Waisting Away

In my world, going to the doctor is stressful. Whether it’s due to illness or just a quick check-up, I know I’m headed to the scale whether I like it or not. (For the record, I don’t like it.) Once I’ve dumped my purse and all easily removable accessories into The Chair Next To The Scale, I step on that awful thing and listen as the nurse slides the weight from the 150 mark to the 200. I’m generally able to predict my weight within two pounds. Is this a gift? A dubious one, at best, at least until I see those numbers dwindling.

As a fat girl, I’m always nervous that my perfect blood pressure will start to creep upward, the way it does for so many overweight individuals worldwide. It’s a miracle that I’ve managed to keep ideal blood pressure (and cholesterol, thank you) despite being obese. Luckily, most doctors just give a cursory glance at my vitals before declaring me “good to go.”

Naturally, the doctor to broach the subject of my weight would be thirty-one, fit, and handsome. He was honest with me. Very honest. So honest that I thought I might cry. And then he started throwing around numbers. Only one number stood out in my mind, though. I’m one hundred pounds overweight. Did it hurt to write that, to admit that to myself and to the world? Absolutely. So, you ask, what are you going to do about it? Easy. I’m going to lose weight.

It won’t be easy, and I’m not expecting the weight to melt off, but, with hard work, it will.

Something I should mention? I’m not going to deprive myself of the things I want. If I want a Coke, I’m going to have a Coke. I’m not going to sink into a swirling eddy of self-flagellation because I allowed myself a bowl of ice cream. I’m not going to eat carrot sticks and shy away from good food, real food simply because some anorexic, self-professed diet guru says that carbs (and sugar, and processed food, etc.) are BAD.

I’m going to exercise every day. I got an elliptical machine for Christmas, which is fabulous because it’s my preferred method of torture, and was instrumental in my losing twenty-five pounds (which I have since gained back, plus thirty-five) in the summer of ‘08. My ultimate goal is to have the stamina to do a solid hour on the elliptical. Now? I’m at three minutes, and it’s not an easy three. There is much cussing and wheezing. But the endurance will come with time, and I’ll begin to see real progress.

I should say this: I don’t hate myself. I could remain fat and blissfully ignorant, but am I comfortable at this weight? No, honestly, because my clothes don’t fit and I’m so out of shape that I can’t chase the cats up/down the stairs without considerable huffing and/or puffing. It’s embarrassing, and I don’t want to live like this anymore, particularly when being so overweight has serious health consequences that I’m too young and stupid to grasp.

This isn’t a New Year’s resolution. This is simply a matter of habit. I must exercise every day; my health (and waistline) depend on it.

Not-so laffy Taffy

I just dropped close to $300 at the vet. My black kitty, Taffy, has been favoring her right ear for a while, sometimes crying out when it bothered her. I assumed she had ear mites or an ear infection, and I made her vet appointment at Banfield pet hospital. Her appointment was today at 5pm. The verdict? Taffy has ear mites AND an ear infection, so she’s totally miserable. I’ll have to doctor her ears twice daily for two weeks, which I’m sure she’ll love–especially the ice-cold refrigerated drops. I also got flea meds for both dogs and both cats. I might live on Ramen this week, but my pets will be flea-free and happy.

5 Reasons This Week Was Great

1. I transferred. Rather than working at the crazy-busy twenty-four hour store, I’m now working at a slower, more reasonably paced store. An added bonus? It’s right across the street from the mall, so Preston and I aren’t having any transportation issues with our shared car.

2. I got an awesome Raiders shirt at Old Navy.

3. Last night’s cheese enchiladas were delicious.

4. The weather is cool, crisp, and it FINALLY stopped raining.

5. I saw Paranormal Activity last night, and was still able to get a full night’s sleep once I got home. In case you were wondering, it was very scary. Very. I shrieked, “Oh my GOD!” and “Shut the FUCK up!” along with everyone else. I watched a few people get up and leave the theater after a couple of particularly intense scenes. Should you see it? Totally.

5 Reasons This Week Sucked

1. My pet chinchilla, Kirby, died. Of what? I’m not entirely sure. I think it had something to do with his mouth or teeth, as he had stopped eating and seemed to be drooling slightly. Unfortunately, Knoxville is little more than a glorified college town and exotic vets are, uh, nonexistant. I contacted the College of Veterinarian Medicine at UT, but they didn’t have any appointments available for an entire week. After countless calls, I finally found a vet who would treat a chinchilla, and booked Kirby an appointment for the following morning. He died that night. I cried like a baby (at work, mind you) when I got the text saying he didn’t make it, but was spared the awful task of packing his things away. It was already taken care of by the time I came home from work.

2. I have bronchitis, and I’m coughing. A lot.

3. Oh, and I have a sinus infection, too. I guess it’s two-for-one on heinous, irritating illnesses. I knew I had bronchitis. The hacking, soul-destroying coughs made that pretty clear, but the hidden fluid behind my ears and the throat irritation (which I’d assumed was from coughing constantly) told a different story.

4. I’m now, roughly, the size of Jupiter and warrant my own gravitational pull. I had my BMI analyzed, and I’m…yeah. I should just kill myself now. Coincidentally, my blood pressure and cholesterol are perfectly normal.

5. I worked late and missed True Blood, now I’ll have to wait to watch, because I must go to bed to try to recover from the two-for-one energy-draining illness that has taken hold in my lungs. Fuck.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Okay, I know I’ve neglected my blog. Once upon a time, I would have felt horribly guilty. Now? Not so much.

The major change in my life: I no longer work at Apple. Want details? I simply realized that, for me, there were no opportunities for advancement, and chose to leave the company, rather than continue on in a part-time capacity. In short, I moved on.

Now I work for Walgreens as a pharmacy technician, as I did four years ago. After ten months in a chronically understaffed pharmacy in one of the poorest, scariest areas in Memphis, I swore that I’d never work in a pharmacy again.

Naturally, things change.

I tried (and tried, and tried) to become full-time at Apple. Finally, finances dictated that I couldn’t continue hoping in vain. Realizing two things–1) I’d been to pharmacy tech school, and 2) I have prior experience as a pharmacy tech–I submitted an application via the Walgreens website. Since I’d let my certification and license lapse, I thought I’d have a difficult time finding work. I was wrong. I received a call the very next day and turned in my notice at Apple a week later.

Life in this pharmacy is very fast-paced. This means my shifts practically fly by, even though I sometimes feel as though I’m perilously close to a mental collapse at any given moment. Luckily, I’ve managed to avoid any unfortunate incidents.

In honor of my new job, I give you a few Random Observations From The Pharmacy:

1. Most of west Knoxville is in pain. We dispense so much hydrocodone, that we’ve jokingly begun to refer to it as Vitamin H.

2. Most of west Knoxville takes Ambien. Apparently, being a snooty soccer mom makes it quite difficult to catch your eight hours.

3. Years later, I still judge people for being on government-funded health care. And I’m not talking about Medicare. This probably makes me a bad person; I should probably care…but, alas, I do not. Please don’t bitch about a three dollar copay on a $2000 medication. Really. Be reasonable.

4. ADD and/or ADHD is overdiagnosed.

5. Everyone should be on a mood stabilizer. I know this sounds a bit extreme, but I’m a much better person now that I take one. Who wouldn’t benefit from a nice, calming dose of “tone it the fuck down?”

6. I hate drive-thru pharmacy more now than I did four years ago. Do me a favor, okay? Don’t treat me like an illiterate fast food jockey because I’m in a drive-thru. For one, I’m not stupid, and I’m pretty sure you want that Valtrex prescription kept quiet. Play nice, and I’ll do the same.

I believe this is all for now, dear friends. Until next time. Stay classy, y’all.

Thursday.

Some days, I like my job. People are friendly and understanding, even when they’re having some sort of trouble. Needing an appointment to speak to someone at the Genius Bar really isn’t the end of the world, and coming back at a later time (or date, even) is perfectly acceptable. And then there are days like today. People are rude and impatient, even when I’m doing my very best to help them. Needing an appointment to speak to a technician is absurd, and it’s perfectly reasonable to throw a hissy because I can’t get you seen ahead of people who have appointments.

By the end of my 9am-5pm shift, I was ready to leave the Apple store for good. I didn’t know what had finally pushed me over the edge—maybe the woman crying over the accidentally damaged screen of her white MacBook, or maybe the belligerent Russian man with the imaginary iPhone problem—but by noon, I was counting the seconds until the end of my workday. When I left, it had just begun pouring rain, and I was drenched by the time I got to my car. Finally, I pulled away from the mall and onto the interstate…which was at a stand-still. My trip home should have taken approximately eight minutes. In reality, it took closer to forty-five.

By the time I began maneuvering the slick backroads near my apartment, the rain had slacked considerably. In fact, visibility had improved so much that I was able to see a freshly killed chipmunk in the road. Seeing its tiny little body, surprisingly unmangled, made me profoundly sad.

Finally home, I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter with a too much force. They slid across the counter and onto the floor. I left them there.

Product Review-YTC Lip Glosses & Tints

It’s no secret that I love Yes To Carrots products, so I jumped at the chance to review the new line of lip glosses and lip tints–especially when the friendly folks at YTC were willing to ship them directly to my door. Here are my observations:

The glosses are wonderfully sheer and not sticky at all. There’s nothing worse than sticky, goopey lip gloss, and YTC definitely delivered a nice texture. The peppermint oil is great for a slight tingle and a little burst of fresh breath. One huge benefit? The sheer shades work with many (if not all) skin tones.

My favorite shade: Carrot Kiss, a warm peachy tone.

The tints are equally awesome, as the smooth texture reminds me of my beloved YTC lip butter. Again, the shades are sheer-ish, so they could work for just about anyone. Like the gloss, there’s the added coolness of peppermint oil.

My favorite shade: Natural Smile, a shimmery neutral that’s perfect for summer.

Want more?

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25 Random Things

I have neglected my blog, which is inexcusable. Things are looking up, however. I have new posts in the works and will be posting shortly! In the meantime, here is a cross-posted (from Facebook) list of random things about me.

1. On a wild, drunken Spring Break dare, I strutted to the karaoke stage and sang the most recent version of “Lady Marmalade” with another girl. I channeled my inner diva, singing Christina Aguilera’s part (and rapping Lil Kim’s). My encore was “Proud Mary,” complete with dancing, shimmying, and much Tina Turner fierceness.

2. Five years ago, my life goal was to become a pharmacist.

3. Now my life goal is to become a vampire.

4. I should never, ever drink. I don’t drink often, but I don’t know the meaning of “pacing myself,” “restraint,” or “moderation.” Rarely, I’m able to stop at tipsy. More often, I drink until I embarrass myself. My memories of these nights are fuzzy at best, and non-existent at worse…which is probably for the best.

5. I refuse to eat seafood.

6. The tattoo on my inner forearm is something I regret, until I remember how crazy I was when my dad died, how my life was spinning out of control, and how far I’ve come since then.

7. Weddings aren’t my thing. I don’t like to attend them. I refuse to participate in them. I never had one, and never will.

8. I wear a size 10 shoe, but I’m only 5’5.” I find this unfair.

9. If I call you “sugar,” or “sugar pie,” it’s because I like you a lot or because I forgot your name.

10. My favorite day of the week is Sunday, and I prefer to spend it napping, watching football, and reading.

11. I don’t want children.

12. I don’t have guilty pleasures. I like what I like, and am unashamed of that. Hedonism  may not rule my life, but it definitely influences it.

13. I can drop it like it’s hot, even with a bad knee.

14. I was a better, more prolific writer before beginning treatment for bipolar disorder. Sometimes, I consider going off of my medication so I’ll experience the euphoric bursts of creativity that spawned my very best work and kept me awake for days at a time.

15. I want to travel the world; I plan to go visit my brother once he’s stationed in Germany. It is very likely I will turn that trip into a tour of Europe.

16. I refuse to attend my high school reunion.

17. Once I’ve lost weight and had knee surgery, I intend to become a roller girl and a burlesque dancer.

18. I make a terrible blonde, but a fantastic redhead.

19. Being kissed in the rain did nothing to make me appreciate rain. I still hate it.

20. I used to be thin. More than thin, athletic. Now I am a cow, and live by the mantra: Life is too short for self-hatred and celery sticks. Coincidentally, I hate celery nearly as much as I hate raw onions, and even more than I hate raw tomatoes.

21. I get annoyed when people are surprised to find out I’m pierced and tattooed. So I look more like a sorority girl than a goth girl; what’s the big deal? I’m not a stereotype, y’all.

22. I plan to start my sleeve this year. Yes, “sleeve” meaning I will tattoo my arm completely. I bet that’ll make me look less like a sorority girl.

23. Ironically, I was a sorority girl when I attended college in Louisiana.

24. I particularly enjoy telling wild stories of my savage upbringing in the untamed Louisiana bayou-land.

25. It took me four days to compose this list.

Trial By Ice

Last Friday, after a long day at the Apple store, I was in the mood for non customer related entertainment. Safely away from the sales floor and tucked into the top-secret “back of house,” I grabbed my BlackBerry and began to rally the troops. I sent a text inviting a few coworkers to the movies. I received a response instantly, something along the lines of, “How about ice skating instead?” though I can’t remember exactly; the blood had rushed into my face, suffusing my natural pallor with an unattractive flush as I imagined the litany of injuries surely headed my way. I sent a hesitant text-blast to more coworkers and the response was both immediate and enthusiastic.  The majority had spoken, and ice skating seemed to spark something in them, an infectious sort of energy. In the end, I agreed to go.

The Ice Chalet was surprisingly busy for a Friday night, though it shouldn’t have surprised me at all, given the family-friendly nature of it. There were people everywhere, most of them children, and I became agitated at once, wondering if there was a 21+ skating rink in the immediate area. I paid the entrance fee and rented a pair of skates, huge black-and-grey things that looked more suited for rollerblades than ice skates. The women and girls around me had delicate boots with slim blades attached to the bottom, the kind of thing one would expect real figure skaters to wear. My feet looked more like Wayne Gretzky’s than Michelle Kwan’s, but I decided that maybe sturdier skates weren’t necessarily a bad thing. The skate rental did not include protective padding of any sort. I began to fear for both my life and my dignity.

Before being allowed to proceed to imminent injury, a little girl, a frizzy-haired twelve year old who I came to call the Ice Nazi, lectured me on the rules which were clearly posted at various locations around the lounge. I was not to bring food onto the ice, as though I had the coordination to eat and skate at the same time, nor was I to sit on the wall. Sitting on the wall, I would later find out, would bring swift recourse. In seconds, a frightening, disembodied voice would boom through the speaker system, delivering a terrifying mandate directly from the heavens. Teenage girls would scatter in its wake. The wall would be bare, suddenly, left to the neophytes such as myself who were allowed to clutch it for safety and stability.

Finally, laced up, freezing, and terrified, I took my first hesitant step onto the ice and could only break into a triumphant smile when I didn’t fall straightaway. Instead, I began skating hesitantly around the rink, treating the wall like a security blanket, I shuffled along in my dykey, rented hockey skates, people watching and praying I wouldn’t fall. There were many others doing the same, mostly small children, but this did not bother me. I was raised in southern Louisiana; the only popular ice came shaved and soaked in any number of sweet, colorful syrups.

The “advanced” skaters were in the center of the rink. Six-year-olds skating backwards at breakneck speeds. Ten-year-olds performing flawless layback spins. Teenagers leaping and spinning. I hated them immediately. It was brutally unfair, watching the slim teenage girl twirl effortlessly, her orange Hollister hoodie a blur, blond ponytail flying as she landed steadily on the ice after a perfectly executed double something-or-other. I tried to picture myself attempting the simplest of maneuvers, and, despite my sometimes fanciful mind, I saw it ending only one way: in the emergency room.

I forced myself to continue on, cautiously, slowly. Eventually I got brave enough to release my death grip on the wall, though I wouldn’t stray far from it. When it came time to cross the ice–a perilous, bleak prospect, for there was no wall to clutch for support–I stood facing it as though I were walking before a firing squad. I imagined the vivid, red smear of blood I’d leave once I’d crashed face-first into the ice. I made it approximately halfway before falling, and when I did, I was almost offended by the mundaneness of it. It was unremarkable in every conceivable way. There was no arm-flailing fanfare, no moment of suspended gravity, no comical heels-over-head crash to the ice. I slipped, fell to one knee (the bad one), and then sat on the ice, knowing that trying to get up without assistance would only end in disaster. In the end, I fell only once. Not because my skating improved. To think that would be ludicrous. Rather, because, after being helped up by a coworker, I skated to the side, left the ice, and stalked into the bleachers, where I settled in for a good long sulk. I sat there, shivering, for the remainder of the evening.