Stockholming Myself, Day 1

I've been gone a long time, o loyal reader. Part of that is the bevy of social networking sites with blog-style functions, which--when combined with my tendency to dive right into the latest fad communication style--proved deadly to the actual blog-blog.

A briefing on the happenings since my last entry (on 2/27/2008. Good Lord.):

• Got MySpace. Tried to copy posts. Didn't work.
• Kept working at BP/HDR.
• Ditched MySpace when MafiaWars got boring and sexual solicitation became routine. Who knew that could happen?
• Returned to Facebook and started playing Farmville. Somewhere in there fell into and out of infatuation, investigated becoming a nun, slapped in the face by God to stop that silliness.
• Started seeing the love of my life (LoL). Four months later he started dating me, too. Mutually agreed upon anniversary: May 3. Celebrated our anniversary this past weekend. Don't ask--it was touching. Also, the food at Jen's is incredible--best creme brulee in the Anchorage Bowl, at least until I discover a better one.
• Kept working at BP/HDR.
• Birth of goddaughter. She is way cooler than anyone else’s godchild, including yours. Sorry, but it’s true.
• Gave up my internet to save money and prevent self from being consumed by Farmville. Sidebar: Why do people insist on giving you non-producing gifts? Why would I want a decorative gnome when I could get a fig tree? C'mon, people.
• Gave up Farmville, even at LoL's condo, because it was consuming me anyway.
• Ceded the battle and move to one space after periods, especially in fully-justified text.
• Got engaged. Total surprise. Wedding in 9.5 months and counting.
• Still working at BP/HDR. Assignment was originally for August to October 2007. Still going strong two and a half years later.
• Returned to childhood habit of eating sweet peas out of the can. Don't be jealous just because I've thrown off the stifling robe of good health and propriety, and chosen canned over frozen. If you'd stop letting Alton Brown rule your life, you could do it to. Alton, if you read this--you and I must disagree on this one small thing; while on most you are correct, canned peas are now and will remain good eats.
• Moving out of apartment by the creek to live in house with friend. Benefits: sort stuff now, rather than just before the wedding; live with friend, possibly 2; not have to worry about groceries going bad if not home for a couple of days; save about half on rent.
• Working out 3-4 times a week, and trying to eat better.
• Started Stockholming myself. Today.

So, Stockholming. It’s a genius concept generated by one Temerity Jane, operating on the idea that the more you see yourself as you are, the more you will like the you that you are right now, not the one that you will be if you lose weight/dye hair/get nosejob/grow ten inches. It’s not about weight loss, exercise, or any other goal other than knowing yourself and liking that self, physically. I like it, so I’m rolling with it. I gotta be honest, though—I will probably talk about weight loss, since my own goal is to be significantly lighter than I am now. But I’m hoping that if the Stockholming works, I’ll be able to take compliments better, rather than turning “You look great” into “Thanks; my butt looks enormous, though,” as though the speaker didn’t notice the size of the butt and if they had they would never have paid the compliment.




You kind of have to accept a couple of things.

1) I do not have a full-length mirror, so it'll be as full length as possible.

2) I will forget to do it, so I'm thinking weekly.

3) I will sometimes forget to do it at home; welcome to the inside of the bathroom at work.

One think I do like about this one, though, is that Stacey and Clinton would totally support my jacket, which draws attention to the thinnest part of my bod: right under the bust. On the other hand, I really need to do something else with the hair because--short though it may seem to everyone else--this hair has no character when it's this long.

Just Another Tuesday

So many thoughts today, she wrote, as though this day were any different from all the others that had happened before, to everyone else. As though a day filled with thoughts were an oddity, and this day in particular were special, because the thoughts were a little more mundane than on other days, and therefore required more reflection. And, of course, an audience wrapped in ether, nodding its head at her sage musings, knowing all the while that this was just an exercise at the barre, a chance to stretch and notice her lack of turn-out in the great prose mirror.

I drove to Earthquake Park on Sunday. Actually, I drove to the park beyond that, at Postmark Rd. or whatever road leads away from the inlet toward the airport. I just parked there, and looked at Denali, all pink and holy, and then over at the postcard of Anchorage against the Chugach. I used to drive to that part the summer after freshman year of college; every Friday night at eleven thirty or midnight when I had scraped the last dried strawberries out of their metal bin at the airport TCBY. I’d have yogurt up to the elbows—I was always so tired that I’d wash my hands to keep the steering wheel clean, but screw the rest—and drive Dad’s truck to the park to watch the sunset on the city, lying to my parents later that it took an extra half hour to finish at work..

Sunday I mostly watched ice flow out on the tide. The silt beach was frozen solid, but the ice moved in big grey chunks, the way I imagine ambergris to look, racing out to sea. It made the water in summer look lazy, pooling around and lapping at the beach. The ice was all business, bumping its way away from the city like new high school graduates heading Outside. I got out of the car and leaned against its dirty hood, hoping to hear the floes moving like I would in a movie, but all I heard was wind and the engines of other people’s cars as they parked for photos. After all of the mess of Saturday, the very lack of drama was what made the moment perfect.

This evening was like that, too. I was driving home, and felt no compulsion to make my exit. I just stayed on the highway and drove (thank goodness I get excellent gas mileage, or the granolas would kill me) until I didn’t want to anymore. I passed Chugiak, and there was Denali again—huge and blushing—and then past Mirror Lake and Eklutna until I was on the flats headed to Palmer. Once on the straightaway, I saw that, while all of the trees have lost their snow, the willow bushes are all frosted; covered in ice crystal except where the moose have brushed them brown. In a couple of months the flats will be covered in water and grasses and wild irises, and the side of the road littered with moose calf carcasses serving as memorials to our impatience. For right now, though, I’m quite content with our clean highway, and slow ice, and scraping my car in the morning. Leaving home was hard. Leaving school was ten times harder. Coming home was worth it, and looking around my little apartment—my organized closet, made bed, cluttered craft room and newly-Swiffed ™ laminate floors—it was the right thing for me. I’m glad God knows I need the reminders.