Look, I Made a Shirt (where there never was a shirt)

CW:  disordered eating, anxiety, panic attack

About a month ago, I joined a gym.  It had been over two years since I belonged to a gym (in part because of Our Lady of Virus, Corona, obviously).  There were a number of reasons for my not wanting to belong to a gym, including the aforementioned, but a major concern of mine was my recent recovery from disordered eating.  Gyms are, often, spaces where a lot of weight-loss talk tends to come up, and I wasn't really interested in participating in anything like intentional weight loss, especially in relation to exercise.  I've been focusing on a philosophy of body neutrality, and I didn't want to risk being sucked back into the mentality of shrinking myself again.  

I did find a fantastic space to exercise, with knowledgeable coaches and friendly exercisers.  I spoke frankly with the onboarding coach about my history of disordered eating, and he was sensitive and understanding.  He and the other coaches seemed ready to meet me where I was and to help me focus on my own goals of building muscle and gaining mobility and endurance.  

Eager to be part of the community, I accepted an invitation to an online meeting on a weekday afternoon.  I was excited to get to know the other members I might see in classes.  We weren't 3 minutes into the meeting when the first person started to talk about the weight she had lost that week.  Another expressed her disappointment in not losing weight.  Everyone wanted to talk about weight loss.  I started to hear whooshing in my ears, pounding in my chest.  I thought, surely I could sit here and listen to others talk about *their* goals.  People are free to lose weight if they want to, after all.  But the pounding and the whooshing became louder.  I started looking around my room, trying to find something to focus on, something safe in the here and now that would keep me from re-entering my prior trauma.  And then came the voice, the one that starts screaming "get out get out get out get OUT GET OUT YOU ARE NOT SAFE HERE".

I privately messaged the meeting leader that I had to excuse myself and then dissolved into a trembling, wailing, nonverbal meltdown for about 30 solid minutes.  I slid to the floor and banged my limbs on the hard wood as words screamed in my head.  But my voice could only utter cries and panting breath as I tried desperately to hold on to the meal I had eaten earlier, as the muscles in my body pulsed and contracted.  I pressed palms of hands to my eyes to keep out the light, so that I could descend into the void of my imagination, only vaguely aware of my surroundings.  

My husband was home.  He cared for me as soon as and as much I was able to be cared for, and once my brain could bring the words back to my mouth, we talked about what sent me into such a tailspin.  I told him I still wanted to go to the gym (and I have since had several conversations with the coaches--I'm very pleased with the workouts and will continue there) but that I wished I could wear some kind of banner that would let everyone know right away that thinness was uninteresting to me.  I want to make it clear that I'm there for the weights, for the jumps, for the sweaty strength and community cardio. I want to advertise to anyone who can see my shirt that I will *not* be talking to you about my weight, your weight, or anyone else's weight, for that matter.  

If necessity is the mother of invention, perhaps aggravation is the mother of inspiration.  Some of my designs are completely unrelated to anti-diet messaging, but many are.  More designs are coming, but here it is: the official announcement of my line of Tater-Tot forward athleisure and random housewares.  Please enjoy, and thank you for reading its origin story.

https://getfedgear.threadless.com/

https://getfedgear.threadless.com/

On Making Mistakes

I currently teach kids how to speak French.

If you've ever learned to speak a foreign language, you know how difficult it is, and how much time is spent completely butchering said language.

That's okay.

One of my colleagues says that learning to speak a language is like learning an instrument: before you make music, you make a lot of noise.

One day, one of my students parroted a platitude he had heard:  "FAIL stands for First Attempt In Learning."  At first, I kind of liked that.  As I thought more about it, though, I was bothered by the implication that you only fail once, and only the first time you try something.  I feel like that's a bit misleading.  Most of us have to repeat that step over and over again.

If you want to progress at a skill, you have to do the stuff that's a little bit too hard for you.  As one of my climbing friends said, in rebuttal to my protestation about trying a tough climb on toprope (it was rated 5.10), "you'll start climbing 5.9s clean when you start working on 5.10s".

My husband encouraged me to try more instruments when I started learning guitar.  I said "I want to get really good on guitar first, before I learn any others."  He said "you'll get better on guitar when you start learning other instruments."

Those guys are smart guys.  I learn more about learning outside of the classroom than anywhere else. But that's neither here nor there.

So, as I was beginning to learn to play piano, I decided to demonstrate how, if you expect to succeed at anything really hard (and I mean, come on, who wants to do easy stuff?) you'll be doing a lot of failing along the way.

If you'd like to see how fun it is to make mistakes, enjoy this 5-minute conflation of my 6-month journey attempting to learn how to play one singular song on the piano:

Where You Hang Your Hat

To all the unfortunate souls who feel shame or disdain for a place where they have dwelt in the past...

I am proud of every place I've resided, because for a time, however short or long a period, be it a night or a decade,

I called that place a home.

I am proud of how being there gave me (however small or great a quantity) some strength, some love, some rest, some excitement.

I called that place a home.

I am proud of where I've come from, where I've grown, where I've spent my time and have learned to be the person I've become;

I called that place a home.

So pause before you sully my soil with unkind words or personal distaste.

We all have our memories, sweet and sour, of where we've lived and where we'll live. For now I am here, and I love it, because

I call this place my home.

On Making Oneself Happy

A few months ago, I saw this wave of Facebook posts (and ostensibly twitter posts, but I struggle with twitter -- #whatswrongwithcompletesentencesandpunctuation?).  These posts were "hash-tagged"(that's when you put a number, or "pound" sign in front of words without spaces and punctuation--all my work teaching kindergarten undone by a character limit) as "100 happy days."

One particular story caught my attention.  A friend of a friend, (we'll call my friend 'Jane' and the lady she was friends with 'Carla') had been posting about her happy days, and apparently 'Carla' passed away before she could finish.  I did not even know Carla (but I did know Jane, who continued posting her happy days after her friend had gone) and I thought, if these two people, one who was facing her final days, and the other who lost her friend, could find things to be happy about, then maybe I need to make more of an effort to find happiness.

So I started doing it.

And at first, it was a really enriching experience.  Some days were so wonderful, I was challenged to find just one thing to settle on as my 'reason to be happy'.  Some days were so terrible, it was a challenge to find anything.  But I soldiered on, dutifully posting about one thing each day that made me happy.

About 30 days in, I realized something.  100 days is a really long time.

And the truth of the matter is, frequently, I was generally finding pleasure in the same things on a daily basis: riding my bike, eating tacos, laying in the hammock, watching trashy television, going to bed reeeeeaaalllly early.  But because I was posting publicly, I felt like I needed to post a different thing each day.  That started to get tricky.

And then, there have been some really tough days.  Like, a few months ago when the manperson and I finally decided, "this is it, this is the last time we 'try' to get pregnant.  After this, I'm buying a surfboard and throwing in the towel."  So I'm probably not going to be a mother.  Alternate options are, well...we've just decided that we're going to not, probably.  And while I'm satisfied with our collective decision, I can't say I'm exactly 'happy' about it, and that some grieving isn't taking place (along with a sense of relief).  That's a complicated emotion that doesn't fit neatly into a #hashtag. And my mom has been sick.  She'll probably be okay, but she's been sick.  And then *I* got sick, so I can't go visit her, cuz I'l make her sicker.  And my car needed a new battery and axle.  And I'm missing Halloween because of the aforementioned pestilence. And work has been really, really hard, even though it's been really, really fulfilling.  And I'm seriously burned out and want to cry frequently and sometimes I just don't feel so very happy about much of anything and sometimes I'd like to express that.

But I felt like, well, "not on Facebook."  Because I'm doing #100happydays and I don't want to confuse people and let them know that my emotions are complicated.  #hashtagscannothaveapostrophes #itscomplicatedisthereforepossessive #apostrophesmatter

And that's when #100happydays began to turn into a source of aggravation.  I began to dread it.  "God, what am I going to post about for #100happydays today?  The bug bites driving me insane that I fear might be #bedbugs?  The parent-teacher conferences where my student's mom seems on the verge of tears because she really doesn't know what to do to help her son anymore?  Avocado.  Whatever.  I like avocado.  Pajamas.  Those are innocuous."

By now I was in the 80s of days, and I couldn't bear to quit.  Because I'd made some arbitrary commitment to myself and my 'readers', I kept plugging away.  (Oh, come on, Dianna.  Get over yourself.  It's FACEBOOK.  No one cares.  Everyone's on twitter and snapchat and FaceTime and reddit and wherever #kidsthesedays are these days.)

All these thoughts reminded me of a woman I met a few years ago (okay--14 years ago--#wheredoesthetimego) who refused to use the expression "to make (one) happy."  She insisted that the statement implied force--that one could be made to be happy by someone or something else, and that's exactly what I felt I was endeavoring to do, one insidious Facebook post at a time.  (Just imagine the internal dialogue: "Be happy!"  "You can't make me!") Doggedly searching for an original, daily 'affirmation' (that is 'clean' enough to post publicly) every single day for over three months does not make you happy, let me tell you.  And I agree with my old acquaintance.  I don't want to be 'made happy'.

When I was a student in France, I took ballet.  (I swear this is all leading to a conclusion!) I was the lumpiest, clumsiest, Americanest ballerina you ever did see.  The instructor was a drill sergeant to the French girls who learned with her.  She was very kind to me, though, mostly because I think she believed I had probably been dropped on the head a few times.  After the first class, I asked her if it would be all right to continue lessons with her, even though I'd be leaving France before the end of the semester.  She said "Si ça te donne de la joie." (If it gives you joy).  And it did.  Along with sore muscles and bruised pride, learning ballet gave me joy.

And since that day, this is how I choose, generally, to speak of those things that bring smiles to my face and brightness to my life.  Those things give me joy.

I wouldn't say, after all this, that one shouldn't do things like #100happydays and other similar affirmation practices...but I also wouldn't say that one should do it.

You should do what brings you joy (even if that means stubbornly plowing through a personal emotional experiment just so that you can write a preachy blog post to air your dirty laundry to the three people who still read blogs).

You should recognize what  brings you joy and recognize what brings you sorrow because you need both to be, well, happy.

In truth, no one needs a reason to be happy, just like no one needs a reason to be sad or to be scared or to be amused or to be tired or to be aroused.  100 actual "happy" days seems like some kind of weird purgatory, now that I really think about it (I'm imagining a pink cotton candy land where Pharrel plays nonstop and the sun always shines...).

As for the #100happydays thing,  I'm glad Carla and Jane did it.  I'm glad I did it.  I'm glad I'm not doing it any more.  Do it if it brings you joy.  Don't if it doesn't.

May all your days bring you: joy, sorrow, humor, grief, pleasure, pain, and growth.  We should cherish them all.

#allthedaysallthefeels

Shifty Squirrel

ICHC Limerick--I never done it, I swear!

Exposing the squirrel's nutty ruse
was a case no one wanted to choose

sans a gumshoe to run it

I sussed out who done it

by gath'ring and solving the clues

To Get to the Other Side

ICHC dabbles in darkness

Once the tears of the poultry were dried,
’twas the Tomcat who cast off his pride.
Nestled ‘mongst hay and bricks
he stood guard o’er the chicks

keeping all safe and sound on this side

original post: http://cheezburger.com/8318741248

ICHC Limerick--Frau Maus

There once was a nosy old mouse
who spread vicious lies through the house.
She gossiped and gabbed,
and blathered and blabbed
til the housemistress hollered “Sie! AUS!!”