheck, and for a long time in my life, I wanted nothing more than the ability to do that.  Even on days like today, when putting one foot in front of the other can take some serious mental preparation, I am not so far removed from desperation that I am ungrateful for the opportunity to work myself  into the ground.

The American Dream has always been to rise up from nothing, work until you drop, and make it on your own.  So, so many these days just don't get that opportunity.  Having felt like I was one of them leaves me in a valuable position to truly appreciate my hardships as an opportunity to be grateful for the chance to work and the motivation to do well out of gratitude for that opportunity.  Of course, I am human and there are days when the alarm is an enemy and my drive is totally flat-lined.  But even just remembering to be thankful completely revolutionized my mood today, and it's such a simple way to improve your outlook.  There's always something in every situation to be grateful for, even if you have to push aside pride, exhaustion, weakness, anxiety, or frustration to find it.  And sometimes finding it is the key to getting through all the rest.
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Monday, January 14, 2013

My Most Embarrassing Moment

For many years, I didn't have an answer to the question "what's your most embarrassing moment?" for the simple reason that I do so many conventionally embarrassing things, intentionally, on such a regular basis, that it takes a lot to faze me.  Then... THIS happened.  This is actually a blog entry I wrote on another journal while I was still in college and the incident was fresh in my mind.  I've largely preserved it for posterity, and thought I should share it with all of you now who have sadly been lacking awareness of this occurrence for so many years.  I'll warn there is a slight bit of TMI in the story, but, really, it's a small price to pay for this much entertainment.

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This is a tale from way way back in my sophomore year of college. You know, 2005. Perhaps you've heard it before, but I shall spin the tale, nonetheless, to entertain old and new listeners alike.

 It was fall semester. I was taking a class called Wildlife Issues in the New Millennium. (What? It was a science credit!) Despite the name, it was actually very interesting material. The lecture itself, however, was NOT very interesting. However, one day a week, he showed a video in class and gave us a questionnaire for each video. One question from each of these questionnaires was on the exam. Being the grade-grubber I am/was/was striving to be, I, of course, showed up to each class to make sure I had all the lecture material handy. Luckily, I'd recently acquired a free laptop to keep me entertained in the non-pertinent parts of the class.

 Now, when I say it was "free," well, there was a reason. It worked, sure. Much in the way a tornado is a gust of wind, it worked. It took small amounts of ritualistic dancing and minor insect sacrifice to get it turned on everyday, but once it was going, it generally kept it up. But, it was always a crapshoot. In order to give you hard numbers with which to envision this... it was a Compaq Presario 1200. The 2100 was already outdated at the time. It choked on Windows 98.

 At any rate, I was one of the few students who actually attended every class, sitting right up in the front, feigning attention while really reading Facebook and chatting with friends. But the professor saw me there, assumed I was attentive, and gave me leeway when I slept through the second exam appeared to like me. Plus, hey... this was 2005. Not everyone HAD a laptop yet! I was chic. I was sophisticated. My laptop, I thought, was my tool and my best friend.

 Halfway through the semester, I would find out it was actually my downfall and my foe.

 This one fateful day, class was ending and I was getting ready to pack up and move on to my next class. I began the lengthy process of coaxing my laptop into "sleep" mode so I could safely store it in my backpack while in transit. However, it refused to be subdued. My will to fight, however, was weakened by a nagging bladder and a 15-minute class change time. In desperation, I held down the power button, but to no avail. It simply would. Not. DIE. So, cursing under my breath, I grabbed that hunk of belligerent technology and trudged toward the single-stall unisex bathroom at the front of the lecture hall.

 As I entered, I realized the door did not lock. Oh well, I thought to myself, I'll just put my backpack and computer right in front of the door! That way, if someone tries to come in, they'll hit them first and I'll have time to say something to stop them! It was only later I would discover the door opened not inward, but outward, any my plans at thwarting would-be intruders were ineffective.

 Now, at this point, you may think you see where this is going. Oooooh no, my friends. You would be sorely mistaken.

 I dropped my drawers, both over and under, and wedged them securely around my ankles. I sat on the pot and did my thing. When I was done, I reached for the toilet paper and wiped. Much to my dismay, it came back smeared with red. Was it that time of the month already? Okay, well, I have a pad in my backpack, so I'll finish cleaning myself and trudge over there.

 Not wanting to soil my underpants, I waddled over to my backpack, drawers still around my ankles, and retrieved a pad from the pouch. As I was doing this, my laptop suddenly began emitting this piercing high-pitching WHIRR sound. Fantastic. I tucked the pad under my chin and opened up the laptop to press and hold down the power button until the infernal noise stopped. It would bow to my will this time!

 At this EXACT MOMENT IN TIME, the door flies WIDE open.

 There I am: naked from the waist down, pants and underpants around my ankles, feminine pad tucked under my chin, leaning over a computer (seemingly surfing the web or something, I don't know?), DIRECTLY in front of the door. With a VERY surprised college-aged male standing there staring at me from about two feet away. And two rows of students from the next class doing so from their seats. The kid who threw open the door stammered. I looked at him. He looked at me. Time froze.

 After a few stunned moments, I managed to stutter, "C-C-C-CLOSE THE DOOR!" He nodded and did so. I finished up as quickly as I could and gathered up my things. I seriously considered addressing the class afterwards, explaining the situation. Surely they'd understand, right? Yeah, likely not so much. Besides... that would ensure they'd recognize me later. No, I did the wise thing- I RAN out of the bathroom and through the classroom doors, leaving the last of my dignity awash in my wake.

 I didn't need it, anyway, right?
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Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Twirl and Swirl


I frequently get asked where my general purpose user name, "twirlandswirl," comes from.  I usually flippantly answer, "oh, some poem," because saying I wrote it makes me feel like a teenager in a dark corner with a sketch book and a can of Red Bull.  But, fact of the matter is, it IS a poem I wrote, and it's probably the single piece of work I've created that I'm most proud of.  I'm not saying it is by any means "perfect," but I read it, and I feel exactly what I felt when I wrote it.  It stirs in me exactly what I aimed for it to relate to the reader, and, in that respect, I believe it is a success.  I wrote it in high school, and have made precious few revisions in the decade since.

I don't expect everyone to like it.  I don't expect ANYONE to like it, per se.  I'm not looking for people to assuage my ego, and don't want anyone to feel obligated to leave any feedback whatsoever.  (Do feel free to!  But I'm not fishing for compliments or anything.)  But, as I keep getting asked just where it is twirlandswirl comes from, I thought I would supply a more thorough answer.


My world is cloaked in the darkness only the dead of night can bring
Over my head hang a thousand tiny worlds, unknown to those who dwell here
Pinpoints of light, as numerous as the grains of sand on a paradise beach
Dance the eternal dance of years gone by
My heart yearns to be among them
To join in, and learn the steps that only time can teach
I feel so misplaced on this cold, hard chunk called Earth
My spirit longs to be away
To soar higher than mortal men have dared to dream
To brush the sky with wings of light
To twirl and swirl and loose myself
Feel my body enveloped by the very fabric of time and space
I long to work my fingers through the threads that hold the Universe together
Have the secrets of infinity whispered into my ears by beings I cannot even comprehend
And be at home, finally home
Away from fear, doubt, and the chains that hold me here
Finally free, finally among the stars
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Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Writing, or, How Twirly Fails at Titling Posts

I need to write more.

I'm not sure there's enough emphasis on the imperative here.  I'm not saying, "gee, I really SHOULD write more."  I'm not saying I NEED to write int he same way I NEEDED that piece of cheesecake I snuck yesterday.  I'm very blatantly saying I NEED to write more, in the same way I need air and water and food.  I'm dying without it... emotionally, if not physically.

For so much of my life, writing defined who I was.  It put my overactive imagination to use and gave it an outlet to keep my head from exploding.  Over the last several years, I feel like I've beaten that muse out of myself - I don't know how or why, and it wasn't really intentional, but through self-censorship and, to be honest, some laziness, my creative spark is definitely in critical condition.

A few days ago, I had what I've referred to since as a "plotlette" pop into my head.  It's not really an idea, because it's pretty concrete, and it's not quite a plot of its own.  It's a quote, really - or more of an exchange.  It's short and concise and maybe fifteen words long, but I feel it tells a story in those few words.  Perhaps more importantly, I feel it creates a thirst for MORE story.  It leaves layers upon layers of QUESTIONS, and they've been rolling around in my head for days, teasing my imagination and coaxing my muse out of hibernation.

The obvious choice, to me at least, is that I attempt to win NaNoWrimo in November for the first time.  I've had... 2? 3? 4? attempts, but only one even made a decent show of it, until the end of the semester (and, for me, the end of the course of my undergraduate university studies) derailed my efforts.  I haven't even attempted for the last few years, though the desire to complete the challenge has never left me.  I didn't connect to the local writers or general modus operandi of the group in Orlando the way I did in Gainesville, but I'm willing to give it another try.

The inherent problem with this, however, is that it's barely mid-September.  I fear that if I suppress this urge I've finally rekindled for another 8 weeks, I may kill it off again.  But, if I start it too early, I can’t use it for NaNo and may lose my motivation for THAT, then.  However... nothing is stopping me from writing something ELSE every day.  I’ll stretch my literary muscles!  And I’m not limited to fiction... I can write blog entries, poetry, commentary, reviews... anything I want!  I might accidentally start doing it all the time again!  That would certainly beat incessant Facebook statuses and my daily string of tweets....

My "Idea Generator" seems to have run out of steam, however, and I could definitely use some ideas, or directions to some resources, on that front, however.  I think I'm going to set an initial goal of 1000 words a day.  1000 words of anything with a coherent purpose... blog entries, letters, poems, short stories, etc.  Blurbs aren't going to count... I need to set some standards!  But when 1000 words gets easy, 1500 will soon after, and so on.


Let’s reinvent ourselves through writing, shall we?



PS - This was 587 words.  Good start, Self!
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Friday, July 6, 2012

Stagnant

Some of you may have noticed I haven't been posting about my weight loss progress lately (of course, I haven't posted HERE at all, but I've not mentioned it, specifically, on other social media accounts, either).  There is a two-fold reason for that: firstly, my time has been limited as I've recently started a new job that I really like, but has thrown my routine out of whack; secondly, and disconcertingly... there's been no progress to report.


Here's an entry I posted on my SparkPeople blog on June 28th:
So I posted 3 nights ago that I'd lost 14 pounds so far and I was thrilled! However, the next day, I'd gained two back... no idea why. It disappeared again the following day, but I've been steady for the last two, with no cumulative progress at all. It's difficult to remain focused on the goal when you are not seeing any progress being made. I know this is one of the reasons it is suggested that you only weigh yourself once a week or so - daily fluctuations, and little "stalls" like this one, which will probably resolve themselves in a few days, but are terribly demoralizing at the time. 

Regardless, I've been trying to put one foot in front of the other and keeping going. I've done well on calories, not so great on formal exercise - but, my daily activity level picked up significantly with the start of my new job. Which is the driving force behind why this is actually a *positive* entry. 

One of the pairs of uniform shorts I'd been issued had a broken zipper. I brought it in today to exchange it for a pair that would actually, you know, stay on. When I got there, however, they told me they were out of my size and asked if I'd like to try a size up or down. Feeling optimistic, I decided to try a size down, knowing how devastated I'd be for them not to fit. I grabbed them and ran into the fitting room before I could chicken out. 

They fit perfectly. 

Such a small victory came at such a decisive time in my stream of motivation. I needed to see progress when the scale wasn't moving, and here it was, in durable khaki. I asked the woman behind the country if they looked alright, and she told me they looked great. 

I thanked her, and told her I'd be back when these didn't fit, either. 


Unfortunately, since that point, I've made no progress at all.  The scale is just STUCK at -14 pounds.  Since early last week. The fact I could move down a pants size was briefly motivating, but as yet another week passed and I saw no results, though I was sticking to all my routines, my gung-ho attitude slowly began to wonder if it was all worth it in the end.


I know, of course, consciously, that these things happened.  I dropped weight VERY quickly at first, and, chances are, my metabolism is just balancing out after that and I'll pick back up at a normal 2ish pounds a week (instead of 6!) after that happens.


I can sit here and type that paragraph 85 times, but it isn't going to help how I feel, emotionally, about this.


So I did (what I believed was) the logical thing - I gave myself a cheat day.  On July 4th, we had free ice cream and a pot luck at work.  I made a sausage and cheese rice bake to share and helped myself to a large portion.  I had donuts, a cookie, and a fried chicken wing.  At home, I ate some noodles.  I thought it was all delicious, and glorious, and wonderful.  Except, I realized... I felt terrible!  All my energy was gone and familiar gastric issues crept back up.  Now, 24 hours later, I'm balancing back out, but I had another epiphany moment as a result of my "cheat day."


What I realized was: even when all the work I put into calorie counting (measuring, logging, tracking all other nutrients, finding a meal to fit into what I need to eat, etc) isn't paying off on the scale, I'm still getting healthier.  The benefits are still there, in my energy level, my mood, my attitude - they're all improved!  Maybe the scale isn't responding how I'd like it to, but the feeling of being HEALTHY is just amazing.


I wish I could say I'm 100% renewed in my motivation and ready to take on the world again, but I'm still fighting reservations regarding my ultimate success and feelings of failure and inadequacy.  I do, however, have another purpose now, and another gauge to track my progress.  I certainly won't pretend I'll never cheat again, but at least now I feel like I have another path to follow even when the trail isn't leading where I thought I wanted to go.
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Sunday, June 24, 2012

Wasting Away

For any readers who know me in the mythical land of "Real Life," or have simply seen photos of me, it's obvious I am more than a little chubby.  If you wanted to be medically accurate but slightly less tactful, "morbidly obese" is another applicable term.  Maybe it doesn't sound nice, but sugar-coating an ugly truth doesn't impede its veracity.  To be fair, while the fact I am overweight is apparent, most are shocked if they hear my ACTUAL weight.  I carry it well, and have a very large frame.  Even my doctors have been shocked.  As such, I don't think I will ever be at a "normal" BMI - as flawed as that scale is! - nor do I strive to be.  It's not the numbers that matter, but how I feel, physically, and how I feel about myself, mentally.

The problem is, however, that the answer to both of those has been increasingly negative over the past several months.  I haven't decided yet that I'm going to blatantly tell you how much it is I weigh, but I will say that on June 1st, I was at or around the highest weight of my adult life, 30 pounds heavier than I was when I started dieting while engaged and nearly 70 pounds heavier than I was when I said my vows just three and a half years ago.

For me health, for my self-esteem, and for the hypothetical possibility of ever carrying a healthy pregnancy, these truths were rapidly becoming unacceptable.

I think whenever anyone makes a major life change, there is some big "a-ha!" moment.  I've had several little moments like that, but they haven't been enough to spur me into the lifestyle changes I need to make to get my weight under control.  What was?  When I was at the NASASocial event for the SpaceX COTS 2/3 launch last month, I was on NASATV several times.  Many friends helpfully sent me screen shots of me from their own streams while I was at the event.  While I should have been thrilled at this (and I was, believe me), I was also absolutely disgusted.  I look at myself every morning in the mirror, true - but here I was, and I repulsed myself.  (Don't say anything to reassure me - this is about how *I* feel about myself, remember?)

That was my "wake up call."  Almost accidentally, I immediately began calorie counting again, via SparkPeople (the same method I used to lose nearly 40 pounds before my wedding) and before I knew it, I'd lost 6 pounds in the first week!  It's addicting at that point, honestly, and now, at just over three weeks in, I've lost 14 pounds.  Today was the first day I really FELT like I was wasting away.  I still have a long way to go, granted, but the fact was, the scale was showing progress, but I was still just feeling like a blob.  AND not eating junk food.  Not a good trade-off.  But I wore a skirt today that has been tight for years and it was comfortable.  A shirt that's been too small fit fine!  I'm noticing little changes, and they are keeping me on track when the path seems difficult.

So what's my plan, then?  I've been asked this over and over, usually to a chorus of "oh, I tried all that, and it just didn't work for me."  Here's a fact that isn't evident when I simply lay out a list of what I'm doing: I am REALLY REALLY REALLY OCD.  I am EXACT in everything I can be.  I weigh EVERYTHING I eat.  I even bought a new, more precise digital kitchen scale.  I don't squirt dressing onto my sandwiches or salads - I measure it by the gram or tablespoon.  I don't sneak licks or bites if I can't get an exact figure to account for later.  I do a LOT of math to get all my figures right.  I weigh empty peels and vegetable rinds and measure cups of water.  In order for calorie counting to be effective, you MUST be exact!  Over OR under are bad, and tracking nutrients is just as important because eating 1700 calories a day is FINE if it's nutritious - you can lose a lot of weight that way!  But, eating 1200 a day of, say, chocolate frosting, isn't going to do it.  It's a full, balanced menu.  When I say I "calorie count," I mean I EVERYTHING count, as precisely as I can.  It isn't easy, no.  But I get results through my effort.  I'm not trying to belittle anyone for whom this method DOESN'T work... I just want to explain why I have had so much success with it - basically, because I'm crazy.  ;)

So here's what I've been up to:

  • Calorie counting
  • Drinking a TON of water, very little of anything else
  • Weighing in on my Wii Fit at least once a day to keep myself accountable
  • Eating breakfast to jump start my metabolism
  • Upping fruits and vegetables
  • Snacking responsibly to avoid hunger
  • Compensating for calorie overages by shaving a few off my totals for subsequent days
  • Exercising!  SO important... my Wii Fit has been great, because it's FUN, and I've also enjoy many brisk neighborhood walks
  • Trying REALLY HARD for at least 7 hours of sleep a night
  • Reading SparkPeople/other health and weight loss blogs - enhances my mind set
  • Posting about my progress frequently on Facebook and Twitter, again to be accountable, and to mentally reward myself with encouragement

As you can see, there are a lot of typical "diet" things, but there are also lifestyle changes, and there are "healthy habits" that may not directly impact my weight loss, but get me in a healthier mindset by surrounding myself with information that keeps me on track.

One of the important things, I think, is that it's OKAY to splurge a little, as long as I keep myself accountable for it.  I had a few M&Ms today, and they were wonderful and fit perfectly into my calorie and nutrient counts fort the day.  I've found if you deprive yourself of something entirely, all you do is crave it more and more.  Furthermore, when something is "forbidden," it's always just THAT MUCH MORE enticing!  Having a few (portion control!) candies, cookies, or chips a day isn't going to kill you... and that's so important.  If you're going to stop enjoying your life just to lose a few pounds... what's the point?  I know there's a niche for stricter diets, because some people have trouble taking only an inch and leaving the mile, but for me, personally, a little sweet or salty reward or distraction is important and stops me from ever wanting to sit here and eat an entire pizza with a chocolate milkshake.  It keeps me sane!  And once I get to the "maintain" stage, I'll have a little more freedom... but I also know that once you wipe junk food out of your habits, you honestly don't crave it as much anymore.  And it makes you feel HORRIBLE!  I had a few fried cheese sticks last night at a family dinner, and, while I enjoyed them immensely, I really enjoyed the steamed broccoli more!  I've found my body WANTS to eat healthy, and knowing that has made it so much easier to stay on track.

Of course, I haven't been perfect.  But I'm making progress, and slowly wasting away, in the most excellent of fashions.  I have a long long long (long long long long...) way to go, and I don't know if I'll ever get to where I want to be, or if I'll ever be "thin." But I want to be HEALTHY, and I want to be comfortable in my body.  I'm doing this for myself, and I'm actually enjoying it!

So this is what I've been up to lately... and will be up to for some time.  Naturally, as it goes on, it takes more of a background role in my life, but I wanted to talk about it, because it's important to me, and because I'm sure I'll have plenty to write about later that references it.

But for now, I'll keep on trucking.  And maybe sometime soon, I'll post some pictures of my progress... or my cooking.  When it looks edible, at least.

Which is becoming a more frequent occurrence, I swear!


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Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Washing dishes

My dishwasher broke several weeks ago.  I mourned briefly, but set out on an mission to hand wash everything and keep my kitchen sparkling, despite the lack of machine.

Those of you who know me in person are laughing, because you know my kitchen doesn't sparkle, even WITH the aid of a dishwasher.  So, needless to say, I was rapidly overrun by a pile of menacing Corning Ware foes.  Now, from July 2008-July 2009, the Husband and I lived in a very small, rather old apartment that had no dishwasher and a one compartment sink.  (Though it did have one of those squirter-hose things, which I miss so much!)  While it was only a year, and I DID occasionally let things get out of hand (I was in my last semester of undergrad AND planning a wedding), I had the "wash everything by hand, at least relatively soon to it being used" thing totally down.  I expected that to all come flooding reluctantly back.

Ah, naivety.

I spent a lot of time just staring at my sink and willing the dishes to clean themselves.  I never quite got that to work, but if I DO, I'll let you all know ASAP.

It's been a fight with my apartment complex to get the problem fixed.  Originally, we had run the dishwasher and everything came out coated in a layer of grime.  We rinse/scrub our dishes VERY thoroughly before putting them in the dishwasher, so we new the error was not ours.  They came out, investigated it, turned up the water temperature (now, I burn myself in the shower... woo), and said all was fine.  They ran it and walked out.

Well, it never drained after that.

We spent the entire month of May trying to get them to come back, as there was standing water in the bottom of the dishwasher, and who knows what bacteria was making a peaceful lakefront home in the bottom.  (Hi, I'm Twirly, and I'm a germphobe.)  We also, however, asked they don't enter without us present, because we have a cat who might run out the door.


Meow.


Apparently, instead of coming after 1pm, like we asked, this just meant they came whenever, and marked  our work order as "complete" if we didn't answer the door.  We had to resign our lease yesterday, and we brought this up before doing so.  They promised maintenance would come by at 1:30pm the next day (i.e. today).


So, 3:30pm rolls around.  We get a call that maintenance is on their way and to please make sure the dishwasher is fully emptied.  And lo and behold, they arrived with a new dishwasher and installed it.


It matches!

Um. Nice rack?

Despite the fact the maintenance worker who installed it left the manual IN THE DISHWASHER when she turned it on while leaving, I was thrilled and absolutely more excited that one should ever be to do the dishes after tonight's company left.  I filled the top with cups first, and the pulled out the bottom rack to load it with plates.

Only to find out it's bent and doesn't slide back in once its pulled out.


Whatever.  I'm using it anyway.
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History

Last Tuesday morning, I had the overwhelming privilege of witnessing history.  I'm fairly certain if I could go back in time and watch the first ape figure out how to use a stick as a crude tool, I would have walked away with much the same feeling.  Yet, as I returned home, ablaze with passionate fury and ecstatic beyond common sense, I realized many of my fellow human beings has no idea what had just occurred.

If you aren't familiar with a NASA Social (previously "NASA Tweetup"), it's an outstanding outreach program through which NASA selects followers on various social media platforms (originally Twitter, as the name suggested, but now expanded to include Facebook and Google+) and brings them to a NASA or NASA-related site and presents them with a program designed to engage and inform and spark that very same passion I erupted with after my experience.  Some of them events surround missions, visits from astronauts, or advances NASA technology, but the most sought-after social events surround launches.  While I never received the opportunity to attend a space shuttle event, I was honored to be invited to the NASA Tweetup event for the Juno launch in August of 2011.

Attendees were treated to an informational program at the Kennedy Space Center Press site (which made me realize that all previous delusions of any supposed intelligence I may personally possess were purely fabricated) and were then escorted around the space port, as well as Cape Canaveral Air Force Station where we were allowed to act like 5-year-olds on Christmas morning as we witnessed that which we'd only dreamed of seeing before.


Yeah, it's me and my BFF, Discovery.  No big.



Oh, that? It's a rocket. Whatevs.


Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd be lucky enough to be asked back AGAIN, but when word was posted to the whole of the Interwebz that a NASA Social event was going to be held for the SpaceX COTS 2/3 launch, carrying a private capsule (the Dragon) to the International Space Station for the first time in history, I threw my name in.  I was excited I was picked for the wait list, but as the launch date changed over and over and finally drew near, I had not been "promoted," and had resigned myself to watching from the sidelines.

The launch was scheduled for May 19 at 4:55am.  May 14 around 1:55pm, I was sitting at work, idly playing on my phone while I waited to pick up the students from science lab, when I got that fateful tweet that would change everything:


I may have squee'd like a small chicken.


I ran to the science lab, excited to tell the class about my amazing opportunity, and was met with this, a statement the few, the proud, the space enthusiasts know well:  "But I thought there were no more launches or anything!"


Despite the fact that NASA's planetary exploration division is going strong and several revolutionary military satellites have been launched into orbit already this year, as far as many of these 5th graders knew - and, indeed, as far as many Americans, nay, HUMANS know - NASA is over, kaput, total history.

How wrong.  How sad.

And even more disturbing is the heart-wrenching fact that, by and large, everyone is okay with this!  They've accepted it and they've moved on.  Sure, space was fun while it lasted... but really, it's just an expensive fireworks show that results in some videos of men and women with crazy floating hair slurping balls of orange juice as they float around the cabin, right?  No practical usage.  Politics aside, Newt Gingrich was laughed out of an election for even SUGGESTING colonizing the Moon.  Whether you support his specific proposal or not, it was evident that the underlying problem here were images of 1950s sci-fi movies with unrealistic heroes and unachievable space stations danced through everyone's heads.  It was childish folly that a grown man held on to - not hope for the future, not that burning impetus for mankind to reach out and touch the stars, to claim his place in the cosmos.  And that mind set is what allows mankind to "settle" for what we have right now.  Sure, the space station is nice.  We'll refuel it until it burns out, and then... well, there it is.

The future belongs to those who refuse to accept that humanity's boundary is firmly carved in Low Earth Orbit.  It belongs to dreamers who look at the stars and say, "why not?" and the doers who pour every ounce of inspiration into saying, "here's how!"  It's the same spirit that brought us out of the oceans and down from the trees.  Why did humanity evolve?  Because it REFUSED to settle!  It's against our very nature to underachieve.  Being human, in essence, is a lifelong quest to attain something, anything! To die leaving the species just a little better off than it was before you existed. Everyone has that spark in them, but so many have learned to quell it.

When the space shuttle program ended in 2011, some Americans dared to ask "what's next?" against the prevailing current of apathy.  Some were brave enough to seek out an answer, and SpaceX answered loudly, "this! This is next!"  In December of 2010, they became the first private company to launch a capsule into orbit and successfully recover it.  With America lacking transport, under its own power, to it's orbiting outpost, the International Space Station, SpaceX said, "hey, guys, it's cool - we got this."  (May not be an exact quote.)

And so, fueled by that nagging human spirit within all of us, and driven by heroes who refuse to let it down, on Tuesday morning, May 22 at 3:44am, SpaceX's Falcon 9 lifted off.  The capsule would successfully berth with the International Space Station on Friday May 25, putting the United States "back in business" through commercial resupply.

I stood there Tuesday morning, in wet grass, barely on my own two feet due to exhaustion, and stared up at the sky.  There were more stars visible than I usually remember in this specific area, and I tried to take them in, to imagine their immensity and felt that familiar feeling of insignificance wash over me.  But I felt something else, too - something I know a lot of readers here will recognize.  I felt that flame within me, the one that carried humans through time, across the globe, and into space in the first place.  The urge to go farther, the absolutely necessary and vital drive to explore and push and never stop.  I knew that someday, every single person in the world, every single human being would look back at this moment, united not as countrymen, but as kin, and realize that THIS was the moment we refused to say NO.  This is the moment we refused to submit to earthly bonds and carry on never knowing what the Universe held.  NASA brought us to the moon, and it probes even farther every day.  It's contributions are invaluable and can never be fully appreciated.  But this was mankind itself, no politics, no agendas, saying, "those stars?  Bring them to me."

And the Dragon roared into the night.  And we stood there and watched it vanish into the sky.  And I'm sure I wasn't the only one whose heart went with it and whose mind dared to dream of what we'd reach, as a species, if only we keep striving to BE human.




That's how history was made last week - not by anything greater than the simple determination to be more than we are.
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Thursday, January 5, 2012

Prompt: One

She had one dollar in her worn, tattered pocket.

It was raining - a cold, December morning, the sort that gave them all a bad name. It was yet cold enough to freeze the droplets into crystalline flakes that would dance in the air and flutter lightly to the ground. Instead, fat, angry drops plummeted to the ground, exploding as they hit unyielding concrete.

She’d found the dollar in puddle, up against a cracked, dirty curb. The fingers on her gloves were already torn and her fingertips numb, so they didn’t sting when she reached into the icy water for it. Proud of her catch, she’d held it close to her chest and sighed, a small smile working its way across her haggard face. The lines in her face were those of a much older woman - her 15 years were multiplied over and over again on her weary countenance. But this dollar shed a few years as her eyes brightened and her chapped pink lips turned up at the corners for the first time in weeks.

One dollar wouldn’t get her a place to sleep tonight, or shoes without holes in them, or a dry coat. It wouldn’t solve any of her problems - but it would buy her a hot sandwich to get through one more day.

Or, it could buy that same warm sandwich for her young brother, huddled a block over, too cold to move, but so very, very hungry.
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Prompt: Not my idea of a good time, but....

Using magic in front of others isn't really my idea of a good time, but sometimes, your options are limited. This was one such circumstance. I found myself cornered, in mortal danger, and armed only with my fledgling complement of supernatural abilities. In case that wasn't enough, I was also at my mundane day-job in a squat little office building, surrounded by not only MY supervisors, but THEIR supervisors who had chosen today to grace us with their lofty presence. Clearly, whatever powers I may have garnered over the course of my study, "manipulation of fate" was not one of them.

At this point, I essentially had two options. The first was spectacularly unappealing - death. The second was only marginally more tolerable - use the full power I was capable of wielding to banish the opposing spirit, theoretically epically destroying him in the process, but, at the same time, blatantly exposing my predilection to the preternatural to a bunch of terrified businessmen in overpriced power suits who had a lot more control over my future endeavors that I seemed to have at the current moment. Since accepting Option A meant forgoing any change of HAVING any future at all, ruined or otherwise, I took a deep breath, cracked my knuckles as noisily as possibly, and stepped over of the cubicle in which I'd been cowering in my indecision. To the unbridled astonishment of my Armani-clad on-lookers, I spread out my arms, focused my mind, and began to drain excess energy from the surrounding environment. The was so afire with tension - fear, confusion, helplessness - that its electrifying tingle was tangible even to those without any enhances sensitivities. It wasn't difficult to harness its power and it flew into my fingertips in glowing veins of raw energy, lighting up the room with a brilliant aura, and ensuring I was the exact center of everyone's attention.

You know those dreams where you're at school and everyone is starting at you and suddenly you realize it's because you are clad solely in Care Bears underwear? Suddenly you feel alone, exposed, and completely vulnerable. Using magic in a public arena is kind of like that - except, exponentially worse. No one else can help you because they don't have the ability - the success of your conflict rides uniquely on your shoulders. You've revealed you not only BELIEVE in the supernatural world, but believe in it so thoroughly you sought out training as a practitioner. You'd think the blaring physical evidence presented to them would convince you witnesses you were in the right, but a surprisingly percentage of observers will still regard you as a crazy loon with an especially convincing stage act. You are vulnerable, not only to mortal judgment and consequence, but also literally, physically vulnerable, as using magic requires a shift in focus from shielding to invoking and from defensive awareness to offensive action. Your defenses are stripped to nil as you advance, and there is little time to brace for retaliation.

I didn't spare a glance behind me at my unwilling audience - I didn't have the attention to waste, and I didn't want to see their horrified expressions. I could feel their eyes drilling into my back; I knew their fear was redirected at me. I was now an "unknown." People I saw every day, who I knew and cared for, didn't know who or what I was anymore. They didn't know which side in this stand-off was "good" or "evil," but, either way, I had irrevocably outed myself as "otherworldly." I was no longer one of them, and I couldn't be trusted. I'd made myself an outsider.

Now that nothing would ever be the same, I had to at least ensure the sacrifice of my "normal" life was worthwhile. I felt myself begin to levitate, ever so slightly, as the fire crackled within me. If I didn't act soon, I'd be overcome and lose control, and then I'd be useless. I took a deep breath, drew back my arms, and channeled my focus. I was shaking with the intensity of what I was about to do as the electricity arced between my quivering hands. I chanted quietly to myself, closed my eyes, reached out, and attacked.
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Monday, August 29, 2011

Care and feeding of the Elusive "Space Tweep"

The "Space Tweep," scientific name Homo nasaobsessivous, is rare creature, early in its evolution cycle. Evidence supports the theory that it emerged as an offshoot of Homo nerdicus and Homo geekorolosus sometime in the mid-2000s. Some evidence points to their origin as early as 1961, however, the species lacked any tribal behaviour or social coherency until the dawn of Twitter in 2006.

It may be difficult to identify the Space Tweep from other human beings, as they are similar in appearance, but there are several important differences to be noted: firstly, the Space Tweep will frequently be seen frantically typing on a smart phone or other mobile communication device. This is their lifeline to their tribe, and if cut off, they may lash out irrationally, and even become violent. While they exist in a plethora of varying climates and ecosystems across the globe, they are most comfortable in their natural environment - Kennedy Space Center, in Florida. Space Tweeps feel an instinctive pull to this place, much like birds who migrate south for the winter, or salmon who return to the same breeding grounds season after season. On a launch day, Space Tweeps will be out in full-force, and, indeed, this is the best time for spectators to catch a glimpse of this elusive creature, as their sheer excitement will bring them away from the comfort of their home computers and into public, to witness the spectacle. They are drawn to launches as a moth is to the flame - some studies have suggested they are literally incapable of resisting. This rivals even the survival instinct to these Tweeps, and they will frequently wait for hours - even days - in adverse environmental conditions just to get a glimpse of ignition. Beware, however - the Space Tweep is often a pale creature, and exposure to the elements may cause their skin to burn and redden, a condition known as "shuttle burn."

The Space Tweep can survive for days on nothing besides sheer enthusiasm and excess rocket fumes. However, after some time, it may become necessary to provide additional sustenance to the Space Tweep in the form of pizza, cheeseburgers, or Coke Zero.

It is not recommended you keep or domesticate a Space Tweep, as they will hijack your computer, eat all your bandwidth, and break out of any containment efforts meant to keep them inside on launch day.
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