The Inevitability of Change ... Or something.

"Goodbye, Natalie ... You sure have changed a lot."

A few months ago, these words were sent to me over Facebook messenger after an exchange during a political debate on my wall.

They were issued to me by someone who knew me in high school (and I use the word 'knew' very loosely) and whom I had seen precisely twice in the nearly thirteen years that have passed since I was 17. 

They were issued as an insult, as a negative, as though I should be ashamed at not being like the 17-year-old I once was. I don't know about you, dear reader, but with passive aggressive Xanga posts full of over-dramatic bullshit, 17 personally wasn't necessarily the best look for me.

Beyond that, of course I have. It's been thirteen years since you knew me--and you didn't even really know me back then, anyway. We were in the same social circle, but when did I ever talk to you about anything of any import? When did I share my fears with you? My hopes? My dreams? I didn't. You knew a bright, bubbly girl who felt shy more often than not. 

You knew a girl who would rather bend over backwards, twist herself into an awkward cookie cutter shape to avoid ruffling anyone's feathers. You knew a girl who most would call "nice," who would not try out for a good part in the school play because she knew it was the part her close friend wanted to play. Who felt bad when she got a part in the school play that someone else wanted, who thought she didn't get a place on the Mock Trial team because she wasn't one of the pretty girls.

I loved so much of my high school experience--I hated a lot of it, too, but so much of it was filled with laughter and joy and a great feeling of acceptance which I know is not always the norm for those in high school. I'm thankful for that, and the people who made it so (and even if it's been years, you all know who you are).

But I wouldn't go back to being that seventeen year old girl if somebody paid me. The fact that someone thought he could use 'You've sure changed from when I knew you when you were a teenager' as an insult really speaks volumes. 

What followed was a messenger exchange where I explained exactly that--where I explained that yes, I have, and I'm not ashamed of that, and besides you never really knew me, anyway. What followed is not important.

What is important is that I'm miles away from that girl I was back then--and I'm not worse for it. In fact, I resent the notion that I am. I'm better for it. I'm better for having an opinion and a voice and for using both of those things. I'm better for not bending either of those things to the will of someone else or to the idea that I think someone else wants me to behave in a certain way. I'm better for being able to stand up for myself, for being able to say 'you're wrong,' and 'I disagree.' And while I still may not be able to do any of those things every time, I do them enough that I am unrecognizable as the girl who never did them at all. And that is progress.

I am better for not allowing someone to repeat a fact I know is false because I am afraid they won't like me if I correct them--I am not worse for it, old 'friend,' and there was a time you could have convinced me otherwise. Where the threat of your unfriending would have bothered me, where I would have bent myself into an impossible shape to keep you from leaving, even if I didn't really feel attached to you in the first place. 

I am not the person I was back then, and thank any god for that.

I fully expect that in thirteen years I'll be able to say the same thing about the person I am now--I fully expect that I'll be an unrecognizable version of myself; I expect I'll grow in ways I never even knew I could. And if anyone tries to use this change as an insult, I'll know the truth. 

I hope the same thing for you, even after all of it. I hope you find yourself becoming your own person in ways that you'd never even dreamed of. I hope you never begrudge someone any change that is good for them, even if you don't agree with it, even if it bothers you, even if it does not reconcile with the version of that person you thought you knew.

"Never change," "Stay Sweet," "Stay Cool," - these are platitudes we wrote in each other's yearbooks if we didn't know what else to say (we also said KIT, but how much did we mean that, and would we have written it at all if Facebook had existed?). But they're not healthy wishes--they are not good things to wish on someone. "Become the person you need to be when you need to be it," is what we should say. "I won't begrudge you for it when your sweetness turns sour because too many people have taken advantage of you," is what we should mean. "If it hurts too much to stay cool, become grounded instead, root yourself in love and family and friends if the pressure is too much," is what we should write.

One of the greatest things we can hope for in this life is personal growth, and I will not apologize for it--not anymore, not to anyone, and certainly not to an acquaintance from high school. I will not apologize for being someone you don't recognize, some conglomeration of variations of the word 'nice.' Sometimes, I'm not anymore. And that's okay.

Because your goodbye means nothing to me--the only thing that matters is what I say to myself:

"Hello, Natalie... You sure have changed."

Hillary Clinton Is Historic, And Your Meme Can't Take That Away

An amazing, incredible, absolutely historic thing happened last Tuesday.  For the first time in history, a woman clinched the nomination of a major party and she has a chance to win.  Women (and men) I know in Underground Hillary Clinton Facebook Groups (yes, that is a thing--more on that later) rejoiced.  After months of her supporters being tormented, threatened, bullied into silence on social media--and in real life--Hillary Clinton received enough pledged delegates to call her the presumptive nominee for the office of President of the United States of America.  A truly amazing, incredible feeling.  

I came home from voting in the Democratic primary energized, and alive--and happy.  Truth be told, I didn't always like Hillary Clinton. Then, I did my research.  But, that's not exactly important for this post, because that's not what this post is about.  This post is about the fact that a historic moment happened on Tuesday, and instead of being allowed to revel in our joy, to revel in the fact that little girls growing up will now know what we only thought was true: that there really can be a woman in the highest executive office of the United States of America.  Instead of being able to soak that all in, the assault Hillary supporters have been facing for months continued.  The same assaults that drove us to places like Underground Hillary Clubs in the first place continued.

How dare we celebrate this momentous occasion? How dare we gloat? You're going to need us in November! The Bernie Clan said. Thanks for voting with your vagina. I get the impression you're only voting for her because she's a woman. (this last line was actually said to me, via Facebook, by a coworker. we're no longer Facebook friends). 

These sentiments gave way to very passive aggressive statuses like this one being shared on social media:

The minute I saw this, I immediately felt rage.  It was posted by a MAN on my newsfeed, an ardent Bernie supporter, and I nearly lost it. It was all I could do to not release a string of profanities in the comment section.  Because, honestly, no one needs you to mansplain women's history to me, or any other Hillary Clinton supporter.  Hillary Clinton has not lost sight of the women who have come before her, and neither have we. If you have, that's your thing. And I damn sure didn't see anything like this when Obama was the nominee back in 2008, and everyone was rejoicing at his success as the first African American nominee who was a true contender for the White House.

And the above compilation wasn't the only thing that tried to dampen our joy.  "She's not the first woman candidate for president!" No. I--and many others--admit that.  You're right.  She's not. But, how many of you had to SEARCH for these women you're now using against us to say that this isn't a historic moment? I certainly didn't learn about them in U.S. History in school. Beyond that, while Hillary is not the first woman to run for president, she is the first woman who is the nominee of a major political party who actually has a [very good] chance of winning the presidency. 

Then, there were the 'there are female leaders in all of these countries, so it's really not a big deal! (proceeds to list countries such as Germany, Africa, Saudi Arabia etc.)' group. Yes. You're right.  There are.  That's amazing, isn't it? That we, the United States of America--a country that prides itself on being industrialized, and forward thinking hasn't had a female in the highest branch of government? Can you believe that?  I can't! Besides, doesn't that make it an even bigger deal?

But, I know, I know.  You're not a sexist.  Gender doesn't matter to you (oh how lucky you are, O Wise Male One, that gender cannot matter to you).  So let me just spell it out for you.  That there have been other female candidates for president in the United States of America does not, for one instant, take away from the fact that History is being made right now.  Because we have the first truly viable female candidate for President.  And I don't care what little memes you make about women you took five seconds to research. I don't care what other female leaders you googled.  I don't care what other woman you would vote for in this election you use to demonstrate that you are not sexist.  I don't care about any of it. You will not take this away from her, from us, from me.

Yes. Women before her have helped beat the very rocky path Hillary is walking today--but she's gone much further down that path than any before her--and she's not just weed-whacking. She is BLAZING A TRAIL. So that my nieces, my daughter, my granddaughters might someday walk it with ease.  She is making the journey easier for every single one of them--so that when we bounce them on our knees and tell them "you can be whatever you want to be when you grow up" they know that we mean it, that it's true.  They won't have to walk the narrow dangerous path, tripping over rocks and skinning their knees, breaking bones, only to arrive bloodied and bruised at the end to see a big fat sign that says "No Girls Allowed."

In honor of that, here's a little bit of information about the women you are using to further your misguided purpose:

Victoria Woodhull: A famed magnetic healer, she was a leader of the Suffrage movement. Her candidacy for President was in 1872 for the Equal Rights Party, almost 50 years before women were even allowed to vote.  Do you know how many electoral votes she received? Zero. There is conflicting information regarding the popular vote, but she didn't get much of that either. 

Lenora Fulani: She ran in 1988 for the New Alliance Party.  She received 250,000 votes.

Linda Jenness: She ran in 1972 for the Socialist Workers Party, and she did not qualify because she was only 31 and did not meet the Constitutional presidential age requirement.

Cynthia McKinney: She ran for the Green party in 2008, where she received 161,797 votes.

Jill Stein: She ran for the Green party in 2012.  She received 469,501 votes in the election.

This is not an attempt to minimize the contributions these women have made to the political process.  Every step a woman makes towards the white house is one step closer to breaking that ultimate glass ceiling.  But, suggesting that Hillary Clinton's achievements in 2016 are any less impressive, relevant, or groundbreaking because there have been women who have come before her is reductive.  And, frankly, it's ridiculous.

Combined, these women received fewer than one million votes. Hillary Clinton received nearly two million votes in California alone on Tuesday. Two million men and women voted for a female candidate for President.  Hillary Clinton received--from one state--more votes than all of the prior female presidential candidates you are using to discredit her accomplishment combined. To not call that historic is not only completely inaccurate, but it is a complete and total disservice to the above women you claim to be representing/defending.

You are not progressive with your pointing out of other female candidates--you're gaslighting, and undermining a powerful woman in the most socially acceptable way you can find.

No matter how you slice it, when you look at the facts and get right down to it: Hillary Clinton has already made history.

We have been waiting 240 years for this--we have had 44 presidents, all of whom were MALE.  You will not take this away from us with your obtuseness.  You will not take this away from us with your ire.  This is a BIG step for women in the United States. 100 years ago, women couldn't even vote.  And now? We have a woman, just endorsed by our current Commander-in-Chief, poised to take the White House next January.  And you want to tell us that her achievement doesn't matter? Is somehow dulled because there were women that came before her?

I don't fucking think so.  And this is not up for discussion any more. I am done listening, and no amount of 'but, but, but...' will dampen my rejoicing in this historic moment.  None of it will dampen the fact that someday I can tell my children--I was there. And I was happy.

The First Thing I Ever Heard About Hillary Clinton

Well, this election season sure is something else, isn't it?  And, yes, I am definitely using 'something else' in the same way your older relatives use to describe someone or something they don't like, agree with, or respect.  "You sure are somethin' else, aren't you?"

There's been a lot of hate and vitriol spewing between friends, strangers, enemies, and even the political candidates themselves. I'm used to this, though--I really saw it come to a head during the 2012 Presidential year.  But, there's something different about this one, isn't there? There seems to be a lot more in-party fighting than in previous elections--at least, there's a lot more hatred and mudslinging behind it.  The 2 party system has always been like this, I suppose--first you have to defeat your same party candidate, before you even begin to worry about the other party's candidate. But among my Facebook friends, support for Bernie Sanders has been pretty consistent.  Which is fine: to each his or her own. But, this "support" for Sanders has one problem, in my book: it takes shape via attacks/articles against Hillary Clinton.  I have found that the Hillary Clinton supporters are silent--I actually posted an article about this awhile back, and I still wholeheartedly agree with it (you can read it here).

But, there is something even more troubling to me: any time a Hillary Clinton supporter mentions that something is sexist, or could be perceived as sexist, we are told NO.  NO NO NO NO NO. That is NOT what it is, absolutely NOT.  Nope.  Nope! It's not sexist--it's just facts, it's just x, y, or z, but it's NOT SEXIST.

So, I thought I would share the very first thing I ever heard about Hillary Clinton.

Now, I was born in the late eighties, and couldn't vote until 2004. So, when Bill Clinton was first in office I was 7.  I didn't know much about politics, the president, congress, the government--or really, life at all.

But the very first thing I heard about Hillary Clinton, the First Lady of the United States was this: she is ugly.  Boy, is she ugly.

It was a joke someone in my family said--not really a joke, but a statement.  And it is one that I repeated, to other family members, probably to my peers, and it was always met with the same response: snickers and sneers.  It is one that I saw repeated in the media for years. Never did anyone say that how she looked didn't matter--that she was smart, tenacious, and powerful. These are things someone would have told me about a man. "He's ugly," would have undoubtedly been met with "It's not his looks that are important--he is a good leader, he is a good ____, a good ____, that's what matters."

And when the news of Bill's scandal broke in 1998, the jokes got worse.  Of course she couldn't keep her man.  Look at her.  And that's the thing, isn't it?  We did look at her.  When we should have looked anywhere else.  And we looked at Monica Lewinsky, too. We looked at her and said, "her? Really?"

I was 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12--and all I heard about Hillary Clinton was how ugly she was, about her perceived failings as a woman.

And now, 20 years later, I'm being told by even liberals that NO. It's NOT SEXIST.  Couldn't possibly be.

But... couldn't it?

People don't care about Bernie's hair--that it flies about wildly is endearing.  Meanwhile, memes circulate about Hillary Clinton's thighs, and if her hair EVER looked like Bernie's did, with a single strand out of place, she would be crucified.

So, forgive me for not believing that SEXISM has absolutely nothing to do with the things that are said about Hillary (or, perhaps more accurately, the WAY things are said about Hillary), but I guess you and I just grew up in different worlds, because the FIRST thing I heard about Hillary is that she was ugly.

And that this was the first thing I ever learned about our first lady, Hillary Rodham Clinton, has stayed with me.  And it should have stayed with you--maybe if it had, you wouldn't be so quick to nullify any claim that even begins to whisper sexism.  

That Time a [Former] Teacher Blocked Me

I remember the moment very vividly. I was sitting cross legged on a pull out bed, and I was on vacation with my mom.  (Who, by the way, woke me up every day at 8am to watch animal videos she found on Facebook). Anyway, I was scrolling through my Facebook feed when I saw it.  Someone had tagged a former teacher of mine in a post, and I realized I couldn't click the name.

I remembered a few months ago searching for this teacher on Facebook, and being unable to find her.  I was sad, but assumed she must have deleted her Facebook account.  I may have even messaged another former teacher to tell that first teacher I said hello, or possibly even sent an email to her school email account. I'm not really sure, I can't remember that detail now.

Never, in my wildest dreams did I imagine that she--someone I thought of as a mentor to me during high school--had blocked me. But, sitting in that hotel room, I knew that's what happened. I tried to search again, to be sure, and nothing. I logged in from another account, and was able to see her--that's when I knew for sure, without a doubt, she had blocked me. That information hit me like a ton of bricks. 

I distinctly remember my mom asking me what was wrong, and I tried not to cry as I told her "Mrs. _____ blocked me on Facebook." My mom didn't remember her, but she could tell I was upset, "Don't let it bother you." She told me, no doubt knowing that was futile--everything bothers me.  I searched through this old teacher's profile for the last post I remembered seeing, and then tried to correlate it with something controversial I had posted on my Facebook around that time. I really could find nothing, and I started to cry.

Now, it didn't ruin our vacation or anything even close to that, but it bugged me for awhile.  It's no secret that I am a very sensitive person, and so having someone block me on Facebook might sting no matter what.  But, this person was a mentor, someone I really looked up to in high school, someone who wrote me a letter of recommendation for college, someone I named in a blog post about good teachers, so it felt even worse--felt even more personal. Never mind that 8 or 9 years had passed since I was even in high school, and I had become a much different person than I was back then (this teacher probably had, too).

But it still bothered me. I couldn't fathom what I had done to make her block me--and, you know? I still can't.  Sometimes I still see her tagged, and I think 'I wonder what I did?' But then, something else comes to mind: I don't care.  I really genuinely do not care anymore what I did, or even that she blocked me in the first place.  Which is actually kind of a revelation.

You see, my whole life I have been a people-pleaser. As far back as I can remember, I remember being (and enjoying being) the teacher's pet.  I was kind to teachers, I looked up to them, and just like [most] everyone else, I wanted them to like me (and often wanted them to like me the best).  Now, whether they did or did not like me the best isn't really the point (and, I really don't know/care now whether they did or not). But, truth be told, I was a good student--and I loved school, so teachers held a special spot in my mind--they were on a pedestal.  In high school I used to debate with family members telling them that teachers should make way more money than they make (I still believe they should).  At several points, I even wanted to be a teacher.  So, even 8 or 9 years later, being blocked by a teacher I really liked in high school genuinely bothered me.

But it also taught me a couple of lessons-- we are not who we were 8 or 9 years ago.  None of us are.  And knowing why I was blocked doesn't really matter in the long run.  Who I was then is a part of who I am now, but I don't have to let it rule--I don't have to be that same girl who seeks approval from her teachers (past, present, or future. Or even from her peers--but maybe that's a different blog). And it's okay if these people don't approve of me, even if they did at one time.  People are allowed to change.

Social media is really great sometimes.  It allows you to keep in touch with people you wouldn't have otherwise, and some days I am thankful for it (other days, I swear I'll delete it).  And if the day ever comes where I do hit that little delete button, I'll probably be relieved, and yet thankful for the lessons it taught me.

Had that teacher not blocked me, I might never have learned that it's okay if I leave the past in the past.  She and I were close (ish) a very long time ago, and she was a pretty good teacher most of the time, but that time has come and gone--and that's okay.  I'm different now, and truth be told, I like who I am now a hell of a lot better than I like who I was then--and if that teacher, for whatever reason, decided the opposite was true? Oh well.  I haven't lost anything except another reason to cling on to the past.

And, as sad as I was for a few days, the truth of the matter is this:

How I feel about the blocking now (and, indeed, all blockings)

So, thank you, Teacher, wherever you are--for the past, and for the present. For the lesson it taught, I am happy to not know you now.

A Letter to the Young Girl Staring in the Bathroom Mirror

To the Young Girl Staring in the Bathroom Mirror

There you were in your black skinny jeans, your grey t-shirt hanging off of your thin frame, your beanie placed precariously at the edge of your head, your black-rimmed glasses perched on your nose.

I came out of the restroom stall, and was washing my hands when I noticed you.  Or, rather, heard you.  You stood in front of the mirror, something you'd obviously practiced in your 16 years, and said to your friend "My tummy looks flabby."

I, with my hands under the hot water, turned to look at you.  You were young, and small, and I stood there, watching you out of the corner of my eye. Your friend went to the restroom, and you stood in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, standing up straighter, smoothing your shirt down over your stomach.

I know that look.  I have done it nearly every single day for much of my life, I have pushed my shoulders back, held my breath, looked at my stomach in the mirror, thinking the same thoughts as you.

I, who had spent the day eating only fruit so I could partake in popcorn tonight, pursed my lips together, as I rinsed the soap from my hands.  You made your way over to the counter behind the sinks, and leaned up against it, your eyes on the mirror as you pulled your t-shirt away from your body.  I glanced at you again, but you didn't notice me--you were so intent on the mirror. Behind me now, I watched in the mirror as you shrugged your shoulders back, your eyes on the mirror to the side of you, and I pinched my lips harder. I wanted to say something to you.  I wanted to be that annoying older person you roll your eyes at--I thought about telling you this: "You're beautiful just the way you are." I wanted to say that to you because it's true--I didn't want to say "your tummy is not flabby," even though that was true, too.  I wanted to tell you that even if your tummy is flabby, you're beautiful.  No matter what, as you are, in your skin right this very moment, you're beautiful.  But I didn't. I didn't say anything to you, I just held my tongue as I walked out of the bathroom, and joined my husband in the concessions line, waiting for that popcorn I'd spent all day planning for, all day restricting for.

I looked around for you then, hoping you'd walk by, and maybe I'd get the courage to tell you. But you didn't.  And anyway, I didn't.

So, here is what I would like to tell you, at 16.  Here is what I am only just now learning, at 29:

Stop.  Stop obsessing over your body--over every single thing that's wrong with it. Over an extra five pounds, ten pounds, 1 pound. It's not worth it.  You will spend every waking moment thinking you're fat--trying to turn yourself this way or that in pictures. Shoulders back, stomach in, arm away from your side so it doesn't smoosh down and look fat, leaning your weight away from the camera, one leg behind the other, hip pushed back, stomach sucked in, chin down. You will look at these pictures in the moment and think 'I'm fat. I still look fat, despite all of this.' 

You will see every picture of yourself in the present and think 'I look fat,' and then in few years, you will pull those pictures out for nostalgia, and realize that no, you were not fat. You did not look fat. 'But,' you will think, 'Now I am fat. I wish I could go back to how I looked then.' And it will make it so you are never happy with how you look.

If you allow it, if you start down this road, I'm not sure you can ever come back.  It will cloud every single thing that you do--your prom, your high school graduation, your first day of college, parties at college, your scholarship awards ceremony, your college graduation, your wedding day, your random Thursday night at the movies.  It will always be there, in the back of your mind, this little voice that lies to you and says, 'It doesn't matter.  No matter what you do, you're going to look terrible because you're so fat.' After awhile, there will come a point where you can't remember not at least thinking about watching your weight, or actively dieting, or eating the cheeseburger without guilt.  You might develop an eating disorder--you might practice severe restriction, or develop anorexia or bulimia.  Sometimes, you might even avoid seeing old friends, so they don't see how "fat" you've become.

Those imaginary rolls on your tummy?  They're a ripple effect that will color the rest of your life.  They are an impediment to your happiness that will feel impossible to shake.

I don't want that to happen to you.  I want you to feel beautiful in every single moment you have, because this is it.  This is all we get. Standing in the bathroom at the movies, your graduation, your wedding day, I want you to feel beautiful. I don't want you to be worried about what other people think of your body--only what you think of your body, and I want you to love your body no matter what shape it's in.

Be healthy. Whatever that means to you--have a healthy lifestyle, but understand you may not be as skinny as you want to be, as the world wants you to be, as other girls you see--but your health is what matters, both physical and mental.

These are the things I want to tell you, 16 year old.  These are the things I want to tell myself.  That I want to believe myself.

I can't remember ever feeling happy about my weight.  At least, not since about the 7th grade.  I can't remember ever seeing a picture of myself and not picking it apart, usually in reference to my weight. I can't remember waking up, looking in the mirror, and thinking I looked skinny, even when I was.

I don't want that for you.  I don't want that for me.  I don't want that for us.

These are the things I wish I had said to you in that bathroom. These are the things that I want to say to myself-- it's not too late, I want to say.  It's not too late for you, and you know? It might not be too late for me, either.

Social Media Infiltration

I've been getting annoyed with myself lately.  Every time I have a moment of spare time, I find myself picking up my phone.  I find myself absent-mindedly scrolling through Facebook, refreshing the feed, and scrolling some more.  After that, I check Instagram, then maybe Twitter, then maybe Timehop to see what my activity on social media was this year, then back to Facebook again.  

This wouldn't be so bad if I only did it once a day--if I only picked up my phone at the end of the day to see what went on, and then put it down.  But, I don't.  I grab my phone repeatedly throughout the day, night, and it's the first thing I do when I get up in the morning. If I'm watching Hulu, and there's an ad break? Check Facebook.  Boring part of a show I'm watching on Netflix? Facebook.  Waiting in line at Chipotle? Check Facebook.  Waiting in line anywhere? Check Facebook. And the funny thing? I'm not even really sure what I'm checking for! Ah, Social Media (read my other post on social media here).

In college, social media like Facebook and MySpace (I loved MySpace, and was one of the last holdouts on the MySpace front), was super fun! I would sit down at my computer (I had a desktop back then) after class or after dinner at the commons, and check to see what was going on. Maybe I'd post a few bulletins, do a couple of surveys, and then I'd relax on my bed--read, do homework, go out with friends to Target or for frozen yogurt.  It was fun back then to be connected via social media.

But, that all changed when you could start carrying social media around in your pocket--at least, I think that's when it all changed for most people.  Sure, some people were addicted to the internet back in the day--but how many people could just NOT log out of the "Bored" chatroom on AOL? Probably not many. Social media was a fun thing you did to pass maybe a few minutes a day--sometimes an hour on the weekend. But, now? It's turned into this ravenous monster that apparently just won't stop eating things--eating time with friends, family, pets. I see car commercials that have features where you can check Facebook while you're driving. And it's insane--and if I had that car, I would probably use it. (Let's keep it real, I'm not on a high horse here about social media, I use it too much, which is what sparked this post--but at least I realize it).

Awhile ago, a video was going around about how Social Media takes from our lives, and it urged people to put the phone down. I saw tons of people sharing this on my newsfeed, and I just had to laugh at the irony. Thousands of people watched a video on how we should STOP posting on social media constantly and live our lives, and the FIRST THING these people who watched the video did was what? Go on a hike, bike ride, walk, run? No. Posted to social media. So, I was a bit of a troll in that regard when that video came out. And I still am--the people I saw post that are the people that I see updating social media the most. Maybe it really spoke to them, I'm not sure.

The fact of the matter remains: I have become increasingly disgusted with myself over my use of social media. It's to the point where, if I'm eating dinner with Tom, and he gets up to use the restroom, I pull out my phone. Heaven forbid I just sit there enjoying the ambiance/experience of life. 

I always say that I feel really lucky to have grown up when I did--the internet was a thing, but it wasn't THE thing. I went outside and played (when I wasn't in my room reading, of course), and when the internet came around, I played on that too--AIMing with people, going into chat-rooms, but logging off at the end of the day. And I still feel that way--I still feel lucky that I grew up that way, but I feel mad at myself that I can't sit in a restaurant by myself for a few minutes. And I think to myself (as I'm doing it): what would I do if I didn't have a phone? Like back in the day, when we didn't have them (at least, not to the extent that we do now)? Sure, maybe I would have been a little bored for a few minutes--but I would also have been engaged in the world around me instead of scrolling like a mindless idiot looking at things that just don't matter.

I remember when I was little, a friend and I went to Disneyland--we were waiting in line for Space Mountain (my mom was waiting on a bench at the end), and all through the line we were playing patty-cake games (not sure if that's the correct term)--but you know "Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack... All dressed in black, black, black..." THE WHOLE TIME. Different songs, but literally the entire time. And it was a long wait. And we annoyed everyone around us. In fact, we were so annoying that these two older teenage girls got mad at us and we were convinced they wanted to beat us up after the ride, so we ran through the exit to my mom on the bench. They probably wouldn't have beaten us up, but still. Not really the point, I guess.  

The point is that when I go to Disneyland now, and I'm waiting in line, I'm scrolling on my phone. And I see kids my age scrolling on their phones, or playing with their iPads, and it kind of makes me sad--like how we can't just be together anymore without this *thing* between us. If I were standing behind 2 little girls who sang songs throughout the entire wait of a line for a ride, I'd want to smack them by the end, I'm sure--but, I'd also secretly be happy. Because I can't help but think that's how it should be--that's how we should be.

Social media is a game changer, that's for sure--but it isn't THE game. It's just A game. It should be a very small part of our lives, but it's increasingly becoming the largest part of our lives. At least, I know this is true for me. And I don't want it to be.

I don't know why I need to take a picture of everything (Pics or it didn't happen! I guess?), but I pull my phone out a lot for pictures. Brunch! Traffic! Disneyland! It becomes more about getting pictures to document that it happened than actually enjoying the experience. So, when Tom and I had the opportunity to go to 2 concerts a couple of weeks ago, I made a conscious effort to be on my phone minimally. I could see people in the front holding their phones up the entire time, videoing the experience. To watch later? To post on the internet? Not really sure. But, I was determined to not be like them. I took a few pictures, a few selfies with Tom, and one small video per concert. For Mumford & Sons, the chorus of the song that made me adore them.  For Incubus, the chorus of the song that Tom listened to over and over again. And that was it. For the rest, I put my phone away, and had the experience.  Tom and I were also pretty good at this on our Honeymoon--a few pictures to say "we were here!" but not a picture of every single thing we did.

And that's how I want to live my life--a few pictures to look back on later, but focusing on enjoying the experience instead of documenting it. I want to make memories, not social media updates/posts.*

*Sentiment does not apply to the line for my DMV appointment on Friday.

It has not escaped me that this post is being advanced through and hosted on Social Media, but oh well. Nobody does chain letters anymore, and there's less of a hand cramp involved.  Well, I suppose there are newfangled chain letters: Like this post if you agree, share if you agree, comment if you agree--go outside and live your life without your phone if you agree. That's where I'll be. 

Rituals, Plans, and Lists, Oh my!

I was sitting on a red couch in front of a Vegas nightclub, chatting with random people, and managing to score my friends and I free drinks. I was already slightly tipsy, and reeling from a breakup, and excited to be in Vegas for the very first time with friends.  I had just bummed a cigarette from a guy at a bar, even though I don't smoke (I just like the smell of the cigarette before it's been lit), when a guy I had been talking to said "You're a free spirit, I can tell." I beamed at him. Now that I thought about it, I *was* a free spirit! How had I never noticed this about myself before?!

The answer to that question is very, very simple: I am not now, was not then, nor have I ever been what anyone could ever possibly even begin to remotely describe as a "free spirit."  There is absolutely a reason this was the one and only time that anyone has EVER used the term "free spirit" about me.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that most people who know me at all would describe me in exactly the OPPOSITE way.  My aunt Sherry always told a story about when I was very young, a toddler maybe, and I would get my hands dirty.  I would scrunch up my nose, and wipe my hands together trying to remove said dirt whilst saying 'ICK.' I'm sure free spirits come in all shapes and sizes, and I'm sure not all of them like to roll around in dirt--but I'm sure that they don't obsess/freak out over dirt.  As free spirits, I don't think it's allowed.

So, why, then, has that completely wrong observation stuck with me for so long?  Maybe it's because it's something I've always wanted to identify with--something I've been unable to identify with.

I've always been slightly obsessive--if I start thinking about something, I can't stop. I can't stop thinking about it until I talk to everyone in the universe asking for their opinion/consideration to the point where they get frustrated by how obsessive I'm being.  I've always known this about myself--I think it's one reason I tend to be so indecisive. And, I, like the rest of the world, have joked about being OCD because I do things a certain way, or have obsessive thoughts.  But, I never really took it seriously--until a few months ago.  When I was talking to a coworker, he explained that he had OCD, and explained a few repetitive actions, which of course made me think about my life.  Until then, I hadn't really thought much about the possibility that I might actually have some form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder beyond those stupid tests people post on Facebook that ask if gummi bears separated into their colors makes you feel better (which, of course it does--is there anyone for whom this is not true?  Anyway.  When this coworker brought this up, I began to think about my life in a different way.

It made me think about how I have a pattern I must perform before I fall asleep--I start on my right side, then move to my stomach with my head to the right, stomach with my head to the left, stomach with my head to the right, and then I can fall asleep. Which, sure, might be a bit OCD, but I've been doing this as long as I can remember.  But, it also made me thing of a couple other things that happened in my life.

Once, in high school, like many high school girls, I was obsessed with using chapstick.  But it was different--instead of putting it just on my lips, I had to put it slightly above and below my lips as well. That's because I developed this thing where, instead of simply licking my lips to moisten them, I would tuck my top lip under my bottom lip, and my bottom lip under my top lip (which is kind of hard to explain), but which resulted in a chapped/red area around my entire mouth. I remember my mom telling me to stop doing that. And I wanted to--but, I couldn't.  I didn't know why, but I couldn't stop doing it. Until, finally, I guess I did. Luckily, because the habit was getting bad.

It also made me think about another habit I used to have.  For about a year during my Freshman year of high school, I developed another ritual.  I used to use the fingers on my right hand (the pointer and middle) to write in cursive any words anyone said or I saw displayed.  I would 'write' these on desks as teachers were talking, or in the air by my side if I was walking or didn't have a surface upon which to "write."  One of my distinct memories of this involves my mom, Dad, and I walking around the Swap Meet where my Grandy used to sell--I kept seeing sign after sign, and I would write the words, my fingers working through the air discreetly at my side "T-Shirts sold here" or "Churros." Each sign was immediately replaced by another sign that I had to transcribe into the air--I remember walking around exhausted, trying to not look at signs or read any words, because if I did, I had to write it in the air.  I remember wanting to stop--but being unable to stop.  Until, finally, thankfully, I did.  I don't know how, why, or even when I was able to stop these behaviors--but, I was.  There are other things--other habits or rituals that I pick up and then put down, or that I hold on to, but the writing incident is the one that sticks out most in my mind. It's the one I pointed to immediately when this coworker described to me some of his OCD rituals.

It makes so much sense when I think about it in the context of my life--why I've always had these little habits or rituals. Why I am not a "Free Spirit."  I'm not a Free Spirit--but, I think that's okay. I'm not a "Bound Spirits," I have my moments. And, I have my fun--laughing is one of my favorite activities.  So I have to plan my adventures?  Who cares! The point is that I have adventures--even with the inability to be spontaneous, to have to plan every single thing, with rituals and habits and things that are probably connected to some type of OCD, I have my fun.

No, random guy in Vegas, I'm not a Free Spirit.  I don't think you could have been more wrong if you'd tried.  But, I don't think I want to be a free spirit--at least, I don't anymore.  It's never been my style, and I don't think it ever will be.  My style is riddled with plans and itineraries and rituals and lists and that's okay.  It has to be--because it's mine. And, while I would like to stop being obsessive, and be able to stop rituals at-will (or, hey, better yet: never develop rituals in the first place), I've learned that it's my way--and for whatever shortcomings my way has (and it certainly does have some), it's gotten me here--it's given me purpose and the ability to plan for the future, which is something you wouldn't find in the alternate universe Free Spirit Natalie.

So, I'm afraid that all of you in this universe are stuck with OCD Natalie--though she may frustrate you at times when she repeats information over and over again when she is worried or upset, she's all you have.

As We Sailed Into the Mystic

Some people have been asking me (or asked me at the wedding) about the song I walked down the aisle to. I've been giving a short answer--but I decided to give a longer one here, more for myself than for anyone else.  

The full story starts when I was a teenager--my parents and I were driving home from somewhere, and I was curled up in the backseat trying to sleep.  When we went on road trips, they usually played "my" music, or radio stations that I wanted to listen to.  But, this time, they were playing 'their' music. Bob Dylan came first, and I tried to sleep in the backseat, not really a Dylan fan (though now I definitely am). I would be lying if I said I wasn't frustrated--not only was I not listening to MY music, I was trying to sleep!  After the Dylan CD finished, they put in some guy I'd never heard of--I heard him singing, his semi-raspy voice filling the car. I'm sure I did more than my share of sighing and eye-rolling, until one song came on.  I remember hearing "Into the Mystic" for the first time with my eyes closed, the latch of the seat belt digging into my side. Something about this song just spoke to me--and I don't really know why or how that song connected with my teen-aged soul, I just know that it did.  Since then, I have always loved "Into the Mystic."

Flash forward to New Year's Eve 2009--I met my aunt Sherry and some of her friends in Solvang. She had been going through breast cancer treatment, and she had a few wigs to choose from.  As we were standing in the hotel room getting ready, music in the background, I heard the familiar sounds of "Into the Mystic" begin playing.  I immediately yelled "Turn it up, I LOVE this song!" Sherry turned and looked at me, her mouth slightly open, "Oh my god, Natalie! I love this song too!" Sherry and I were a lot alike in some ways--we looked so similar that when she put my school pictures on her desk, people asked if I was her daughter.  We were also very different in a lot of ways--she the extrovert, me the introvert.  But, every time we discovered another way in which we were alike, I could always count on an "Oh my god, Natalie!" from Sherry.  That night, on New Year's Eve, was one of my favorite moments-- and one I'll always treasure.

Sherry passed away in January of 2010, losing her fight with breast cancer as it metastasized in her brain.

In Grad School that year, I wrote this line in a poem I wrote about Sherry:

I think that every prayer I uttered into the mystic
went to the dark night sky
into the pocket of a thief


It was one of the first pieces of writing I sent Tom when we began talking-- and it was a poem he said he connected with.

Flash forward to our first date, and Tom and I are sitting in a darkened movie theater watching the movie "The 5 Year Engagement." During one of the scenes, a song begins to play--it's a cover, but it's instantly recognizable.  It's "Into the Mystic."  I can't control myself-- I start bawling in the theater, more than I should for the scene in the movie, and soon I'm crying so hard I can't stop.  I try to look away/conceal it, but I'm sobbing, and so of course Tom notices it, and he looks at me with concern, and I assure him that I'll explain it to him later. As we walk out of the movie theater, I do--telling him how much it reminded me of my aunt, and telling him the story of how that came to be.

But there is something I didn't explain: I considered it a sign.  Now, those who know me will know that aside from finding dimes and the occasional animal visitor (crow in my path, ladybug on my windshield), I'm not much for signs.  But I thought that this was one--that she saw me, that she was happy for me, that she was proud of me.

She always did say that she thought I would meet the person I'd marry at work (funnily enough, I always thought that too).

So, when it came time to pick a song to walk down an aisle at the end of which would stand Tom, the same boy from that first date, I looked at tradition.  The bridal march, Canon, and I considered them all.  But none of them felt right--so I searched harder.  I happened upon 2 instrumental versions of "Into the Mystic," and I thought I would use one of those.  When I played them for my mom, she liked them, but she suggested that I use the actual Van Morrison song--I instantly agreed. After all, it was my wedding, and I could choose whichever version of whichever song I wanted.

Now I will forever associate that song with my Aunt, my wedding day, and my dad singing along to the words "I wanna rock your gypsy soul" as we approached the end of the aisle.  I'll keep making memories with my aunt, even if she is no longer here--and everyone else I love who has passed for that matter.

Anyway, there it is-- the story of how I came to walk down the aisle on my one and only wedding day to Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic."

My Weight Loss Journey is Over

Losing weight for a wedding is easy.  Losing weight is never easy. 

This isn't my first blog post on weight (read the other one here). Who knows, maybe it'll end up being my last.  That'd sure be great. Weight is something I've struggled with since high school.  My weight would go up and down (usually based on how much soccer I was playing at the time).

To recap, I lost a ton of weight in college, and managed to keep it off throughout grad school.  But, then I hit 26 and my metabolism decided to lay down and die.  And I started dating a guy, and we ate out a lot, I suppose.  But, I'd kind of always done that.  I was essentially addicted to fast food for a very long time-- starting in probably middle school.

It was pretty much all I ate--even through grad school.  Even when I moved to LA and lived on my own-- it is so easy (no cooking, no dishes), and honestly it's pretty delicious.  But, study after study has shown that it's terrible for you.  It seemed I didn't care.  And then...I got engaged.  

And I set about the business of losing weight.  Which certainly wasn't easy.  In fact, it was pretty hard.  It wasn't until January that I really started getting serious about my weight loss. I joined weight watchers (which made me feel like an old woman), and that really helped! I lost like 15 pounds, and then hit a plateua for like a month where I wasn't losing anything.  So, I switched to low carb-- and I ended up losing a grand total of 23lbs.  I was 2lbs shy of my goal, but I would take it!

It was funny how easy small things were-- even walking around Disneyland in the heat minus 10lbs made things easier, which I found kind of fascinating.  Seeing myself every day, I didn't really think I had lost that much weight/it made that much of a difference.  But, then I showed an old picture of myself to a coworker (that was taken about a year ago, actually), and she was shocked at how much weight I'd lost.  Then, Tom found a picture of us going through the venue, and it became extremely clear how much weight I had actually lost. It was pretty apparent!  It's absolutely not necessary for women to lose weight for their wedding days, and I don't want it to seem like that's what I'm suggesting.  But it was imperative for ME to lose weight for my wedding day--and I'm so glad that I did. It enabled me to be confident in my gown on the wedding day, and I didn't even really spend that much time thinking about my arms. If you read one of my posts last month, you know how unusual that actually is.

Then the wedding came and went, and I munched down on burgers and fries that day, along with a few bites of some pretty delicious cupcakes. It tasted fantastic! After months of depriving myself, I was so happy to bite into that burger.  Then, on my honeymoon, I ate whatever I wanted as well-- in fact, one day all we ate were buffets!  We were treated to a buffet breakfast at our hotel each morning (thanks Costco Travel!), and we took full advantage of that.  

Long story short: I've been eating pretty much whatever I want for about 3 weeks now, and I am absolutely shocked to learn something...

I am absolutely ready to go back to eating healthy stuff.  I never thought I'd be in that place! I never thought I would crave NOT FAST FOOD.  And yet, here I am.  Planning a trip to the store to make sure I STOP eating fast food because... well, I just don't want it every day. Fast food, I think, is fine in moderation--it's okay to eat the occasional McDonald's or Taco Bell. But I have finally outgrown the desire/craving to have it every single day. It's actually funny how, when you stop eating it and start eating healthy, you essentially stop craving it.  I'm sure I'll always treat myself now and again (hello, weekends!), but I don't want to go back to the life of eating it every single day--even if I could still do it and remain skinny/fit.  It's time to look to the future for other things, and prepare myself. I can't eat like a teenager anymore--and I spent way more time eating like that than I should have to begin with.

That being said, I haven't stepped on the scale since the day of the wedding--and I'm not going to.  Not for a few weeks, anyway.  It's not about the scale, and I know if I step on that little device it will become about the scale.  I don't want that.  At the end of the day (and at the end of a life), it's simply not the number on that scale that matters.  I'm glad I lost the weight for my wedding, but I'm also tired of stepping on it with dread, and giving it the power to ruin my day, weekend, week, or month.  Nothing (and no one) should have that power over you.

My weight loss journey was rough--it took a long time to lose those 23lbs, and I don't want them back on.  But, my weight loss journey ends here.  It's time to start a new journey, instead. It's no longer a journey about weight--it's now a health/happiness journey.  Which, I think, is better.  And more sustainable.

Adventure 1: Wedding

Sooooo....

I got married! 

Here's a video of the nuptials-- part of them, anyway (Click the link if it won't play below):

Everyone kept saying what a whirlwind it would be, and that I wouldn't remember anything-- they were mostly right.

But, I also remember quite a bit.  I remember the nerves kicking in while I was getting my hair and makeup done.  I would go through waves of calm followed by intense bouts of nausea.  I remember checking the weather because it was overcast and seeing "0% chance of rain" in La Canada, and hearing news approximately 10 minutes later that it was, in fact, raining in La Canada.  I remember everyone telling me it was good luck if it rains on your wedding, to which I promptly responded 'that's just what they say because it's raining on your wedding day!' I remember thinking 'oh well, there's nothing I can do about it.' and letting it go (but also pushing for a backup plan--thank you Deb, for finding those clear umbrellas just in case!).  I remember the drive to the venue, listening to rap music to calm me down. I remember sitting in the bride's room with my dad trying to keep from crying because I was nervous, scared, happy, and sad.  I remember telling him that I don't want to grow up, but also knowing that was an impossibility.  I remember getting ready to walk down the aisle and realizing that I'd forgotten my bouquet and RUNNING through the venue to grab it.

I remember walking down the aisle, and my dad singing along.  I remember Katie, my maid of honor, reaching into her dress to pull out my vows.  I remember some of our vows, though I was so nervous, I have trouble remembering that part.  I remember walking down the aisle and stopping at the end to take a picture. I remember taking pictures and getting grumpy because it was pretty humid.  I remember our grand entrance, our first dance (which morphed from a slow love song into a group rick-roll featuring some fabulous dance moves).  I remember sitting at the sweetheart's table, and everyone coming up to us congratulating us--I remember biting in to the In N Out burger (after months of dieting and abstaining from In N Out, I have an especially vivid memory of this).  I remember the toasts from my parents--my mom trying not to cry during hers.  I remember the father daughter dance and how that's the hardest I cried the whole day.  I remember cutting the cake, and instead of feeding the first bite to Tom, I ate a bite myself, before proceeding with the tradition.  I remember jumping in and out of the photo booth all night.  I remember dancing, and having the time of my life.  I remember being too full to eat our delicious cupcakes (but having a few bites anyway).  I remember the impromptu send off, and the silly chants from everyone.  I remember the limo ride, which was supposed to stop at In N Out for milkshakes, but which we bypassed because we were so exhausted we just wanted to go home and see Cash.  I remember how excited Cash was to see me, and how sad I was to give him to my parents.

I remember, I'd say, quite a bit.  When I was first planning this wedding, I was concerned with the details-- with custom painted, hand stamped (each individual letter), laminated, bookmark escort cards.  With how to display those--with DIY centerpieces.  As time went on, I got less concerned with the DIY aspect, and was just struggling to finish everything.  During all of that, I never really stopped to think about what the wedding would actually be like.  I don't think the thought ever crossed my mind--but, even if it had crossed my mind, I don't think I could have predicted how much fun I would have.  People kept coming up to us telling us that it was the best wedding they'd ever been to--and maybe they were just being nice, looking for something to say--but I had so much fun at my wedding, it was more than I ever could have anticipated, ever could have expected.  When the day came, I was surprisingly calm about all of the little details--somehow recognizing (which is in-congruent with my personality) that it wasn't the little things-- the book placement for the centerpieces that would make the day special.  Instead, it was being surrounded by family and friends, and dancing like no one was watching (even though everyone was) that made the day special.















Advice for Brides:
1) Listen to other brides.  Seriously.  I heard the same thing from so many people/so many blogs, and I kind of ignored some of it.  Do not do this.  They are right.

2) Easy on the DIY.  It sounds like a really good idea when you fill your Pinterest board with stuff, or even when you think of your own ideas--and I'm sure they're all great ideas.  But decide on a few that are really important to you, and go with those.  Forget everything else.

3) DIY is not cheaper.  In fact, it's possibly more expensive if you consider your time.  There's the cost of supplies to make the stuff, and then the cost of making extra because you know you're going to mess at least one or 2 up.

4) If you ignore this (which you will), don't wait until the last minute.  Unless you craft often, this stuff will take a LOT of time.  Decide what's worth it.  (for me, it was the custom bookmarks).

5) Don't sweat the small stuff.  Seriously.  There's no point-- it will all get done, and if it doesn't it honestly won't matter on the big day.  Checklists, for me, became pretty obsolete.  Just make sure you have everything you need for the day of (dress accessories, jewlery, wedding rings, lipstick, deodorant--then you're good).

6) Find good vendors.  Use sites like weddingbee and yelp, and look for bad reviews.  On Weddingbee and Weddingwire you have to go to the end of the reviews to see the bad ones.  This can be helpful for giant companies that have thousands of reviews.  At first it seems like they have great reviews, and then you go to the end and you see nightmare stories.  Don't book anyone with nightmare stories.  If possible, use my vendors. (Tanori Photo, DJ Keelez, Light Up Video, TheBooth by NealPost Photography).  I can't sing the praises of my vendors enough-- everyone was fabulous from beginning to end (not just of the day, but of the whole process, and I cannot recommend them highly enough).

7) Go on a honeymoon.  Do not skip this-- I repeat, do not skip this.  You've spent so much time and effort planning, and getting away for awhile is important--and getting away together as husband and wife is important as well.


8) Have fun.  This is a once in a lifetime thing.  After the honeymoon is over, the post-wedding blues will set in and you'll realize how much fun you had, even if you spent the whole time being stressed about the custom matchbooks you decided to DIY.

Arm[or]

As you can probably tell from this photo, this is my arm.  I think that seems pretty clear, as does the fact that I'm pretty pale, which I've definitely mentioned before.  What's not immediately clear from looking at this picture (at least, I don't think that it is), is the complicated relationship I have with my arm.  Well, actually, arms.  For as long as I can remember, I've had this love/hate relationship with my arms.

I love them because they're arms, and they allow me to do all sorts of cool things like grab stuff, do cartwheels (maybe? I think I can still do those), do handstands (especially in the pool), and just generally live a normal day-to-day life. My arms are pretty awesome when I look at them from that light.  But there is also another light that I tend to look at my arms (and indeed my whole body/person/being) in, and it's one that's not so healthy.

Even when I was very tiny, I saw my arms as these massive things hanging from my body.  They've always just looked so fat to me. And with the weight gain (and even subsequent weight loss), that certainly has not changed.  In fact, it's to the point where--for nearly as long as I can remember (so, say 7 years or so now), I have worn a cardigan or cover-up (lace or shrug or what-have-you) over every single article of clothing I wear without sleeves. Sometimes even over clothes WITH sleeves.  And I have done so for one express purpose: to cover up my meaty arms.  This practice knows no seasonal bounds.  Even at the company picnic a couple years back which was held in June on what was predicted (and which was, I believe) the HOTTEST DAY OF THE YEAR IN LOS ANGELES (where I live), I could be found wearing a cute little romper, strapless by nature... with a lace shrug (surprisingly warm) covering up the upper half of my body.  I was SO HOT. And, yet, that lace shrug stayed exactly where it was.  Why?  My arms! Heaven forbid anyone see them in their natural habitat, occupying space.

In pictures, I try everything in the book-- arching the arm away from the body so that the fat ever-present on my arm doesn't smoosh together.  And it rarely works, usually when I look at a picture, my gaze goes directly to my arms. And the lament starts 'WHYYYYY do I have to have such large arms?!' etc., etc., etc. 

So, I'm not really sure what possessed me to pick out a STRAPLESS wedding dress, back in November, but I did.  I suppose my thoughts were along the lines of: I'll be losing weight! My arms will be skinnier by then, I will TONE THEM.  Which, I have-- the first part of that, anyway.  I have lost weight.  I've lost nearly 20 pounds now. (not counting the 3 I gained in Vegas this past weekend for my bachelorette party because I fully plan to lose those). But, I have lost weight--and yet. Yet, the fact remains, that I still am annoyed at my arms.  But, the marriage is coming now... in just a couple days over 2 weeks, and I have nothing set to cover my arms.

Thus has begun my experiment--over the past few weeks I've been wearing things without cover-ups over my arms; a romper (different than the aforementioned), a tank top, and a strapless dress at my bachelorette party.  And I only took my cardigan off in LAS VEGAS when it became unbearable.  So, I guess you could say that it went moderately well, but I was still super self-conscious, especially in pictures.  

There are so many little things that we long to change about ourselves, that we wish were different-- and I wonder why?  I don't do that to or about other people (for the most part). I don't look at my friends and see what they should change about themselves--when I hear the same criticisms coming from their mouths, I tell them they're wrong.  That they're beautiful no matter what--no matter the circumference of their arms, their waist, their thighs, their necks.  And what's more? I believe it.  I'm not lying--it's true. So, why then can't I give the same courtesy to myself? Why, when I see the picture of me with the guys from Thunder from Down Under do I stare at my arms (which look SUPER PALE next to those tanned fellas, by the way) and lament that they, Natalie's arms, are the TRUE thunder?  Guess it's good I've started practicing...

But, even now, with all of my "practice" I'm still terrified I'll get the wedding pictures (that we are paying a pretty penny for) back and think 'wow, my arms look huge' in every single photo and be unable to enjoy them or display them because of this.  I hope not-- I hope I think nothing of the sort when we get them back.  But, I know myself.  And that thought process--the one that just spirals into negativity and out of control--is super hard to contain when it comes to my own self image.

But, it's too late now: the dress is strapless.  So, me and my arms will see you at the wedding, where we hope to be feeling more at peace with one another.

Revelations of a Newly Minted Day Shifter

I am writing this blog with the sun shining on my face, the soft trickle of a fountain playing in my ear, and the collective hum of chatter from surrounding people occasionally making its way into my mind.  And traffic, in the distance I can hear cars buzzing to and fro.

So, what is this revelation?  What is so special to warrant a blog post?  It’s Thursday. Once upon a time, Thursdays at this time of day (roughly 1:45pm) were reserved for finally starting to get ready for work, or snuggles with Cash after a laaaaaazy afternoon in bed.  Remember, I used to be night shift? (Read it here)

Well, the times have changed and approximately 2 months ago, I began the long, arduous process of transitioning from night shift to day shift. A process that turned out to not be so long or arduous after all.  I suppose humans are made to live during the days? Interesting.  My alarm now goes off at 7:30am, when usually I was just entering REM sleep for the night.  When I was transitioning (sounds like I was becoming a vampire, but actually the reverse is closer to the truth), the first week was really rough—but the second was slightly easier.  And so on.  I would feel pretty exhausted around 3-4 pm, and would be asleep by 11.

Everyone kept telling me it would take me awhile to adjust, but just 1 week in, my body had already started to rebel against me.  

A brief journal entry from my first weekend after switching to days:  "This weekend, I planned to sleep in until at least 10:30, no later than 11:00 (so as not to undo my work).  However, on Saturday morning, my eyes opened at 9:20am (despite having finally gone to sleep at around 3:30am, maybe even 4), and try as I might, I could not get back to sleep.  I gave up, and finally got out of bed at around 9:45 to start the day.  Asleep by 11:30pm (can’t remember the last time that happened), Sunday saw me waking up at 8am! Which I rebelled against and slept until 10am—not quite what I was hoping for, but good nonetheless.  Long story short, my body is already adjusting.  Which is good.  And also bad, because it hasn’t fully adjusted to the whole going to bed early thing, but it’s adjusted to the waking up early thing.  I kind of need it to adjust to both.

Anyway—it’s nice to be day shift.  It’s something I’d been wanting for awhile now, and when the opportunity arose, I just couldn’t pass it up.  It feels good to be on a normal schedule, where if I call someone on my lunch break the office won’t be closed or I could possibly be waking them up.  I’ve been on the Wedding Dress Diet, too (a different blog for a different day), and I’m hoping that this new schedule will help me with weight loss—and vitamin D absorption.

I was kind of scared to switch to Day Shift.  I kind of imagined myself walking around like a zombie the first month or so, looking like the undead amongst the living.  However, that hasn’t been the case—in fact, it seems like just the opposite is true.  Tom, who is still stuck on nights, doesn’t get to see me very much during the day, so on my first Friday as a day-shifter, we were walking to Chipotle for dinner, and he said that I already looked healthier—that I had a different glow.  Which other people have said, too; “You do have a different glow.” So, I guess it’s doing something to my body that’s manifesting in a positive way.  Hopefully that trend will keep.

Anyone else out there have any trouble shifting from nights to days? Or vice versa? (I’ve done both now).