Plasticity

Today was the perfect fall day here. I claim that there are a lot of good days, a solid number of great days, and one perfect fall day in the Twin Cities every year. This is that perfect day. A perfect day is that coolish, but not cold temperature, the leaves are just starting to turn, but haven't yet started raining on your head, and everyone is outside, walking, running, cycling, or coloring on the sidewalk with chalk.

For me, I think life is made up of mostly good days, a solid number of good days, and those rare perfect days. Perfect days where everything goes right. Your bus karma is perfect and you never have to run for the bus, but you don't have to wait for it, either. Your presentation goes exactly as planned without a technological or personnel glitch. You pass by a reflected surface and realize that those jeans you have on make you look ten pounds slimmer. Dinner, a brand new recipe, turns out deliciously and decadently. You run farther than you ever have before. When you flip on the television set, you see a brand new episode of Bones and when you turn it off, you go directly to bed where you fall asleep in seconds.

But then there's what's really going on right now. There's nothing wrong right now. I don't feel sick, I don't feel depressed, I just feel generally removed from life. It's like I'm watching somebody else do the things I'm doing. Dreamwalking through classes, spacing through runs and bike rides, and waking up in the morning wondering what that strange person in my body is going to do next.

The day to day struggle to eat, to shower, to work out, to do my job well, to do the things that make life possible is not a struggle because somebody else is doing it. But how come she can make everything look so effortless? She gets up at a reasonable hour and runs right away. She doesn't procrastinate and make the phone call she's been dreading. She doesn't have to take a deep breath and give herself a pep talk before she walks in because she knows she can do it.

I like her, this girl. This girl who is making my life so floaty and free right now. But I wonder when she's going to leave so the real me can take over again.

Biting My Tongue

Email from student: I missed a couple of lectures and sections. Can I meet with you to go over everything I've missed?
Draft email: Sure, let's have a private tutorial where I go over everything with you that we went over in class. I would be more than happy to do that for you. I love students skipping class and expecting me to do more work because of it.
Actual email sent: Get notes from a classmate.

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Facebook status: My baby is the cutest baby ever.
Draft response: Really? I think he's kind of alien looking. And why the dumb name?
Actual response: Nothing.

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Blog post: I make the same mistakes over and over and over again and then write about them to get some reassurance that I'm not a dumb fuck.
Draft response: If you're going to do the same things over and over again, at least have the creativity to say something new about it.
Actual response: Nothing.

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Guy on the bus: Lets his two year old son wander up and down the bus aisles, while the bus is moving. I'm actually somewhat sympathetic to him because he had a baby in a car seat with him, too, but it's downtown and the bus is crowded and moving...
Dude sitting at the front of the bus (to the child who is now sitting in the middle of the aisle): You can't sit there, son.
Guy on the bus: Dude, he's TWO.
Actual response in my head: And you're a douche who's not taking care of his kid.
Actual response of everyone on the bus: Silence.

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Guy on elevator (towards two women wearing headscarves): Hey, you ladies black?
Woman #1: chattering in a foreign language to Woman #2
Woman #2: glares
Guy on elevator: talk, talk, talk, harass, harass, harass
Me on elevator: silence

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Sometimes I don't know if I say too much or say too little.

To Heed or Not to Heed

As I left her classroom for the final time, she put her arm around me and whispered in my ear, "You need to get out of here. You're meant for somewhere else."

I had not seriously considered my life outside of that quadrant of four small towns until that very moment.

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They didn't have garbage bags in their house - they just used the bags from the grocery store. You decide what to spend your money on, honey child. Some things are worth it. Some aren't.

Every time I search the shelves for the twenty-five cent can of tomato sauce instead of the sixty five cent can, I hear him. (I also hear him every time I pass up the $1.99 chili powder in favor of the stuff that costs almost $5. It makes a difference, I swear, Uncle Lenny.)

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Don't get married, they said. You'll ruin your life. All your freedom will be gone with those vows. I looked at them, their pain so clear in their faces, determined not to let them see my pity or my fear.

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Some people aren't meant for this, he said, as he looked pointedly at me. It's okay to exit gracefully.

But sometimes it's hard to know where the door is.

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In Defense Of

I dream silent, color-filled dreams. They are rarely happy, they are rarely joyous. They are often flashbacks, storms of past emotions long forgotten until my eyes drift shut.

I rarely wake up, sleeping deeply and chaotically. I wake up to find the sheets pristine on his side of the bed and frequently coming off of the bed on my side. The buttons on the duvet cover have been undone on my side of the quilt, showing that even my fingers stay busy at night.

On the rare occasion when I am jolted awake, a sob at the ready or a scream in my throat, he whispers comforting words as he strokes my back. I always try to find the strength to smile at him, to let him know how very much I appreciate him being there.

Yet I seek the refuge of these nighttime visions because it is only there that I confront those demons that seem to never leave. Because in these dreams, I become more powerful than I was before and defeat the monsters that I seemingly cannot escape. I am not the doormat I was back then, but I am courageous and able to stand up for myself and for others.

I have written repeatedly and extensively (oh, let's not forget about here) on taking into account the victims of crimes. So much of our legal system is based on criminals - rehabilitation, sentences, deterrence - that the people who are most affected are often overlooked and neglected.

A reporter enters a locker room, is made to feel uncomfortable and embarrassed through a series of sexual innuendos and pranks, and has the gall to report on that. And, right on cue, the victim blaming began. Women don't belong in locker rooms. Did you see what she was wearing? Also, right on cue, defenses of this behavior began. Men can't help it when they see hot women and the testosterone is flying.

Why shouldn't this woman be allowed to do whatever she wants to do? Wear whatever she wants to wear? As long as she's not violating any laws and her employer doesn't have a problem, shouldn't she be allowed equal opportunities to do the same job a man would do? Without being harassed or even embarrassed? If we are looking for some sort of gender equity, and I think most Americans would agree that this is a good goal, why do we limit the opportunities for women in jobs that they absolutely are qualified for?

In my dreams tonight, I hope I shove a handful of football players, whistling and catcalling, across the room.

Confession: I Hate This Photo

It looks perfectly great, right? Here I am, pushing my godson in the swing. You can't see the baby very well, but he's laughing like a maniac under that silly hat. He's wearing cute shoes and an adorable onesie. I have a matching hat that looks just like his and if I'd been thinking, I might have worn it so we could have coordinated. My calves look fabulous, my hair had just been cut, hell, I'm even wearing jewelry in the form of bracelets, earrings, and a necklace.

But. There's a big but. My stomach. The issues I have with my belly are pretty much the same any woman of a certain age has. It's pudgy and poofy and yes, there ARE abdominal muscles underneath that flab, but there it is in all its glory. It bothers me a lot. I only post this here as a reminder: we are women. This is how we are.

I work out every damn day. I run for 30 minutes a day every other day, I do at least 30 minutes of aerobic activity on non-running days (cycling, Wii Fit, exercise videos), and I do at least another 20-30 minutes of Wii sports/games/activities involving Jillian Michaels every day. I ride my bicycle on most of our errands that are 5 miles or less away from our house. I am a fanatic about being active and staying strong. Yes, my calves look great. My arms are even starting to look less flabby and more toned. But my stomach? Is stuck like this.

(And let's not even talk about the scale. I am borderline overweight on most indexes. I have no idea how I would lose weight unless I cut cheese out of my diet and I am unwilling to do that.)

I am stronger now than I have ever been excluding my sophomore year of college when I had no friends and worked out two hours a day.

But that doesn't mean that every woman doesn't have something she is self-conscious about.

A Question of Perspective

They were sitting there quietly around the table when I walked in. The family reunion that is held on Labor Day every year is not a time for quietness or sitting as far as I am concerned. I sashayed into the room, swung my hands up over my head, and loudly said, "I'm here now. The party may begin."

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Our cousin is a quiet man, but I wouldn't call him shy. He's reserved and probably won't make the first conversational move, but he'll talk, oh, he'll talk - if you talk first. He's moving across the country to go to graduate school and the whole family is astir. Maybe he'll meet a girl like you, they say to me. Like me? You know, an extrovert to bring him out of his shell.

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It is a strange world I live in. I would not consider myself an extrovert - quite the opposite, you know. I need to be alone and in the quiet to energize and refresh. But others see me as different, they see me as fearless, as open, as sassy, as easygoing - as different from how I see myself as possible.

It is the comparison with my husband that brings them to say I am outgoing. I have no frame of comparison about what he was like around his family before I came along, but they all say he is different - lighter and happier. I hope that is true. I hope he is happier.

I hope, too, that someday I can be like they think I am.

Youngest to Oldest

Our youngest nephew turned one earlier this summer. All our nieces and nephews were at the party, held outside at a park in suburban Iowa on one of the hottest, most humid days ever in existence.

Baby L is our youngest baby. He just turned one and damned if I'm not going to have to start calling him a toddler soon. His mother would like him to be out of the baby stage. He's a happy, happy, happy child. He smiles often and cries rarely. His big blue eyes are exact replicas of his mother's eyes. When you put him into his crib, he fusses for exactly 45 seconds and then soothes himself to sleep. When he sees you for the first time, he smiles and giggle maniacally and reaches for you. He is a joy.


Baby K is the youngest of our twins. She is our cuddler. There are always ten times as many pictures of her as any of our other nieces and nephews because they're always on the run and K just likes to be held. We're a mite concerned right now because, while her twin brother is up and walking around, Baby K can't quite muster the strength to sit up by herself yet, let alone walk. But she smiles and laughs at us, she puts her arms up to be held all the time, and is crazy obsessed with helium-filled balloons.


This is my godchild, O (with his awesome mama). He's super cute despite the fact that he looks stoned in every picture I have ever taken of him. He's our little man, walking and babbling and hitting every milestone they put in front of him. He's been off and on oxygen and antibiotics for all of his young life and his little lungs just aren't quite what we want them to be, but he never seems to care when he's wheezing or coughing. He just smiles and laughs and gets up on his chubby little legs and runs away to do important baby work.


Baby A suddenly looks like a little boy! He's not even two yet, although he's so much bigger than our other little guys that we often forget that he, too, is still a baby. He loves to play with balls and kicks a soccer ball better than do (I am not even exaggerating - the kid can dribble and I...can't). He's not very vocal yet - as far as Dr. BB and I can tell the only word he can reliably say is ball - but he knows lots of signs and if Dr. BB and I would just study up when we're not around him, I bet we could have some serious in-depth conversations with him. He's beautiful. (If I were an impartial observer of our nieces and nephews I would give him the most beautiful award. Sadly I am not impartial.)


And this is our oldest niece. I have so many mixed feelings about her. She has brought me great stress and great happiness, but lately she brings me great laughter. I ask her to smile for me and this is what she does (see picture below). I push her on the swing and she asks to go "super high." I think it's funny to hear her say "super high" that I start saying it every time I push her. Eventually, we're both screaming super high above all the other noise in the park. She will, unprompted, find a patch of green grass and dance, dance, dance. She'll pull you out there with her to twirl next to her and pick her up and shake, shake, shake. She's so much fun.


That is our crew. Our little ones, all shining lights, reminding us that happiness is one simple orange balloon (or soccer ball) away.