Monthly Archives: August 2009

First comes salad, then comes marriage

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I’ve come to realize that maybe the reason none of my pants fit lies with the large volume of chicken nuggets and fries I eat. I still weigh roughly the same, so it’s gotta be all of the convection oven food that’s made my belly and hips as round as a two- or three-month pregnant woman. (You laugh, but I’m not kidding.)

So this afternoon when I got home from work and the chicken nug-nug cravings hit, I decided I’d do something different: have a salad instead of fries. (There won’t be any pictures, because I thought of this after I started eating.)

Even better, my grandparents brought home a bunch of fresh veggies and basil from their garden at the campground they stay at every summer, so I took advantage of those. Instead of eight chicken nuggets and a handful of fries, I made six chicken nuggets and a smallhuge salad. (I realize that the huge salad will probably equal the fries. But I digress.)

In the past, I’ve used some not-so-healthy “dieting” techniques. At fifteen, sixteen, I felt bad about myself on the inside and those feelings quickly spread to how I felt about my body. I became dangerously thin (I went from about 125 lbs to 100 lbs in a matter of about four to six weeks) and, because I’m hypoglycemic, got sick most of the time from not eating. I don’t like to think about what I might have done to my body during this time, or what I could have done if I were to continue on this path. Luckily, a friend of mine told on me and my mom immediately began harassing me to eat. At my lowest weight, my collarbones stuck out so far “they were gross,” as my friend says. I was never officially diagnosed with an eating disorder, but those negative images of my body have never completely left me. I relapse sometimes, and sometimes I’m perfectly content with how I look.

Every time my jeans get a little tight, I freak out. It’s hard to keep from going back to my old ways.

It’s also hard to ignore that my favorite jeans have to be greased onto me, and even then I can’t breathe if I wear them.

Today I found a happy medium, and I hope that I can stick with it and continue to be comfortable with it. I want to continue to love myself and be good to myself, so that I can have the future I want with the person I want to be with.

Mike and I, Winter 2008

Mike and I, Winter 2008

A lot of people don’t understand my relationship with Mike, but here’s the gist of it: he makes me happy, both with him and with myself. He doesn’t demand anything from me. He helps me see the real me and the potential I have. I don’t think he even knows this, but by being with him, I’ve learned to love myself even more than I did before. I’ve become a lot more comfortable with myself since I met him. Even when we fight and no matter how many times we’ve broken up, we always come out stronger.

I don’t write about the mushy, gushy stuff here often because I think it’s lame. Everyone with a blog writes about how awesome their relationship is and blahblahblah. (The truth is, it’s not awesome. Sometimes it’s fucking ugly, and anyone who pretends any differently on their blog needs to seriously look themselves in the mirror.) I want people to know that there’s more to me than the guy I date. I’ve read blogs where most of it says “Blahblahblah and I did this today, and Blahblahblah and I are so in love and Blahblahblah is so awesome.”

But I also want people to know that there’s a reason I am with Mike. It’s not because he’s a great kisser or because he has a relatively good taste in movies (though I seriously cannot understand why he thinks the new Halloween remake-sequel is worth seeing). Those things are good qualities and get him an A+, but they’re not enough. Frankly, most people just wouldn’t get it, because I just don’t have the right words to explain exactly how he makes me feel. “Alive” is a good one, and so is “wonderful.”

Anyway. I have no idea how a post about salad got to this point. ADHD, anyone?

Tomorrow

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Tomorrow I start school again.

I’m worried that I won’t be able to handle it with everything else that’s going on. I worry that I’ll have trouble walking so far back and forth, and that I’ll have trouble carrying my backpack. I worry that I might have a pain attack or panic attack, surrounded by unfamiliar people in an unfamiliar area.

At the same time, I can’t wait to open a notebook tomorrow and take notes. I can’t wait to see the syllabi and mark my Google and planner calendars with all of the important dates. I can’t wait to walk to my classes knowing that I know where I’m going. I can’t wait to sign up for my field program and attend elementary school classes.

On a totally different note, WordPress tags are freaking possessed. :P

From here it's all downhill

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So today I’m 21.

It’s funny, how every year I expect to feel different, but don’t. Everything is the same today as it was yesterday: I barely got any sleep, it’s raining on my special day, Mike had to leave me to go run errands, I left my car windows open (did I mention it’s raining?), and my arm hurts.

The only thing that’s different? I can now legally have a drink when all of this starts to get to me. ;)

Two rheumatologists for the price of one

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I spent two and a half hours at the rheumatologist’s yesterday.

Two and a half hours.

And, actually, my rheumatologist comes in the plural; it’s a husband/wife operation.

I waited an hour in the waiting room. Dr. Kelly (Greco) saw me first. She asked me questions about my symptoms, plus all of the standard questions. She wrote everything down. She did a full examination and then told me Dr. Greco would be in.

More waiting.

When Dr. Greco came in, Dr. Kelly came in with him and he told me that they are married and that they will both be taking care of me. He cracked a few jokes, but not in a stiff or annoying way. His jokes were easy and fluid. Then they got down to business.

She told him everything about my illness, glancing at her notes now and then, while he took notes. He did a quick examination. Then he pulled a recorder out of his pocket and made verbal notes.

He said I would be going for more blood work and mentioned a few of the things I would be tested for (damned if I could remember them now). Then he left and Dr. Kelly took over. She checked off the things he’d suggested I be tested for, then checked off a few of her own. (I’m gonna have to have my mom look at the sheet, because I didn’t understand any of the medical jargon — ANA test? — and at that point wasn’t paying much attention anyway. I wanted OUT.)

I made an appointment for two weeks from now and left. The only major thing that happened was that the parking pay machine was out of order, so I had to pay at the exit gate by debit instead of with cash at the machine. (Don’t even get me started on how the hospital charges for parking.)

Aside from waiting for two hours and being extremely antsy and a little hyper by the time I left, I was fine. No panic attacks, no breakdowns.

The receptionist asked if I would be getting the blood work done that afternoon, but at that point I’d had enough. I may go Friday morning, but I’m not sure. (It’s my birthday, so why should I be a pincushion?)

Hopefully something comes up in my blood work. I think I’ve waited long enough for a proper diagnosis. I know that if it’s an autoimmune disease, there won’t be a cure. Which I’m fine with. I’ve accepted that. As long as I’m not going to, like, drop dead or something, I’m okay with that. I just want some answers, and a treatment plan. If I know what’s wrong, I can fix it. That’s what I’ve been clinging to for the last two years, so it’s about time I get some kind of relief.

In the meantime, school starts in less than a week. I have a lot to tell you about that, but unfortunately have to go get ready for work now so it’ll have to wait until later!

Why retired people would make great jurors

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I got my very first jury duty summons about a week ago.

I laughed. I cried. (Especially when I found out I won’t be getting paid by my company, since I only work part-time. Though I am also self-employed, so I wonder if that might change things.) I swore a lot, too. My mom gave me several ways to get out of it (like calling the night before to see if my name is recorded on the list of people they don’t need). (Here are a few really funny ways to try and get out of jury duty!)

And then I filled out the return form like a good girl and marked the date in my planner.

The next day at work, I broke the news to my boss. “I know it’s like forever away,” I said, “but I have jury duty on the 25th. Of September. Just so ya know.”

He asked if I wanted to borrow a book to bring with me. (Wish I could remember the title! He said that when he brought it with him, they sent him home as soon as they saw it!) “Or,” he said, “you can ask if they need you when you show up. Just say, ‘look, do you really need me?’ and they might not and just send you home.”

“Hmn. I might try that. Unless it’s actually interesting.” I sighed. “Jury duty. Ugh! It should just be a profession, for people who actually like it.”

“It would make a great job for retired people,” my boss said.

I laughed. “I know, right? They watch People’s Court all day anyway!”