Apr
17
April 17, 2007
This week our remodel was supposed to officially get underway, starting with the demolition work in the carport. JB prepared by tearing apart our fence and building a temporary area for Dog, before getting a call from the general contractor that they were walking away from the project. The company that’s worked with us over the last several weeks to get bids in place and draw up plans for the new kitchen and living area just up and dumped us, for no reason we can figure other than JB had tried to negotiate on pricing. They told him they always want their customers to be happy, and they weren’t sure they could make us happy, so they’d rather just sever the relationship.
Is that weird, or what? I guess they must be drowning in work, because I can’t fathom why else a contractor would bail on such an expensive project, especially over something as commonplace as pricing negotiations.
JB has been pretty spun up about it, having essentially planned a complicated wedding only to have the bride run off in a childish snit. He’s getting new bids, but now that we have to start over and not only find the right people but get on their schedules, I imagine it will be a while before anything happens.
In the meantime, I’m trying to view those paint sample squares in the kitchen as modern art. When people come over, I’ll tell them I’ve been in a Cubist Period, experimenting with representing Benjamin Moore’s yellow-beige oeuvre in a two-dimensional space. Then I’ll adjust my beret and moodily smoke a Gauloise.
Lucky for JB’s blood pressure, he’s been a trooper about doing yoga with me in the evenings lately. He’s about as bendy as a two-by-four, but he gamely cranks himself into Upward Dogs and Chair Poses and only minimally bitches about the annoying Inhale music and the balding dorkiness of Steve Ross.
I’m really grateful for his participation, because it’s highly unlikely I would be sticking with the night-time yoga if I were the only one repeatedly heaving my butt into the air like a startled skunk while listening to “Mustang Sally”. Yoga feels amazing but it looks downright hilarious, no matter how sinewy your muscles or how flattering your pants. It’s definitely not a spectator sport.
On a related note, I’ve decided that people who can do the splits are alien life forms. Can you do the splits? If so I fear both your inhuman flexibility and your no-doubt powerful anal probe.
Apr
16
April 16, 2007
Today a coworker asked me if I had lost some weight, and I tried to think of something just this side of human sacrifice to show my gratitude while still maintaining professional dignity. Instead, I found myself awkwardly grinding one foot around on the floor in a cartoonish “Aw, shucks” maneuver, completely unable to come up with a normal human response (“Yes, thanks for noticing”, maybe?) and producing little non-verbal peeps and bloops of flustered please-direct-your-attention-elsewhere discomfort. In terms of socially dorktastic reactions, I suppose suddenly and voluminously crapping my own pants would have been worse, but for crying out loud. I’m 33 years old, when will I ever shed my inner (endlessly embarrassed) gawky teenager?
Speaking of such things, I’ve been thinking an awful lot about body image in the last month or so as I focus on changing my own body through diet and exercise. I feel like everything I’ve been doing has been really healthy, and that I’m hopefully developing some long-term good habits, but I’m starting to wonder where the process should ultimately take me.
The fact that I’m actively working on improving my physical condition means that every day I’m assessing my progress, and while I do celebrate my victories I also bemoan the perfection that still isn’t there. How will I know when I’ve reached my goal, when I am in a shape that is optimal for my health and well-being?
I want to take the empowering, invigorating benefits that have come from this lifestyle change and really maximize my potential. I want to feel strong and look great. I don’t want to be in an endless loop of self-criticism; I want to transcend that bullshit with my fitness level, not get further mired in it.
I’m proud of what I’ve achieved so far and now I know I can do it, I can stick with a program even when it’s inconvenient or dreary and fucking-A, that feels so good. It feels so good to have found the strength and discipline within myself, it feels so good to turn the volume down on the self criticism and give myself a well-deserved high-five for what I’ve been able to do.
The more fit I become, the more I want to get to the next level. I have no idea what that really means, though. Is it a clothing size? A number on the scale? Something I see in the mirror?
I’m trying to figure out how to balance the legitimate positive effects of working to improve my fitness against the corrosive realm of comparisons and fault-finding. I wanted to lose weight to feel better about myself, and I do, but I also want to be sane about this. I want to develop the inner strength to not nitpick over “problem areas” or feel like a criminal if I eat dessert. I want to be a strong woman who pours her energy into the things that enrich life, not the things that erode joy and self confidence.
Most of all, I don’t want my self worth to be determined by the state of my body. Body image issues are such a hobble for so many of us, they limit our momentum in life because we get distracted. We focus on the things that we aren’t, instead of the things that we are. How much more clarity would we have if we could shut up the voices that tell us we don’t look good enough?
I’ve made progress towards quieting those voices, but I have a ways to go. And some of that work can’t be done with exercise DVDs or low-calorie meals, the change has to happen in my head.
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A note: this entire topic seems shamefully self-absorbed in light of today’s events at Virginia Tech. Forgive my timing.
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