Andrea and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

I'm having a day.  Not just a day.  A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  I'm sure you can relate.

I worked out at 7:30 this morning which, sure, good for me for hitting the gym.  But let's just say I'm not the sparkling pillar of positivity that you've come to know and love when it's 7 freaking 30 in the morning.  My trainer, however, IS a sparkling pillar of positivity.  Always.  At every hour of every day.  And she has two teenagers at home.  I'm very proud of her for it.  She's very encouraging and she listens and lets me use the 'F' word as much as I want because, frankly, that's the only word my brain can come up with at 7 freaking 30 in the morning.  But today I was out of sorts and I said something unusually mean to my sparkly, shiny friend and now I feel terrible.  So, if she should happen to stumble upon this, I'm very sorry and thank you for not punishing me with that 'stand-up-sit-down' thing even though you know how much I hate it and I probably deserved it.

Afterwards I went to my wonderful job only to receive some unsettling news about things to come (or possibly not come) at work and it put me on edge.  Luckily I'm a civil servant and the world expects us to be surly, so that worked out just fine.

I was SO happy at the end of the day to finally be able to pack it in and head home.  Of course today it's raining and, at the very innuendo of rain, every citizen of the state of Ohio collectively forgets how to drive.  I'm sure I could include myself in that collective shame, but this is my story so every other driver can suck it.

I get home and there's a notice on my door that management will be coming to inspect my apartment tomorrow.  Side note: I've been sick lately.  The entire city has been passing around a Martian death virus for the past couple of weeks and I was one of the parasite's lucky hosts.  So my apartment looks like you would expect it to look after its inhabitant spent the past 9 or 10 days feeling the grim fingers of death at her neck.  So they're coming to my apartment in about 17 hours but I don't really have TIME to create a Better Homes & Gardens facade because I have Bible study tonight.  So I did what every responsible, job-holding, tax-paying, grown up would do and just started stuffing things into closets and under the bed.

I take a moment to quickly go through the rest of the mail just in case Ed McMahon plans to stop by and wants to make sure I'll be home.  Sadly, there's no letter from Ed, but there IS a bill for $300 from Walgreen's. As most of you know by now, my father suffers from dementia.  He still drives, which I hate, but the state of Ohio is perfectly a-ok with it so what can I do?  I've taken away his access to most of his money and accounts so he can't get into too much trouble, right?  Yeah, right.  Apparently he decided to go into Walgreen's to get his annual flu and pneumonia shots and told them to just send him the bill.  Problem, he lives in assisted living and they give those vaccines to every resident.  He had already been vaccinated but didn't remember so he figured he'd go get the shots himself.  Of course the insurance company isn't about to pay for 2 sets of vaccines which is how I came to be staring at a bill that we really can't afford for $300.  Fan-freaking-tastic.

It's at this point that my darling cat starts to vigorously remind me that she's hungry and it's dinner time but, SHIT I haven't washed her food bowls.  Keep in mind, I still haven't fed myself.  I'm running on a blueberry muffin and an overpriced Starbucks coffee, both of which I consumed at 9am.  But my cat is very persistent so I decide to wash her bowls and feed her before feeding myself.  This isn't quite good enough for her so she begins to wind circle-eight formations around my ankles while meowing louder and louder to remind me that she's STILL hungry.  She does such a good job that I trip and drop her porcelain bowls which shatter on the kitchen floor.  I. Do. Not. Have. Time. For. This.  I end up putting her food on a plate for now but she isn't smart enough to hold down one side while she eats so she ends up scooting the plate in circles around the kitchen trying to lap up her dinner.  I could watch this comedy act for hours but, oh crap, I need to get to Bible study.  I still haven't eaten but they usually have snacky treats.  Hopefully they have SOMETHING there that isn't vegan, gluten free, organic, and/or kind to the environment.  My friends are such good people.  Damn them.

So I hop in my car and drive the half hour to Dublin to meet with my people.  The people I love oh so much who will comfort me and lift my spirit.  Only...Wait...No one's home.  What?  So I grab my phone and check my email.  I'm terrible at checking my email.  Apparently an email was sent hours ago that we had to cancel due to, big surprise here, serious illness.  Son of a @#%&!  So I did what every responsible, job-holding, tax-paying, grown up would do and sat in my car and cried.  Back off.  I'm a girl.  We're allowed.

But, this actually works out.  This gives me time to run to the pet store, buy new METAL bowls, and hit the grocery store because OF COURSE I spotted mold on my bread at home and if I don't at least have a sandwich within the next hour I'm going to commit a felony.  I also used the time to throw some laundry in the washer because, after all, I AM a responsible, job-holding, tax-paying, grown up.  Fifty bucks says that laundry doesn't make it out of the dryer and folded until next weekend.

So that's it.  I'm done.  I have adulted this whole day and none of it really worked out so I'm done.

I did do ONE thing right today.  I phoned a friend.  And not just any friend, the RIGHT friend.  I have a lot of friends, and each has her own special talent and today was the day for Crissy.  Crissy is amazing. She herself is somewhat of a sparkly pillar, but mostly in the sense that everything she owns either started off bedazzled or eventually ended up that way.  I called Crissy, not because she's sparkly, but because I knew she wouldn't blow smoke up my butt and tell me that this means tomorrow has to be fantastic.  Nope.  Crissy told me what I wanted, neigh, needed to hear.  Essentially that my day blew.

See, that's the thing I think guys are missing from their relationships.  They feel the need to 'fix' things.  Everything has to be a project.  It's different for us girls.  Most of the time all we're looking for is a little freaking sympathy.  And Crissy is great at that.

My day is slowly coming to an end.  I still have a ton of crap to stash and I still haven't had my sandwich, and those clothes sure as f*** aren't coming out of the dryer tonight.  But I feel okay.  I talked to my friend and she agreed that my day totally sucks, which is all I've wanted all night long.  So now I'm going to go make a sandwich and watch PBS for a bit before collapsing into bed.  If the landlord wants to evict me tomorrow, screw him.  I'm just proud I made it through today.

The Lost Generation

I stumbled upon this meme today. My first reaction was, 'Yes! They should do that!'  Then I started reading the comments accompanying the post.  Man are people ever heated about this topic.  What I hope to be just a very vocal minority blames people for shirking the responsibility of parenting and leaving it up to educators.  I'll give an example of the mindless prattle being ignorantly spewed forth.  I think it sums up the emotions of the peanut gallery rather nicely: 

Why is it the school's responsibility to raise our children and teach them the things parents should be? Come on people! Wake up and teach your children these things! No one else should be responsible for it but the parents. If the parents can't handle it, then maybe they shouldn't have been one to begin with. --Jenn Fulton

Dear Jenn: No, some people shouldn’t be parents to begin with.  But that doesn’t stop stupid people from breeding.  Do you really want to deny a scared teenager help just because his/her parents are tools?  Maybe you’re the one who needs to ‘wake up’.

Children don’t decide what circumstances they are born into.  They don’t get to pick their parents.  They don’t choose to be born into poverty or abuse.  They can't control if their parents are present or absent, whether physically or emotionally.  I completely agree that parents SHOULD be responsible for raising and protecting their children.  But what should be, more often than not, is not what is.

So, let's all just agree that children deserve help from someone and that that someone might not necessarily be a parent.

That being said, let's address the kids themselves.  We as a society have already decided that we need to talk to our teens about sex (or abstinence), drugs, peer pressure, and bullying.  Why are we so afraid to talk about mental health?  Topics like depression and anxiety have been clouded in shame and this does a severe disservice to our children.

I didn't have the best childhood, but I knew that my parents loved me.  They told me I was smart and beautiful and capable of great things.  But I didn't believe them.  I spent my every waking moment comparing myself to the kids that I felt were smarter than me (I'm looking at you, Shannon). and the kids that were prettier than me (like Kelly's natural beauty) and the ones I felt were more capable of great things than I would ever be (if only I had Damon's talent).  My parents spent so much time telling me how great I am, but they never stopped to ask how I felt about the matter.  My mother was of the Tom Cruise school of thought when it came to psychiatry.  If you're sad, just think about something else.  Therapy and drugs are for quitters.  She never once discussed mental health in a positive manner with me.

So each day my parents would tell me I was smart and beautiful and capable of great things, just like good parents should.  Then they would pat me on the head and push me out the door and off to school to fend for myself.  And each day I would get a little more depressed and anxious, which I had been taught was a weakness, so I felt a little more worthless.  Each day I left another little piece of myself on that front stoop while I silently cried out to be allowed back inside.  

Please don't misunderstand; I'm not blaming my parents.  They did the best they knew how.  I just truly wish that they had been able to talk to me.  Or that I felt I was allowed to talk to them.  Luckily the world has changed a little since I left home almost 20 years ago. Now I speak openly about my struggles with anxiety and depression.  I take medication and I see a therapist.  I am not a bad person, or a weak person, or less of a person because of it.  And neither is anyone else.

I know it's a difficult topic, but I beg of all of you, please talk to the kids in your life about mental health.  I don't care if it's your kids, your nieces and nephews, your best friend's kids, kids at church, whatever.  If you see a teen is struggling, please throw them a rope. Don't just hope someone else will notice and intervene.   Also, don't be surprised if they push your hand away.  They may not be ready to talk about it, but at least you can plant a seed of hope.  Let them know that you will be there to help when they are ready.  

Maybe you feel it's not your place to butt in.  Maybe you feel it should be their parents' responsibility.  Maybe you're right.  But what I hope I've been able to communicate here is that it doesn't matter who SHOULD reach out.  All that matters is that someone does. 

--shared compliments of Crissy Gwinn

The Great Joy Heist

Greetings, friends.  It’s good to know you’re still around after yesterday’s intense lesson.  Today I thought it prudent to adopt a lighter tone so today we will talk about joy.

There’s an expression we’ve all heard over and over again to ‘Never let anyone steal your joy.’  That is so, so true.  It’s definitely a mantra I have to repeat in my head daily if not hourly.  All too often we plus-size people fall into the trap of letting other people steal our joy.  For example, you could be having the most amazing day at the beach, but let just one teenage douchebag make a “beached whale” comment and the party is over.  Fold up the chairs, grab your towel, we’re out of here. 

But why?  Weren’t you having fun?  Did you build a sand castle?  You can’t leave without building a sand castle!  Sand castles are one of the two funnest architectural structures to create (the other being blanket forts).  Then there are always shells to collect, and waves to play in.  There’s boogie boarding and surfing if you have any shred of balance or agility (which I do not).  So, why are you leaving?  Oh right.  Because the douchebag said you were fat.  The guy that you will never, ever, not in a million years ever see or hear from again.  It reminds me of a lesson that my dad taught me a long time ago about life in general.  He said, “Your success or failure in life will depend on your ability to deal with a**holes.”  When you suffer from low self-esteem, regardless of whether it stems from body issues or something else, it can be very hard to find yourself in a positive situation where you feel happy and fulfilled.  So, for those fleeting moments that you DO feel joy, don’t waste it!  ESPECIALLY on a**holes.

Now, as important as it is to protect your joy and never let anyone steal it, it’s not the whole story.  The crucial part that always gets left off of that life lesson is, ‘Do not expect anyone to create your joy.’  It’s just like how the Declaration of Independence endows the right to the PURSUIT of happiness, not happiness itself.  I missed out on so much of my life sitting in my room waiting for others to come to me.  I waited patiently for someone to invite me to live.  I did manage to do SOME living.  I’ve had slumber parties, went trick-or-treating, visited the beach, even went horseback riding in the Appalachian Mountains.  Those moments of joy are mine to keep forever.  But they were fleeting.  I listen to people talk about their crazy exploits during high school and college and feel like I really missed out.  They all had so much fun together!  They had fun while I waited patiently for someone to invite me to live.

Now I’m a grownup.  The days of impetuousness have passed me by.  Now we all have jobs, spouses, kids, responsibilities.  We schedule in coffee around Little League games and dance recitals.  We promise to have dinner as soon as I’m back from my next business trip.  Most of our conversations end with, “We should get together sometime!”  But then we never do.  We mean to.  We truly want that time to connect.  We might even pencil it in on the calendar.  But then that day rolls around and the dog goes missing, and Mikey comes down with the chicken pox, and your boss needs you to put in some extra hours on the Feldman case.  Next thing you know, that window you created for joy flies away, not to be seen again for another hundred years.  It’s Just. Not. Fair. 

I have a friend who is a relatively new mom.  Her world currently revolves around identifying which part of her baby is leaking fluids and plugging the leak.  Then there’s me.  I have my own child.  He just happens to be 68 and named Dad, but he’s every bit the challenge for me that the infant is for my friend.  Despite the roadblocks, we are making an effort to be there for each other more.  Believe me when I tell you, it feels pretty damn good spending time with her.  Being with girlfriends heals you in a way other relationships won’t.  You feel stronger, prettier, and more capable just because you spent time with them.  So hire a babysitter (or force dad to be alone with the kids for once), call in sick to work, and go see your girlfriend.  Create a moment of joy for yourself and don’t let anyone take it away from you.  Not even yourself.