Naked in the Locker Room

It has been a crazy couple of weeks.  So much to blog about, but not really able to due to content and me valuing employment and my family life.  So many things that anger the pony, but also so many things that baffle the pony.  Today, I'd like to talk about body images.  I know, I know, I never talk about that, ever, right?  Ground-breaking stuff, really.

Since January, I have really tried to throw myself into world of fitness and gym membership.  It isn't easy being the fat girl in the dressing room or out in the gym, for that matter.  It's a pretty self-conscious kind of thing.  The Gym Barbies are out there in their sports bras, cute little yoga shorts, their hair in a high pony tail.  They look totes adorbs.  I, on the other hand, wearing a big baggy t-shirt and yoga pants that stop at the heel of my shoe.  This baby is covered up.  I have even recently purchased some snugger fitting yoga pants so that I can keep this jiggle under control.  When I am doing my intervals on the elliptical, I don't need my thighs giving me a round of applause.  When I am doing my kettle bell swings, I don't need my arms flapping.  This body moves, and not always when I tell it to.  None the less, it is what it is and I go forth and do what needs doing.  And, yes, I pick a time to go to the gym when there are not a lot of Gym Barbies down there.  I don't need to see that.  But ultimately, it is what it is, and I try and push it out of my mind.

What has become kind of a mystery to me is the locker room behavior.  I usually go down to the gym when there is only one or two other girls down there.  They are friendly, nice people.  By the time I finish at the gym and am  getting dressed, that is usually about the time the Gym Barbies show up.  The mystery to me is how people are so shy about their bodies.  Here I am, with every reason to hide and be ashamed, but I'm like you know what, if you want to look and judge, take a good hard look cuz here it is.  Doesn't mean I'm walking around naked owning the room, but I just stay over in my little corner and go about my business.  And it is serious business.  I mean, this body is now warmed up and I have to get the FCD to roll down over my boobs.  It is a work-out in itself. Sometimes I'm trapped there.  The FCD is all rolled up under my arm pits and I'm reaching around trying to pull it down, but it won't go.  I'm all contorted, belly sticking out, back arched, one arm tugging in the front, one arm tugging in the back, sometimes a full body shimmy is incorporated.  My Victoria Secret bra, with way more padding than any girl should attempt, is holding the FCD hostage.  I finally get it under control and now I'm sweaty again.  Now, it's time to get the nylons back on and try not to snag them.  It's an art.  You don't just go willy-nilly tugging those bad boys on there.  You were lucky to get them on the first time with no snags, but now a second time? You have just reached "dreamer" status.  Anyway, I'm just saying, it's like a side-show, but I own it and I put myself back together without shame.  This is the body I have, right now, like it or not.

In the midst of my dressing extravaganza, I do catch a glimpse of a person here or a person there. I am always amazed by the smaller girls either taking their stuff into the handicapped bathroom stall to change or huddling in the corner like a homeless waif desperately trying to cover up.  Really?  We are all women here. Unless you have boy parts that the average woman doesn't have, then I don't think you have anything to worry about.  And, who is checking you out? No one.  Everyone glances around as they talk and such, but I don't really think anyone is scrutinizing your body.  And, another thing, if this saggy, cellulite infested mosh pit of lilly white skin can make a semi-public appearance in the locker room, why can't yours?  You take care of it, you look great, why are you shuffling off into the handicapped stall?  I'm not saying you should do a runway walk through the locker room, but where is your self-confidence?  No body is perfect, even the skinny ones.  I don't understand, I guess.  Maybe it's just modesty?  I'm starting to think that maybe skinny girls have feelings...and body issues, too.  I mean, of course they do, right?  Maybe in that respect I'm better off than I think?  I mean, my husband has seen me naked...with the lights on and in the daytime.  That has to count for something.  I'm not saying I'm ready to go to a nakie resort or anything, but I am not going to freak if someone sees me naked in a normal situation where people get naked, ie, the locker room, the doctor, my bedroom, etc.

When I think about it, I think my sixth grade locker room trauma may have actually done me a favor in life.  There I was, in the locker room in sixth grade.  We were required to take showers and we had to get wet in the open showering area and then walk up to the gym teachers office window to get a towel.  And, if you were not wet enough, you were sent  back to the shower.  It was horrifying and humiliating for a girl of 12 years old. Especially a fat girl.  And, like as if the kids weren't already mean to me prior to sixth grade, this new middle school little bitch popularity thing was no fun to survive either.  So, in my effort to hurry back to my locker to get dressed, I was walking really quickly on a smooth cement floor.  I was scampering, almost.  You and I both know where this is going.  That's right, my wet feet slipped and I went down I went like a fish onto a slab and my fat butt and legs made a slapping sound like no other.  Everyone turned to look. So, now, here is a naked fat girl trying to get off a slippery floor with some sort of dignity.  It's impossible, just so you know.  Survivable, but not possible to hold one's head high after that.  I think at that moment I realized, just don't make an issue of it.  I'm just going to go about my business.  And, if that little pop-tart barbie bitch wearing her Garfield underwear that say Tuesday on the front of them and a non-necessary training bra wants to say something to me, Fuck. Her.  I'd rather blend in than run around trying to hide.  I mean really, it's like a Buick trying to hide behind a blade of grass.  Come on, get real.

And so, back to modern day in the locker room.  What are these women so afraid of?  What is it about their body that is so horrid they have to go hide, or why are they trying to wrestle a towel and and their clothes at the same time so no one knows they are naked under there? You know what?  If I wear my underwear that say, "Bombshell" on the ass of them, I'm going to own it.  Check 'em out, ladies.  Of course, then you have the other side of it.  You do have the Gym Barbies that are all tan, got big hooters and seem to enjoy standing there buck naked talking to you with grand hand gestures.  I'm glad she's comfortable, but could you reign it in?  I know I just said own it, but I didn't say flaunt it.

Really, what I'm saying is, hey, it's no secret that I hate this skin I'm stuck in.  I'm trying to change that and I'm trying to believe in who I am becoming, but I can still stand there and own it.  I guess I should be proud that I can, because even some of the prettiest and skinniest of girls can't.  As a bigger person, I have spent a lifetime with these body issues and viewing the "skinny bitches" of the world with envy, admiration, hate, jealousy and contempt.  I think, maybe I have been too hard on them, or given them too much credit for being "lucky."  Life is so much more complex than how we look, it's too bad society is so keen on keeping that in the forefront.  Anyway, I'm not going to lie to you, I'm still going to be jealous and I'm still going to watch America's Next Top Model to see skinny bitches in turmoil, but in the locker room, I think maybe I can be a little smug knowing that I'm not hiding in the handicapped stall.

Work it, bitch. (insert finger snap, here)

I AM The Sun

What. A. Day.  This week has been a stressful one as the gradual change-over happens from Four Feet of Fury to Cross Fit Crazy.  I have not wanted to get out of bed all week and today was no exception.  My alarm went off and I kept hitting the snooze button.  My good dog Spanky crawled up on my chest and snuggled his head under my chin.  While I laid there and contemplated staying in bed with Spanky, I knew I needed to get moving.  I got out of bed and walked over to my dresser to pull out some underwear.  I stood there and could not decide between the white ones with tan polka dots, the teal colored solid, or the red and pink stripes.  I don't know how many minutes went by as I seriously analyzed how each pair would work with my possible wardrobe choice for the day.  This decision shouldn't be this hard.  It's underwear.  It's not something as complex as black shoes or brown shoes with an off-white top and jeans.  I mean, that could really go either way.  It depends on several factors and the overall "feel" of the ensemble.  Anyway, I finally settled on the appropriate pair (white with the tan polka dots, because I know you are invested in this conversation by now).  The rest of the morning was equally challenging, what to wear, what to make for lunch, what am I bringing to the potluck? What the hell is going on with my hair? Why won't this hairspray do what it says it will do on the can? Mother Trucker.

I started on my way to work and realized just how late I was running.  I sent FFF a text message informing her that I would be late because I had a bad attitude and that I would be there soon.  When I did finally arrive, it was like the gates of hell were unleashed.  The first thing I see is 200 fresh donuts, visitors that were here to launch a new product, all carrying red balloons, wearing shirts with a sun on them and eagerly waiting for employees to arrive.  Someone led them straight to me.  I won't go into all the details, but it wasn't long and I found myself in the freaking sun costume and I'm walking around the building with a fistful of balloons and spreading sun-shiny joy.  Forced smile, crazy eyes, excreting all the damn that I could give.  I was a ray of sunshine.  People were confused.  They know better.  I guess this made it funnier, but the visitors following me around thought I was, and I quote, "A natural at this."  And that I really am good at this and should do it professionally and look how great everyone is responding.  Look, out-of-towners, this ain't my first rodeo.  How does one "professionally" wear a sun costume and promote their product?  Were they offering me a job?  Should I do Jimmie Dean commercials in my spare time?  I finally finished doing my rounds and returned to my desk.  I took off the sun costume and said, "Sunrise is over folks, if you want mid-day sun, talk to Cross Fit Crazy."

My day progressed with random chaos.  Things like, "Hey, is there anything you can do about the smell in the women's bathroom?  It smells like a urinal when the janitor is done in there."  I responded, "I'm pretty sure it smells like that before he goes in there.  I'm just relieved when it doesn't smell like someone just emptied their bowels.  I guess I don't notice the urinal smell."  Seriously, do I really need to be fielding this question right now?  Then, it's an email about the vending machine, "hey, the water line in the back of the machine is making a beeping noise and a light is flashing."  I needed to have someone check my back, does it say Janitor on the back of my little sweater?  I looked down, yep, I'm still wearing a dress and I don't see any yellow scrub gloves on my hands.  I didn't see an embroidered name tag on my sweater that said "Greg - Vending Machine Repair.  Hmmm, I wonder where these people were getting their information?  After being told yesterday that the cheeseburgers in the vending machine were causing stomach upset and needed to be changed more regularly, I was about at my end of patience for this bullshit.  Hey, dumbass, stop eating cheeseburgers out of a pre-sealed plastic bag that is stored in a lit up carousel of processed crap food.  I would think if you shit your pants once, that would do it.  Maybe cause you to change your ways.  But if you want to just keep shitting yourself and complaining, then I don't know what to tell you.

"Cassondra, I need a new badge holder."  "Cassondra, can you make a color copy of this?" "Cassondra, is it okay if we put pictures of race horses on these boxes and put them by your desk?"  "Cassondra, where did you get these decorations?"  "Cassondra, will you go get me a donut?"  "Cassondra, I don't like the way my free t-shirt fits, get me a new size." "Cassondra, can you make sure everyone knows they are invited to this meeting and arrange it?" "Cassondra, do you have any swag I can take to a work function?"  "Cassondra, do you have superglue?"  "Cassondra, can I have the straw out of your cup?" "Cassondra...."  And on and on and on....I found myself feeling a little on edge at 2pm, still had not taken lunch, but had consumed a donut and random potluck items.  Now, I felt bad.

The day started to wind down, but people kept coming around to say their good-bye's to FFF, so it was constant commotion.  At one point, we found ourselves, don't really know how, but we found ourselves discussing how the term "420" relates to marijuana.  How did that start?  Who started it.  I suggested I would Google it.  FFF immediately said, "NO, if you do, do it at home or your phone, not on the work computer."  LOL.  Look how cute she was, trying to keep us all out of trouble.  Fine.

Finally, everything calmed down, FFF left the building for the day and I had a few moments of peace.  Cross Fit Crazy came out of the office with our VP.  The VP asked me, "Well, do you think this is going to work?"  I told him, "Yes, no worries.  I believe under my close supervision, I can mentor him and make him a good Director.  He's not the first boss I've trained. I think he has potential.  No worries, I got this."  I could tell this put the VP right at ease.  I'll whip Cross Fit into shape.  Indeed.

I walked out to my truck with Valerina and we discussed and solved the problems of the company while standing in the rain.  I think we got it hammered out.  Just need to do the appropriate amount of ass-kicking, monitoring and enforcing.  A lot of problems are handled in the parking lot.  Maybe the US President needs to move some of his meetings to the parking lot. I'm telling you, it's very productive.

Feeling better about things, but still exhausted, I headed home.  I thought I'd call my brother and ask him about the 420 thing.  He is kind of a subject matter expert.  We don't need to discuss how he is an expert.  Sadly, he was not available...possibly because it was after 4:20pm and he was ...busy.  Just a theory.  I wish I could get into that whole drinking or smoking a bowl thing, I really could use to unwind and achieve full relaxation.  As a matter of fact, I can think of a few other people that maybe should smoke a bowl from time to time so they don't send me over the edge.

I really have no eloquent or transitional way of ending this blog tonight, other than to say, I"m done.  It's been a crazy day, tensions were high, energy was weird, people were stressed, things are a mess, any sense of normalcy is gone, I'm in a funk and need a serious vacation.  I need to have Sassy Pants stop being my chocolate pimpette and I'm not calling anyone to ask them any "light-hearted" questions because of all the previous things I just mentioned.  Shaking off today and going to bed. 

Four Feet of Fury - End of an Era

Exactly one year ago, a brand new boss arrived at the Glass Palace.  She came in there, all sunshine and rainbows and I was like, oh, hell no.  I'm not gonna be all perky.  And, after a previous boss leaving and me being so sad about it, I decided I wasn't going to get attached.  The good bosses never stay and the bad ones stay too long. Not getting attached.  Her prior admin told me, "you will not be able to not like her.  You will not be able to not get attached."  I said, "Well, I'm not into that perky crap, I won't succumb." 

Turns out, the boss, Four Feet of Fury, as I would come to name her, grew on me.  I was powerless to stop it. I even spent the last week decorating the stupid Glass Palace with flowers and bees and butterflies and spring crap.  Looks like Spring threw up in there.  I did it all for Four Feet of Fury because I knew it would make her happy.  Dang it if I didn't actually care.  I wanted her to be happy so she would not want to leave.

Today, a year after her arrival at the Glass Palace, I found myself standing in her office along with the supervisors hearing her tell us that she was resigning.  I stood there, sick to my stomach.  I would not cry.  I promised myself when this day came, and I knew it would, although, not quite so soon, that I would not cry.  I'm just an employee and she is just a boss.  Except, she wasn't just a boss, she was Four Feet of Fury.  She made me smile when I didn't feel like it, she listened to me go on a bitch rant when I needed her to, she trusted me to do my job, she would get all riled up and cuss.  She would be on a conference call with her headset on and come running out of her office, only to have her headset jerk her back in there.  She made me laugh at least once everyday.  I would miss her, a lot.  I left her office after the announcement and I cried. Stupid girl emotions. Hate them.  Stupid uterus and fucking hormones. And, what are those other things?  Oh yeah, feelings.  Ugh.

As if the day could not suck anymore, I had an appointment with Dr. B.  Time to follow-up with her on my progress.  Last time I saw her, she put me on some meds to help my weight loss get unstuck.  I went there knowing that results would not be what I wanted them to be.  I wore the lightest dress I owned, wore the lightest jewelry, thought about foregoing underwear, my watch and shoes, but then realized I probably needed those things.  I went in there and I'm five pounds down from last time.  A victory for some, but a harsh blow considering how I had been killing it in the gym and trying so hard.  With the exception of the last week that I took off due to my hip/butt issue that is causing me grief.  I was told to try harder and keep on going.  She asked me how I was doing mentally.  Not a good day for this question.  Today, I wasn't feeling so great and I was disappointed in myself.  I don't care if it was justified or not, it's how I felt, so get over it.

I left Dr. B and started driving back to work.  I was mulling everything over in my head.  Angry, sad, frustrated, scared, worried.  And then, that's when "Fuck it" Pony chimed in.  Fuck it Pony said, "Let's stop by the store, get a bunch of candy and drown our sorrows in chocolate."  And then, I was like, "no, we can't do that.  That is defeating, we can't do that."  Well, Fuck it Pony made quite a convincing argument and so I found myself at Rite Aid in the Easter candy aisle.  Look a 2 for $5 special.  I loaded up my basket with chocolate, and one package of pretzel Goldfish, because correct me if I'm wrong, but Goldfish soak up any evils you put in your belly, and I was off to work.  I walked in, stomped over to Sassy Pants desk and dumped all the chocolate there so that it wasn't at my desk.  I was back five minutes later to get my cut of the loot.

Now I was settled back at my desk, surrounded by candy and I started to read all the messages on my computer.  I was not amused, nor patient with some that chose to message me today.  I sent back angry retorts to their stupid questions.  I ate some more chocolate.  My phone rang.  It was from someone else that had an "emergency" and needed an answer now.  You know what, I'm the boss of me now.  Screw these people.  They will get their answer when I decide they get it.  No one bullies me today.  I chose not to answer.  That is what voice mail is for.  Her message sounded desperate.  Annoyed, I sent her an instant message.  She didn't answer, so I copied the message and emailed it to her.  There.  Problem resolved.

Four Feet of Fury came out and stood at my desk.  She said I couldn't come with her to her new job because I don't speak Cantonese.  I told her that I spoke Bitchin-ese, which is universal.  Apparently, that is not a recognized language.  She said the opportunity just came to her, she didn't seek it out.  I said, "I want an opportunity to come to me."  She said I have to be open to it.  What the hell does that mean? I'm open.  I gave her the stink eye and she went away.  Hmph.  I started thinking about the situation more and more with each bite of chocolate.  Why do the good bosses always leave me?  She told me I couldn't leave her.  She's leaving me.  How come I'm not leaving these people in the dust?  How come I'm not using my college degree?  How come I don't have a career?  How come I'm just a dumb admin with no future, no hope and a fat ass?  How come?!  How come I'm not open to opportunity?  Apparently I'm only open for cellulite and debt.  Now, I'm really mad.  And now, I am sick to my stomach from all the chocolate.  It's time to switch from missiles to guns, I got the Goldfish out.  These crackers would make it better.  Then, my good pal Ambular reminded me of my plan.  The plan we have had all along.  The plan is, we ride this pony till it breaks it's leg and then we find a new pony.  That's always been the plan.  Stick to the plan.  But, if I stick to the plan, what happens to me inside?  Am I bitter?  Am I happy being an admin for the REST OF MY LIFE until I can't work here anymore and then I end up at freaking Walmart being a freaking greeter while I sit in my go-go electric chair with my inhaler and and IV drip hanging behind me?  And then I hope someone helps me change my Depends in the restroom later?  And then at 7pm the short bus with the ramp comes to pick me up and take me to the shelter where I live with a cot, one wool blanket with holes in it that the rats chewed and a copy of TV Guide from 1984 that has a crossword puzzle about the soap opera General Hospital, which I have to use a pencil on so I can erase the answers and then do it again later like it is a new puzzle, which I think it is, because I don't remember what happened ten minutes ago, let alone yesterday, but fucking-A, I remember when John Stamos was on General Hospital and Rick Springfield, too.  Is this my destiny?  Is this how it's all going to play out?  All because I can't speak Cantonese?  Or because I can't get motivated to lose weight or have a real career?  What is the point of my life?  And more importantly, is it time to walk over to Sassy Pants desk and  get more of those mini-Twix bars because I think the Goldfish have settled my stomach down?

I sat there, feeling dejected and sad.  Feeling like a big loser.  I decided to open a couple of boxes the mail lady left on my desk.  I had just ordered some more balloons for the Glass Palace.  Four Feet of Fury loves balloons and fun.  I opened them and there they are, the smiley face balloons I ordered.  For her.  Because I knew she would love them.  Now I just wanted to blow them up and punch them all in the smiling mother trucking face.  Then, I opened the package that had stars on them.  They were latex with white stars.  The first one I pull out is like a creamish-transparent color.  Good Lord, it looked like a bag of condoms.  The stars were raised off of the balloons.  Ribbed...for her pleasure.  Condom balloons.  Really?  Admin fail.  I'm not even a good admin. 

I sat there feeling dejected.  I turned around and Valerina had left her stinky lunch at my desk, had destroyed my sarcasm magnet that had a pen attached to it.  The pen kept jumping to it's death on the floor.  Someone else had left their water bottle there.  I had a box of open happy fucking balloons and chocolate wrappers everywhere.  I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. My eyes were puffy, my hair had gone wonky and I had chocolate dots on my dress.  I felt like maybe I was coming off some sort of cocaine overdose and was living in some alternate universe called Babysitting Land.  I'm going to die here.  I know it.  Either here, or at Walmart...or at the shelter, under the holey wool blanket...with the TV Guide page stuck to my right cheek. I sat there for a moment coming off that image and then noticed the the blue, plastic peace bracelet Four Feet of Fury gave me.  I think it was a consolation prize for surviving the day, I guess.  I put it on.  I didn't feel at peace.  I got a defective bracelet.  Mother Trucker. It figures.

As I was getting ready to leave, I told Four Feet of Fury that it had been one hell of a day and that I had to blog tonight.  She said, "oh no, please don't blog about me."  I'm like, you're not the boss of me anymore.  I do what I want.  And so, tonight's blog is a wrap. 

Mudslide of Emotion

It's been a crazy week. A tragic week.  You'd have to live in a hole to not know about the tragic mudslide that happened in one of our nearby communities.  A community that houses people that I am familiar with.  A community that I grew up around.  A community that is home to people I grew up with, people I have come to know as adults and friends of friends.  And, even if I knew no one, it would still not change how unbelievably horrific the situation is.  It would not change how my heart breaks for these people that were innocently sitting in their homes or working in their yards.  People doing repair work for home owners, people traveling through the area on a road trip or just going to town.  Families torn apart in seconds.  It breaks my heart for them.  In that one instant, the hillside decided to unleash a fury that would forever change their lives.

It all happened last Saturday.  Will was at work.  I needed to go get hay for the horses, so headed up to a place I go on hwy 530.  I thought it was odd that as I was leaving the hay place, a ton of emergency vehicles went by.  The whole way home I continued to pass vehicle after vehicle with flashing lights.  I got home and discovered their had been a mudslide on the same hwy I had just been on, but much further up the valley.  Spooky.  I immediately starting seeing the posts and pictures.  This was crazy.  It wasn't just a minor mudslide, it was HUGE.  I could not wrap my mind around it. I instantly searched my brain for anyone I knew that was up in that area.  And then the news was saying that the river was completely blocked and that when it gave way, flash flooding and mass destruction was sure to follow for miles.  Now, my neighbors would be affected.  Holy crap!  We live on a hill, so we would be safe from harm, but what about so many of my friends?  I was seriously worried.


 Will finally came home from work later that afternoon.  He informed me that the very area that had this massive slide was where he went on Thursday to do some target practice just two days prior.  This information made my stomach turn.  This could have been Will.  I could have been at work and never known why he didn't come home.  He didn't tell me he had gone shooting, I would never have known and he could have been killed.  This is one of those moments where my therapist would tell me to simmer down and not turn this situation into worst case scenario.  Sorry, Doc, the train has left the station.  I was so sick to my stomach over this whole thing, I couldn't shake it, I just kept watching the coverage, feeling helpless.  I wanted to go help.  I wanted to search for people, I wanted to to do something.  Those people were trapped and they needed to be rescued.  I heard them say on the news that they heard people calling for help, but that it was getting dark and it was too dangerous for the first responders to go in there.  They had to look at the safety for everyone.  I felt even more sick than before. I could not get the image out of my head of someone trapped, cold, wet, injured, begging for help and no one being able to get to them.  I agonized about what they would be going through all night.  If they would make it till the morning.  I thought about their families and what they must be feeling.  I could not even imagine.  I thought about the first responders and how they would be haunted by those cries for help and how they could not get to them.  I know how brave those firemen are and all the other emergency responders.  Not just them, but all the neighbors trying to do their part.  How agonizing for all of them.  That was all I could think about.

I got up the next morning and turned the TV on immediately, hoping for good news.  The only news we had was that they had people up there searching, but it was hard due to all the mud and water and debris.  They did not hear any signs of life on this day.  I was so incredibly sad.  As I looked through Facebook I saw the story of a woman who had left her husband and three kids at home and now she had no idea where they were, or if they were alive and safe.  My heart broke for her family, now separated. I made the mistake of clicking on her FB profile.  I just wanted to see if her or her family was anyone I knew, anyone I had seen.  What I read tore me apart.  She had a post about being so excited to get to be a Girl Scout leader for her daughter's troop.  Another post talking about how grateful she was to spend the day with her family that she loved so much.  Yet another post about how much she loved them and enjoyed their time together.  She seemed to be a God fearing woman.  How could this happen to her?  She was happy.  She was thankful.  She was blessed.  Why did this happen to her?  How could God let one of his people that was seemingly such a loving person go through this?  My sadness dropped to a level that I could not come out of.  And, the other stories kept coming.  Another gal had a horse rescue, caring for horses others had neglected or abused.  She was no where to be found.  Another person lost their wife and granddaughter.  They were beautiful and still full of life.  Again, seemingly stellar members of the community.  I continued to be sickened.  The couple sitting on the porch reading the paper together, married for 46 years.  The husband made it, his wife, also a celebrated member of the community, perished.  The stories continued.  People lost everything, their homes, their loved ones, all of their belongings.  How could life be so cruel?

I have spent all week watching the news, watching the FB feeds, hearing the stories.  I cannot stop thinking about it.  It consumes me.  I think about how these people were all just living their lives and it was all taken away.  Some of those people so thankful for everything they had.  And it was taken.  I struggle with that. I should be more thankful.  I should enjoy each day more.  I should embrace it all, because I don't know when it will be taken.  I can't be prepared for that day when it happens.  I want to be, I want to know, I want to plan, I want to be ready.  How can I be? It's not possible.  And, maybe I don't want to be.  I should live everyday to the fullest so that if it is all over in the blink of an eye, I will have enjoyed it all.  The problem is, this is where I am broken.  I feel like I can't enjoy it.  I worry about Will going shooting again.  What if he goes somewhere dangerous?  What if this happens to him?  What if we go somewhere that isn't safe.  I mean, we think it is, but it turns out it isn't?  What if? What if I was the one sitting home wondering if Will was alive or dead, but knowing in my heart he was dead?  I could not survive that.  I feel full of anxiety.  I feel like any moment it could all be taken away from us.  Taken away from me.  Who would care for my dogs, my horses, my stuff?  How would my family feel?

My anxiety increased last night as the wind blew so hard, slamming into our house time after time.  I went to bed scared.  I was scared the trees would fall on the house and kill us in our sleep.  I was scared the roof was going to blow off.  I was scared the windows were going to blow out.  At one point, the wind hit the house so hard, I sat bolt upright, gasped and said, "Oh my God!  That scared me so bad!"  I looked over and Will was sleeping soundly, snoring.  I sat there, sick to my stomach, sure I would throw up.  I laid there for hours, heart racing, mind reeling.  I thought about the crews working on the slide area in the dark with the wind and rain pounding them.  I thought about the victims, wondering if there would be a miracle for anyone.  I prayed to God that there would be a miracle.  Just one, I asked.  Just one.  Please let one family have that one miracle.

And so, here I find myself, so many emotions.  So sad, so unsure, so unable to find humor in many things.  Feeling like I shouldn't see humor in anything, like I shouldn't post anything to FB that is carefree or silly.  Definitely not anything about how my ass hurts from working out, or complaining about my fat  belly.  That stuff isn't important.  How can I even think anything in my life is as significant as what is happening in all those people's lives that are living in a state of shock and grief.  How can I be normal? Do I deserve to be?  When something like this hits so close to home, I think maybe it is normal to feel this way?  I don't know.  I don't want to make this "all about me," because it sure isn't.  I'm so insignificant in this whole thing. 

Maybe there is a lesson to be learned for me.  Maybe it's a chance for me to grow and realize I am not in control.  I don't know. Maybe  bad stuff just happens to good people.  Maybe it doesn't "mean" anything.  It doesn't mean anything except that  life is too short to spend it miserable and all that time spent worrying is wasted. It  also doesn't mean I shouldn't go to the gym and and that I should eat ice cream because life is so short, but rather, I should keep on trying to accomplish that dream, because maybe, just maybe I might live to see it happen.  How great would that be?  I cannot live my life in fear, because that isn't living.  Nonetheless, I think it may take me a little longer to shake this feeling off.  A little longer to grieve with the families impacted by this horrible event. And,  I think that is okay, too.

I'm a Mushroom

So, earlier this year I mentioned it is the Year of Angry Pony.  To that end, I have been doing my part, as best as I can, to make my little black dress day a reality, come December 2014.  I've had a few minor set backs, but mostly, I have been diligent.  The doctors have put me on a medication that they hope will get me over my weight loss stall and suppress my appetite.  They have asked me to work out six days a week.  I've been doing my part.  I didn't even have any pizza on pizza day when it was sitting right next to my desk for hours.  I've been good.  As a result, a few more pounds have come off and I think I may be converting some fat to muscle, because people say I am looking a little different.  I don't really see it too much, personally, but that is normal, I think.  I've spent a lifetime looking at a fat girl.  It will take a while to reprogram that.  I suspect making that change is part of my journey that has yet to come.

I have noticed, however, as I am working out and looking into the mirror at the gym, things are getting jiggly.  My legs are starting to melt a little.  I could give you a round of applause if I jogged in place.  I've also noticed I have these little dents just under my boobs on the top part of my stomach.  I have affectionately named them my "Baby Abs."  Someday my stomach might be a six pack wearing a skirt of skin.  At any rate, I decided that I needed new workout pants.  Something with structure.  Something with spandex and some sort of cellulite containing miracle mesh.  I found some pants on-line that say they smooth your legs and lift your butt.  Well, sign me up!  My butt has been dragging for a while now.  I also ordered a sports bra.  The one I use at the gym is pretty loose.  I picked out a cute pink one that I thought would be about the right size.  I was giddy with excitement when the package arrived yesterday.  I was on my way to work-out bunny.

I ran upstairs and pulled out the pants.  Workout pants that didn't have a 1X, 2X or 3X on the label.  They were just XL.  I felt good about that.  I put them on.  Had to do a little shimmy as the belly band wanted to stop on my "ab skirt," but I got them up there.  They felt magical.  I could feel my butt lifted. It felt round.  Baby just got back! Yes, these would work. Shark Bait confirmed, my butt was looking good.  He may have been lying, but it was the right thing to say.  I then turned to my new pink sports bra.  I was going to look so cute!  I started to put it on and realized that it might be a little too small for me yet.  No, dammit, it's going on.  I got it over my head and started to pull it over my boobs, but it was stuck.  My boobs were pushed down and sticking out the bottom.  It wasn't supposed to go like this.  Your boobs aren't supposed to not bounce because they have been stretched to your belly button.  Sonofabitch.  I started to wonder if I should abort the mission.  NO.  I must go on.  There is no turning back.  I pulled and grunted and grunted some more.  I finally got it down and in place, my boobs securely under the material...just like the picture shows on the package.  I looked down and realized my boobs were gone.  They were not just "compressed,"  they were absent.  I don't know where they were.  I checked my armpits, assuming they had found a safe place without compression.  Nope, they weren't there. I leaned down to see if they were below the bra, on my belly, nope.  Where the hell are my boobs?  My God, this bra vaporized my breasts! I ran over to the mirror and what I saw horrified me.  Clearly the gym bunny image I had in my head was not going to play out here.  Not yet, it was too soon.

I looked in the mirror and what was staring back at me, at my best guess, was a 12 year old Barbie mushroom.  The bra made me look 12 years old.  Everything about it screamed "training bra."  I was completely flat, possibly inverted.  My eyes traveled lower and there it was, all that gut that was no longer riding like a high basketball, but rather morphed into what could only be described as the top of a mushroom cloud.  My new "control" pants were pushing it up, the bra was pushing it down.  It had no where to go.  It looked like lava coming off a volcano.  It was this blob.  Without compression, it lays fairly flat, but now, with no where to descend to, it was everywhere.  Ab explosion.  I was a mushroom cloud.  I can't go to the gym like this.  I'm going to need a compression garment for the mid-section too.  Dang.

Okay, in this picture, it looks like they are there, but they aren't, it's an illusion!

I walked down the stairs, hunched my shoulders a little to accentuate the cloud and said, "Hey, Shark Bait, come check me out."  He came over and said, "Wow."  I grabbed a big 'ol gut o lard and said, "I'm turning you on right now, aren't I?"  He just laughed.  "How would you like to get it on with a 12 year old mushroom?"  He took the only safe way out, he laughed, turned and went back to what he was doing.  I guess it is too soon to play "Gym Bunny and Body Builder."  For now, we'll have to settle for "Socks and Sandals Guy hunts for Mushrooms."

Anyway, that is the progress that is being made.  I'm pretty sure Ass Kicker tried to kill me today.  At one point, I was face down in the carpet which wreaked of sweat and gym shoes and considered just staying down. Sweat pouring off my face, my abs screaming 911, chest burning, arms burning, legs burning.  I was as close to the "Biggest Loser" puke as I have ever been.  Ass Kicker says to me, "Good work today, this workout was actually pretty advanced. I'm impressed."  I looked up at him from the floor and said, "Really? No shit."  I staggered into the locker room and just sat there, exhausted.  I guess, If I am ever going to evolve from Mushroom to Thick Gym Bunny, I'm gonna have to endure this.  I just hope I can walk tomorrow. 

Pizza Day. I hate you.

When I started taking my new meds, one of the side-effects is that I could have uncontrollable hostility.  I think it is safe to say that this is the exact side-effect I am having.  Without the influence of PMS, I have successfully reached full on fury today.

Today was a day I knew would be hell.  It was a day that I needed to make sure everyone within the walls of Fantasia, aka the Glass Palace, had pizza.  It always makes me crazy.  Why?  Well, let me tell you why.  First, you can never get the right pizza.  You can never appease everyone.  Not everyone wants pizza.  Some people want a salad.  Well, friends, bring your own salad like I did.  I didn't say it was an open freaking buffet with all of your favorites that were also gluten free and not made out of God's creatures or any of aforementioned creatures bi-products by people that may or may not have been wearing leather, with make-up and perfume on that was tested on baby bunnies or that don't shower because it is consuming our natural resources.  I didn't say that, did I?  I recall saying "pizza."  I didn't say, "pizza and a beverage."  I didn't say, "pizza, a beverage and dessert."  No, I said, "pizza."  I can see how that could be misleading.  I didn't say that every mother-trucking pizza known to man would be served.  So, when you come up and say, "Oh, there is no anchovies on this pepperoni pizza, I can't eat it,"  I say, are you freaking kidding me?  I didn't promise you a rose garden, pal.  I promised you some pizza.  I didn't say it was gourmet pizza.  I didn't say it was the best pizza you ever had.  I specifically remember saying it was going to be Pizza Hut.  You don't work at some freaking hoity-toity, moist towelette in the bathroom with a butler in there to wipe your ass kind of place.  You work here where people shit on the floor and walls.  As magical as that would be to have a bathroom butler, I don't think anyone would sign up for that fucking job wiping the asses of the Glass Palace.  But.  I.  Digress.

I'm trying to shake it off....breathe.,  And, yes, there are rules around the pizza.  Rules like, come on your assigned lunch time, because if you don't then I won't have enough pizza at EVERYONE's lunch time.  I don't know if you people consider how I order pizza.  I don't just call up the joint one hour  before the lunches start and say, "hey, can you bring us some pizza."  No.  I have to look into logistics, how many people have lunch at each scheduled time, how many lunch shifts are there, where is the best place to put the pizza, etc.  I don't just wing it, people.  So, when you bring your testosterone filled, cocky ass, male fucking metabolism over to the table on your break so you can pork out an then you want to come back on your lunch and do the same, I don't just hate you because of your metabolism and selfishness, I hate you because...wait, no that was it... that was the reason. I stand corrected.  And then when you mock me about the aforementioned rules, I want to say, you know what, you little piss ant, you plan this lunch.  But you know what, they would suck at it because they wouldn't care.  And then next thing you know, some random person is all crying in their top ramen because there was no pizza for them on their lunch.  I have lived through this nightmare, I know the drill.  I've seen the carnage and the fall-out, the hissy fits, the anger, the resentment, hunger in their bellies, fury in their eyes demanding that you make this right...right fucking now.  I've lived through combat.  You people don't know.  You will never know the pain of pizza day.  NEVER!!!

I had a small glimmer of hope today as some of the newer people approached the table like Bambi coming out of the woods after a fire.  Slinking up to the table and asking, "do you need my employee ID before I take any pizza?"  These people...these people were scared.  These people wanted pizza, but wanted to follow the rules.  They could smell it, they were hungry, but they would not take it.  Like a dog with a biscuit on the nose waiting to be told, "okay."  They were obedient.  I felt a sense of satisfaction, but then also a little guilt as they seemed scared.  Pizza shouldn't be scary, but the snarky admin on the other side of the  table, that is another story.

Look, ultimately, I don't give a shit who does or does not get pizza.  My main incentive is to not hear anyone bitch about not getting any.  Because those people will haunt you.  They will bring it up every time a luncheon comes up.  That one time in the winter of 1996 when they didn't get any pizza.  That one time they went hungry.  That one time they didn't even have time to go to McDonalds because they had planned their whole day around getting that pizza.  And when they went to the table, it wasn't there.  And they were angry.  They say they have moved on, but they haven't.  They never will.  Forever, a void in their life.  You can't fix that.  You can't undo that.  You don't know.  You haven't seen what I've seen.  The horror.

When I left today, there was a buttload of pizza left.  Those working the late shift will be snacking into the night.  And why?  Because I rationed them when it mattered and now the feast will be their reward for patience.  The only people I have disappointed are those that wanted a salad today or something gluten free.  To them, I say, refer to the paragraph above where I outlined what would be served today.  Pizza.

Now, if you will excuse me, I'm exhausted.  I need some rest.  With any luck, tomorrow will be uneventful. Maybe tomorrow Four Feet of Fury will stop calling me Miss Snarky Pants.  I guess I'll have to stop being snarky to make that happen.  One battle at a time, people.  Pizza battle over, for now.

Email debacle, Dr. Lite & Cookie Whores

Yesterday I started the day posting on Facebook that I was happy it was Friday and was glad it was payday and furthermore, I was thankful for my job.  This much positive energy, first thing in the morning, it's not a good idea.  It threw my whole day off.  I will not make that mistake again.  Nothing good can come from that type of behavior.

The first part of my day seemed to go off innocently enough.  I made it to the gym on my lunch and worked out with Ass Kicker.  He showed me a new exercise and then said, "do that over and over until you hate me."  I got to the second rep and declared, "I'm there!"  He says we took the workout "up a notch."  I agreed as my abs screamed at me.  I returned to my desk feeling a little wore out.  I realized I had forgotten to make arrangements for next week's workouts, do I wrote him an email telling him my plan.  Clicked "Send."  That's when all hell broke loose.  You see Ass Kicker's email address is GlassPalaceFitness@gmail.com (yes, I have changed the first part of that email address to protect the innocent).  The distribution list email for everyone in the building at the Glass Palace is GlassPalace@GP.com.  You know how when you go to type in an email address and it auto-populates and you just hit "enter?"  Well, that is what I did, not double checking before sending.  Yes, I had just sent my workout request to approximately 500 people.  Within seconds, I had people at my desk, I had the instant messaging app going ape-shit crazy, emails were coming in, "did you mean to send that to everyone?"  "You sent that to the whole building."  "Hey, good for you getting to the gym."  "Just so you know, you sent that to ALL."  Then my cell phone starts going off, people are texting me.  Sweet mother of God.  People are standing up laughing in all the rows around me, Four Feet of Fury is standing next to me doubled-over laughing.  Mother. Trucker.  I am frantically trying to remember how to recall a message.  My boss can't remember, no one can remember.  As each moment goes by, another person sends me an email telling me of my error.  I sent out another email, "Okay, I know! Woops! At least you know where I am next week."  That didn't help, they kept sending messages and appearing at my desk to mock me.  All I can say is, thank God it was not a personal email, like where I talk about my sore ass and not being able to sit down on the toilet.  Finally, we remembered how to recall the email, but really, the damage was done.  I left my desk to go to the bathroom and I pass Tooth-in-Hinder and he smiles knowingly.  I said, "Well, I didn't get an email from anyone in your group, when is it coming?"  He laughed and said that his team had discussed my little faux pas and had collectively agreed to let me have this one.  Finally, someone cut me a break.

It was now time for me to go to a couple of doctor appointments. On my way out, I get a phone call from the dude that handles insurance at the place I got my surgery done and have all my follow-up appointments.  I had sent them my new insurance information, since my company is changing us effective March 1st, and asked if I was still covered.  Insurance Dude informs me that my new insurance company doesn't support obesity treatment, so likely they would not be able to cover me.  I would now be a cash customer and doctor visits and nutrition visits would be $100 each.  I just stood there.  It fucking figures, just my luck. This probably means the new medication Dr. B has put me on is not going to be covered either.  "Pissed" hardly covers how I felt. Maybe I could have them classify the appointments as psychiatric help...I mean, I am nuts. So, really, nothing else to say about that situation, not a damn thing I can do about it.  I head off  to my first appointment with the ear, nose and throat doctor about the reflux that has been plaguing me since the surgery.   The appointment went off with no problems.  I'm doing fine, going to keep doing what we are doing.  Now, time for follow-up with Doctor Lite about my "happy pills."   Not looking forward to this.

Dr. Lite walks in and she has someone who must be an intern or in training, or something.  She's like a little puppy, but I'll call her Dr. Zero because she is less that Dr. Lite.  Dr. Lite asks me how I'm doing. "Fine," I tell her. She asks me if I feel better. I tell her, "I think a little."  She then informs me I should be feeling a lot better, not a little.  She asks me if I think the dosage is okay.  I thought that is what she was supposed to tell me.  I told her I guessed it was fine.  I mean, since I started taking it, no one died, I didn't crap my pants, I haven't thought about killing myself or anyone else violently or peacefully.  She then informs me that she thinks I need to double the dose because I weigh a lot more than the average patient and the pills are based on body weight.  I sat there and blinked at her.  She then starts the interrogation, "How long have you had a weight problem?"  I tell her since birth. She says, "Are you gaining weight?"  I told her no, I hadn't gained, just currently stuck.  She asks, "Well, how much do you eat?" I tell her between 900-1200 calories a day, depending on if I am behaving or not. She says, "well, that certainly should cause you to lose weight. Do you eat fat?"  I looked at her kind of weird and said, "Well, yes, I eat things with fat in it, yogurt, cheese, some of the meat I eat has fat in it...so...yeah..."  I was feeling defensive, where exactly is she going with this?  She says, "have you seen a nutritionist?"  I responded, "yes, I have been all along since the surgery."  Dr. Lite says, "well, what does she say?"  I'm completely irritated now.  "She and the doctor have put me on some additional medication to help me and I'm going to keep focused." She nods.  I continued, "I don't know how much I will be able to follow-up with her or take the meds as I don't know if my new insurance will cover it."  Dr. Lite then felt it was necessary to turn to Dr. Zero and fully discuss how obesity is such a problem and it is a travesty that more insurance companies don't get involved and we have an epidemic on our hands and that she was totally bummed because they had an obesity workshop today, but she couldn't go.  Hey, that's all fascinating but can we get back to me?  I mean, it's really too bad she didn't make the workshop, because she may have had some more life changing advice for me like last time and the 30-day plan thing.  Anyway, I was finally released with instruction to call her in a week and let her know how things are going.  Right.

I'm now on the way home, but I needed to stop by the grocery store.  Guess who was there?  Those little cookie whores...the Girl Scouts. Girl Scouts with their mother-trucking-fat-girl-seducing-ass-enlarging-crack-whore-addictive cookies.  I hate their guts.  I thought to myself, "you could just buy one box of thin mints...."  No, I had to shut Fat Pony up.  I left without cookies.  A success!  But I know they are going to be as thick as fleas on a dogs back for the next month.  Everywhere you go, there they will be.  I must be militant about this.  NO COOKIES.  You hear me, Shark Bait?  You bring cookies into this house and I will insert a thin mint into one of your holes that doesn't have teeth.  You hear me?  You buy them, then you can eat them shamefully in the privacy of your own truck, alone and guilty, like all other fat people before you.  The standard has been set.  Follow it accordingly.  And, don't come loving up on me with thin mint breath,either.  I mean it.  I will not be seduced by those cookies.  I will not. I'm serious. I'm pretty sure.  Almost 99.9% that I will not cave.

Anyway, that was my Friday.  In closing, I'd like to offer some helpful tips:

• Do not start your day with a positive attitude, play it by ear, then at the end of the day, you can say, "Hey, today didn't totally suck!" 
• Always double-check who your emails are addressed to BEFORE sending.
• Get yourself a good job with good insurance if you can, or don't get fat or unhealthy.
• If your doctor tells you that you need double the meds because you are double one human, find a new doctor.
• And finally, when you know many of your friends have kids that sell Girl Scout cookies, you probably shouldn't call their daughters "cookie whores" but that is how I roll and you know it is said with love...with underlying hatred for seductive calories.

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go think about getting that yoga DVD out.  I'm not sure it's going to happen, but I'm going to commit to thinking about it.  Baby steps, people.