Reflections On Lost

Stephen and I are on the hunt for a good new TV show to get into. We can beat the Friends characters to every punch line on every episode of every season, and we’re caught up on 24 until all of Season 6 is released. We don’t want to watch anything that’s currently showing, because we want to be able to watch as many episodes as we want, at any given time, without any commercial interruption.

On Friday night, after being grossly underwhelmed by the selection of New Releases at Hastings, we decided to rent the first disc of Lost, Season 1.

Stephen loved it. I was so scared by the pilot episode that I ended up curled up on the couch, watching the last three-quarters of it through tiny slits between my fingers. The whole show premise is bad enough: 48 people are stranded on a remote island after a horrific plane crash. Within a few minutes, it becomes clear that some of the people on the plane are scary all in themselves, there are unidentified, giant wild animals inhabiting the island, and it is suggested that maybe other people have been stranded and died there before.

In the scariest scene of the pilot, a girl named Kate finds herself running through the jungle, chased by some unseen monster that has just chewed up another character and strung his bloody remains in the treetops. I tried to explain to Stephen how much I felt her panic. “I would rather drop dead than be that afraid.”

Stephen said I was a coward.

I did agree to finish off the disc, and to suspend my judgment of the show until I had seen more of it. It did mellow out a little bit, and the mysteries surrounding the characters themselves have me curious enough to continue on to disc 2.

The thing that I do like about horrific shows like Lost and 24 is that they give me a comforting perspective on my own problems:

• Maybe I’m hungry, but at least I don’t have to pilfer through dead people’s pockets looking for something to eat.
• Maybe this hotel room is kind of dingy, but at least weaponized nerve gas is not coming into my room through the air conditioning.
• Maybe my shoes hurt my feet, but at least I am not having to sew up my own gaping wound with a thread from someone’s travel sewing kit and a needle sterilized by a travel-sized bottle of vodka.
• Maybe my needy students were especially emotionally taxing today, but at least I didn’t have to shoot my boss in the head to avoid giving away my undercover position as a member of a terrorist network.

Of course, after last Friday, I have had to add plane wreckage and uninhabited jungles to my list of fear-for-my-life locations (you know, gas stations, stopped traffic, red lights on deserted country roads; basically anywhere where my axles might get severed)…but that’s another story.

 

Call Me Crazy

I would consider switching careers and becoming a mid-level corporate boss just so that I could have a secretary who would make phone calls for me. On multiple occasions, I have driven across town to drop in on someone in person to ask a question or make a comment without having to initiate a phone call. Stephen has started threatening to stop enabling me after one too many times when he’s had to call our friends to work out plans that were my idea.

In my personal life, my social engagements are limited to those activities that I can coordinate via e-mail or through a phone call from Stephen. It’s cost me the occasional relationship or two, but I consider it a fair sacrifice for getting to avoid the telephone.

Unfortunately, I cannot be so discriminating in my professional relationships. My boss still does not understand the deer-in-the-headlights look that I give her when she casually asks me to call so-and-so to set up a conference. (But then again, this is a woman who thinks nothing of recording an outgoing message on an answering machine with a room full of people standing by–which is my equivalent of the nightmare about showing up to work in underwear) If I say, “I really hate calling people,” she might sympathize, but she still expects me to make the call. She does not understand that that statement is code for, “Will you please call this person for me?” Actually, I think she does understand, but pretends ignorance.

So anyway…I’ve recently been battling my flesh on this whole phone-calling issue. There is a person in town that I would really like to invite to come talk to my class as a guest speaker. I have tried every subtle method of delegating this responsibility, and it keeps coming back to me. For two days I have had the phone number on a Post-It on my desk. For two days I have told myself to get on the phone. For two days I have given in to my weakness.

Since I would always rather psychoanalyze my problems than actually work through them, here is what I have decided is the base issue: I don’t like to be told no. I don’t want to call the lady and ask her to come to my class because she might be busy. I don’t want to call my friends and ask them out to dinner because they might not want to. Even when the excuse is legitimate, I take the rejection personally. Don’t ask me why.

Deep breath. I am posting this confession here so that I feel peer pressure to act. I WILL CALL MY GUEST SPEAKER TOMORROW. Or Thursday.

 

Slump Day

I’m not going to therapy because I want to believe that this happens to everyone. I had a bad self-esteem day. Actually, it was two days.

Day 1: It all began when I tried to put on my favorite pair of khakis, (the ones I bought last year because my old khakis were too small, the ones with the baggy fit) and they were so tight the pocket seams made big distinct rectangle shapes on my thighs. It continued when we went to my in-laws’ house and I weighed myself on their hospital scale. They have the brutal kind with the sliding weights, so there is no room for fudging about which tiny line the arrow is pointing to, and no excuses about alignment and scale differences. Anyway, the weight was my all-time high.

(I do realize that people who obsess about their weight are obnoxious to those well-adjusted people who have come to happy terms with their body image. But I have not been able to contain my neurosis, and I’ve asked around to selected diplomatic family members and friends if they can tell a difference. Everyone has diplomatically informed me that I am not visibly larger, except for my mom, who said she thought I looked more “healthy.” Whatever.)

Day 2: the scale incident had been enough to shock me into action. I bought Slim-Fast shakes at the grocery store and ordered a salad at Panera rather than my favorite potato soup. I was excited to be taking action, but still in a self-esteem slump. It didn’t help that all of my clothes had turned ugly in the closet while I slept, and that I happen to hate my new haircut. (The only redeeming factor was that my freshly cut bangs did sweep low enough to cover the new zit on my forehead–seriously, I couldn’t catch a break on this day.)

So anyway, I did the stupidest possible thing on a day like this- I went clothes shopping. I was with my mom and sister, who wanted to walk around the Marketplace. I happen to be on a long-time search for a cute white shirt, and so I tried on a few items.

Big mistake! Everyone knows that the Devil installs the lighting in dressing rooms, and that there is no worse image than your own body clad in underwear and socks in a full-length mirror. And of course, all the shirts I tried on made me look/feel dumpy.

The dressing-room employee makes his way down the row, checking up on all of us. A little chirpy wisp next door is disappointed that the size zeros hang a little loose on her. The employee knocks on my door and wants to know if I need anything in a different size.

I wish I could hand over my rear end and thighs. “Can you get me some of these in a Small? You should be able to find them somewhere around 2004.”

 

Grocery Guilt

I have always hated going grocery shopping. I really prefer to have food magically materialize in my pantry and refrigerator, like it used to do when I was young and living in my parents’ house. I never bought fresh fruit in college because I could never eat it fast enough and it would go bad. I remember on one particularly emotional night, I cried watching a Sonic commercial that featured fresh peaches bouncing across the screen. Oh, for the simplicity of a life when peaches would just be available for the eating, through no hard work of my own!

So anyway, as I am saying, grocery shopping has always caused me a certain amount of angst. But lately I’ve been feeling the pressure even more as I have struggled to reconcile my desire to achieve four mutually exclusive attributes in my grocery purchases:

1) Organic. I am very compelled by the argument that Christians should be leaders in responsible environmental causes. Additionally, I am genuinely unsettled by the idea of consuming processed and chemically enhanced food. I like the idea of free range chickens and farmer’s market tomatoes and such.

2) Healthy. This is a dilemma all in itself, because I am a consumer of women’s magazines which always inform me of the latest health news. I can’t ever remember what I should be looking for- high protein? high fiber? low in saturated fat? low in carbohydrates? low in calories? calcium enriched?

3) Convenient. If it does not come in a pre-rationed package, it will usually sit in the pantry until it is stale. If it is an ingredient in a recipe that takes more than twenty minutes to prepare, I will probably not use it more than once. If it does not have a shelf life of at least one week, it will rot in the fridge because I never stick to my meal plans.

4) Inexpensive. I like to imagine that I am a responsible, frugal, housewife and I think that two normal eating human beings should not spend outrageous amounts of money on food. I am inspired by people who have a food bill of $100 a month.

So every item that goes into my basket adds the extra weight of some sort of guilt. These 100-calorie packs will create so much trash! This spaghetti is made from white flour! These plums will rot in the produce drawer! These salad ingredients will double the total bill!

Alas.

 

A Story of Rational Judgment

Recently I was in a small place crowded full of people for a lengthy period of time, and I happened to notice an old friend smushed nearby. It is a person (I’ll refer to this person as “it,” not because of questionable gender identity, but to conceal identity of any kind) with whom I have been acquainted since elementary school, and we have been close during various seasons of life. Although I have been aware that we now live in the same town, this person and I have not stayed in touch or spoken for several years.

So anyway…I saw this person in the crowd and tried to make eye contact. After several minutes without luck, I began to grow suspicious. A couple of times I was positive I saw it see me. A couple of times I thought we had eye contact, but when I smiled it turned out that it was looking right past me. I began to think that this person was deliberately avoiding me (“Typical snobbish behavior,” I consoled myself). I took it as a confirmation of my hypothesis when this friend physically moved itself (no small feat in such a crowd) so that its companion was a human barrier between us.

I tried a few more times, even walking directly past this person when I had to pilgrimage to the bathroom. Not even a glimmer of recognition. I judged this person in my mind when I saw it leave before the rest of the crowd.

Yes, the story ends there. I am pretty sure that I was right in my assessment of the situation. I am pretty sure that my husband’s assessment (“You’re paranoid”) is too simplistic. But it occurred to me that if many people had been in my shoes, they would have approached this person and said hello, and carried on a friendly conversation. They never would have questioned if this person (or any person, for that matter) actually wanted to talk to them. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live with that kind of self-assurance. Obviously, I wouldn’t know.

 

Thoughts on Womanhood

This is my favorite quote from the Bridget Jones book. It’s been resonating with me lately…

“Being a woman is worse than being a farmer- there is so much harvesting and crop spraying to be done- legs to be waxed, underarms shaved, eyebrows plucked, feet pumiced, skin exfoliated and moisturized, spots cleansed, roots dyed, eyelashes tinted, nails filed, cellulite massaged, stomach muscles exercised.

“The whole performance is so highly tuned you only need to neglect it for a few days for the whole thing to go to seed. Sometimes I wonder what I would be like if left to revert to nature– with a full beard and handlebar mustache on each shin, Dennis Healey eyebrows, face a graveyard of dead skin cells, spots erupting, long curly fingernails, blind as a bat and stupid runt of species as no contact lenses, flabby body flobbering around.

“Ugh, ugh. Is it any wonder girls have no confidence?”

 

Watty’s Wild Underwater Interstate Adventure, Part 2

continued from yesterday…

So I set out on the highway, driving slowly and carefully but very pleased with the road conditions. It is still raining, and the roads are certainly soggy, but there are no river rapids to ford, so I drive peacefully.

Just on the other side of West, I notice traffic slowing down. I can’t see far enough ahead to see what is causing the delay, but it is definitely a bona fide traffic jam. I sit back in my seat and a little worriedly watch the cloudy sky darken into night. I call Stephen, who is waiting in Hillsboro to report my slowed progress.

8:30. It is dark, and to call the traffic “slow-moving” is generous. Every ten minutes or so, I might get to take my foot off the brake and move forward a couple of feet, but this is not a great consolation. The local weatherman breaks into regular programming with a news bulletin. “Traffic backed up for 8-10 miles on northbound Interstate 35. Avoid at all costs! Repeat, do not attempt to drive north on I-35.” Thanks a lot.

Now as you may know, I tend to worry about morbid and tragic events happening to me. I begin to imagine how vulnerable I am, sitting here in the middle of nowhere on a dark night, hemmed in on all sides by traffic and flooded ditches. I picture carjackers and molesters coming out from underneath my car and bashing in my windows. What finally distracts me from that possible threat is a much more immediate concern: I now have to go to the bathroom. Dang it!

9:00- I have been avoiding talking on my cell phone because of the hazardous road conditions, but I figured I am safe enough now, since my car is in park. I call my sister to distract myself from my worries, real and imaginary, and we talk for 30 minutes, until she is ready for bed and I begin to worry about killing my phone battery. I am excited because I get to inch forward and I can see a sign for an exit 1/4 of a mile ahead. It is a country road I have never heard of.

9:45- At this point, most cars around me have shut off their engines. People are beginning to mill around in the road (I’m keeping a close eye on them all). Several cars nearby seem to have been caravaning, and the occupants of the cars get out, pull snack food from the trunks, and begin having a tailgate party. A man in the car behind me walks to the grassy median beside the right-hand shoulder and proceeds to take a leak. Lucky! The empty plastic cup that I used for breakfast is looking tempting for my own needs.

I stay in contact with Stephen. We’re both worried about dying cell phones, but we check in periodically. He is talking to his parents and brother, who are watching local news and confirming that traffic situation is bad. I-35 has been temporarily shut down just ahead of me. I turn my own engine off and try to enjoy John Tesh’s intelligence for my life on the radio, as I can’t take any more of the ranting late-night talk shows. I learn that women are more comfortable with talking face-to-face, and that men prefer to stand next to each other and talk sideways. I fight sleepiness.

10:50- Traffic begins to move! I finally drive away from the county road exit sign. For the first time in almost three hours, I can accelerate to more than 10 mph. I call Stephen to let him know I am moving again. I have clearly woken him up.

11:02- Traffic stops again. I think that I am now close to whatever it was that caused the delay in the first place. I can’t tell much of anything.

11:20- Traffic is slow, but moving steadily now. I begin seeing signs for Hillsboro, and I begin to feel joyful.

11:30- A roadside sign makes me want to go postal. “WARNING: SLOW TRAFFIC AHEAD. 40 MPH.”

11:40- I pull into the parking lot where Stephen is waiting. The store has closed, so he is sleeping in his car. There are no signs of life. I wake him up and we drive toward home. It’s a country road, so I drive very slow, but the way is passable. Judging by the way the lights reflect off of my surroundings, I can tell that there are fields that are entirely under water. But my road is not, so I am happy.

12:30- Arrive at home. The dogs are happy to be let in. I take the world’s fastest shower and get to bed at 1:30.

The End.

 

Watty’s Wild Underwater Interstate Adventure, Part 1

It was 6 PM on a typical Thursday. KarenD and I had just finished aerobics class and I was looking forward to hurrying home and getting to bed early. Dinner was sounding better by the minute, also, as all I had consumed that day was some breakfast yogurt, a Starbucks mocha, a granola bar, and four Saltines. I planned to cook when I got home, but to stave off my dizzying hunger pains, I stopped in at my favorite Skinny’s gas station to pick up some water and peanuts. As the weather was cloudy but rain was barely sprinkling, I barely even paid attention to the National Weather Service bulletins on the radio announcing thunderstorm warnings and alerting the public of the fact that motorists account for almost all flash flood deaths.

Snacking on my peanuts, I set off down the country road that would take me home. The rain was falling steadily now, and I noticed with some concern that the drainage ditches were getting pretty full of water. A little further down, I crossed a dip where water was spilling across the road. I was part of a great caravan of cars, so I kept an eye on the vehicles in front of me as we drove into worsening conditions. I began to hit panic mode when the water was rushing across the road fast enough to have developed rapids. About halfway to my house, I was stopped by a volunteer fireman who told me the rest of the road was closed. Somewhat relieved, I turned around and drove back through a couple of rapid water crossings. But before I got very far, I was stopped again. The road was also closed going back into Waco.

I rolled down my window and shouted through the downpour at the fireman directing traffic. “How can I get back to Waco?” He pointed at a small farm to market road and gave me complicated directions, which of course I did not retain in my memory. This new route turned out to be just as treacherous as the road I had just been turned away from. The weather bulletins had my full attention now, and I began to cry as I imagined myself being swept away to my death by the muddy water. Apparently I am not as reconciled to the idea of my own demise as I might have guessed, as my tears quickly escalated into a full fledged panic attack. I began to hyperventilate, and at one point even slowed to a stop on the side of the road because of dizziness. But the rain kept falling, and I tried to force myself to calm down. As I resumed driving, I recited all of the Bible verses and sang all the hymns I could think of. (If you’ve ever seen the original Little House movie, and remember the scene where Caroline thinks that Indians are attacking while Charles is gone, and she sings to comfort herself as she sits in her rocking chair holding the shotgun, you can imagine what I sounded like.)

Approximately an hour and half later, I was back in Waco, and I called Stephen from the safety of the Beatnix parking lot. I asked him what I should do. I did not want to spend the night in Waco, because I did not have any clean clothes or makeup with me, and the next day was Grandparents Day at school. But I was also terrified to try to drive home another way in case I ran into similar difficulties.

Stephen assured me that my safest bet was to try to drive up I-35 to Hillsboro. Since I was afraid of the condition of the country road that would take me home from Hillsboro, Stephen agreed to start driving that direction from our house, and promised to call me and tell me to turn around if the road ended up being impassable. He was going to put the dinner he so kindly cooked for me into the fridge, lock up the dogs, and get on the road. I was to carefully make my way north from Waco, and we planned to meet at the Hillsboro Starbucks in about an hour.

This post is getting long and my allotted time for recreational writing is up. Stay tuned for Part II of Watty’s Underwater Interstate Adventure, which will hopefully be posted tomorrow. I have disabled comments so that if you already know the ending of this story, you can’t spoil it for everybody else.

 

The Ghost of Valentines Past

I am grateful that my dad didn’t stop sending me Valentine packages just because I got married. They’re always a great combination of gifts both sophisticated (this year, a nice Starbucks mug and gift card) and whimsical (a red pen with a topper of troll hair and giant plastic lips). This year, however, the gift medley also included a blast from my past which Mom must have discovered and printed out when she was cleaning out the document files on her computer. I cringe a little bit when I imagine the laughs that she and Dad must have gotten at my expense.

It was basically a blog…a slightly humorous attempt at pithy, insightful nonfiction. I had written it on Valentine’s Day of 1998, which meant that I was 15. I observed that Taylor Hanson (made famous by “Mmm-bop”), who was my same age, had made a lot more money than I had that year. The writing was not very clever, my arguments were cliche, and other than a nice closing line, the overall effect was unremarkable.

I can dismiss this particular piece of writing (and the boxes of similiar material stashed in my garage) as being the product of a immature and inexperienced mind with illusions of greatness (the essay was written under the letterhead of “CrossWords Publishing,” of which I was president). But what is much more disturbing than my high-school fantasies or even my parents laughing at me is this nagging fear that not much has changed, except that now my pithy nonfictional thoughts are posted in a very public forum and archived in cyberspace.

Reading old things I’ve written is always a reality check. I actually remember writing the Hanson money piece, and I remember the satisfaction and awe I felt when I re-read my finished product. It’s the same sort of feeling I get when I skim over my favorite blogs on this website. It’s humbling to admit that the self-expression that I now find to be so witty and poignant represent a self that I will condescendingly pity ten years from now. It is also helpful to remember that the issues that seem so stressful and urgent to me now will only make me laugh in the not-so-distant future. It’s a little bit sobering to recognize the ways that I am still very much like the dorky girl writing essays to nobody on Valentine’s Day.

One of these days, when I am fifty and too big for my britches, I am sure that my parents or one of my siblings will be happy to pull up Cum Grano Salis and remind me of all the silly ways I used take myself so seriously. So…hello, middle-aged Lindsey. Laugh all you want, but at least be grateful that I’m doing Pilates for you.

 

It’s My Body and I’ll Cry if I Want To

I took my gift cash shopping on the day after Christmas, and in about the third dressing room, I came to a sobering conclusion: I do not have the body I had when I was twenty-one. I have a picture on my bulletin board of my sister and I on our boat one summer. I look very firm and trim in my swimsuit top and shorts, and it reminds me of what I used to be. As I studied myself between outfits in the poor light of the Aeropostale clothes closets, I conclude that firm and trim are no longer the first adjectives that come to mind. I’m a little squishier around the middle, definitely less defined in the upper arms, and I am pretty sure I have cellulite on my thighs. To be young again!

I anticipate two responses to my lament:
1. “You are still not a large size, so quit complaining.”
2. “Twenty-one was not so far away! Wait until you are 40 and then you’ll know what it means to pine after the body of your youth.”

To both of these, I say, “I KNOW!” The changes I have noticed so far have not been dramatic, but they have been steady. Innocent bystanders wouldn’t notice, probably, because my frame hasn’t actually changed shape (yet). It’s just a little thicker and squishier all around. Now this is a bad thing precisely because twenty-one was only three short years ago. In three years, I have kept the same habits, have had a clean bill of health, taken the same sorts of medications, and I have not been pregnant. In other words, there is no good reason for an increase in weight and squishiness.

I attended a sprawling university where walking was a necessity of life. Although I had very irresponsible workout habits in college, I burned a lot of calories just walking from one class/Coke machine to another. I had been warned that graduating to a sedentary desk job would be bad for the waistline. This would have been true for me, except that my first job after graduation was a stressful, exhausting horror that sapped me of all appetite. However, after that year was over, I quit that job, got married, and found a job that was fun and satisfying. Good-bye stress, hello pudge. It is my theory that I am just now experiencing the “New Employee 15″ at the exact time that my body is hitting its mid-twenties metabolic slump.

Now, in the timeless words of Mr. Bennet, two unhappy alternatives are before me: I can either resign myself to unrelenting physical expansion, which will only accelerate as I enter into my baby-bearing phase, or I can start changing my habits, which means less ice cream and more aerobic activity.

I’ll tell you what doesn’t work, and that is the South Beach Diet. Other than that, I’m open to ideas of how to avoid either of my “unhappy alternatives.” Healthy food that tastes delicious…Exercise options that don’t involve sweating or exposure to the elements…Magical pills that develop muscle definition as I sit at the computer…I’m open to suggestions.