Something has been bothering me lately that will probably follow me for the rest of my life. It's the fact that no matter how much weight I lose or how in shape I am, I will always maintain my Fat Girl Mentality. Back in 2008, I was a Fat Girl. I weighed in at over 200 pounds and that was a lot for my frame to being carrying around, so the 60 or so pound loss I experienced over the next couple of years, coupled with incorporating a gym routine over the last year has changed my appearance and mind set drastically.
My own personal Fat Girl Mentality really came to light when my boyfriend and I went to Six Flags last week. As we were getting on the Ferris Wheel, I became slightly panicky thinking, "Oh no, the side I'm sitting on is going to droop more than his because I'm a Fat Girl and he is a Skinny Guy. This is so embarrassing." Then it hit me - my boyfriend weighs more than I do. By at least 20 pounds. My paranoia was completely unfounded.
I walked around the amusement park all day, sucking in my gut and pulling my shorts down over my thighs because I was maintaining my Fat Girl Mentality, regardless of the fact that I was disgusted by a lot of other people walking around - men with giant bellies protruding over waistbands, people literally squeezing in and out of the seats on the rollercoasters, little girls in skin tight tank tops clinging to their chubby rolls. (I no longer have rolls when I'm standing up, but I definitely do when I'm sitting down - but we all do, it's pretty much a fact of life no matter what shape or size one is. Plus I was taught to dress to flatter my shape and hide the unsavory parts - something a lot of people must have forgotten how to do.)
I felt pangs of guilt as I munched on a chicken panini sandwich while my boyfriend, who wasn't feeling well, tried to choke down a soft pretzel. I felt pangs of guilt as the sweat trickled down my neck and back while waiting in line for the Batman ride, because we all know that fat people sweat just because they're fat. I felt pangs of guilt as I chugged a bottle of Coke to get some sugar in my system when I started to feel lightheaded because of the heat.
It leads me to wonder if these feelings will ever go away. Will I ever be able to be 100% confident about who I am and how everyone else perceives me? Part of me wonders why I even care - most people seem not to. I walk around wondering if others are dying on the inside the way I do sometimes.
When you've been a Fat Girl or a Fat Guy at some point in your life, it's hard to be happy about the healthy changes you've made, no matter how many people tell you how great you look or ask you what your secret is. Now I'm starting to understand why people succumb to eating disorders. The media bombards us with the notion that we will never look good enough, we will never be pretty or attractive or thin enough, and it's easy to forget that Photoshop is king in the advertising world. (I have plenty to say about that, but another time.)
Sure, I go around saying that I don't deny myself simple pleasures on occasion like a bar of Hershey's chocolate or a fresh, crusty roll from Serpe's Bakery here in Wilmington, because if I did I would go insane. I go around saying, "Don't take my carbs away! I can't live without them!" Even my boyfriend tells me (jokingly, I hope) that if I lose too much weight he would break up with me. He was attracted to me from day one, as were plenty of other men - when I was twenty or thirty pounds heavier. And he supports my quest to be healthier, my quest to be able to run up the stairs to his apartment without becoming winded, my quest to be able to chase my nephew around and not want to collapse from exhaustion.
But the Fat Girl Mentality is still ruling me and I wonder if it will ever go away. I don't want it to be the reason I strive to maintain a healthy lifestyle. I want to maintain a healthy lifestyle so that I'll be around for a while, so that I won't succumb to weight-related diseases when I'm older, so that I can climb on top of my boyfriend and rock his world without thinking twice. I want to do it for me and no one else.
Same Advice, Different Perspective
Last week I had to give an exit interview, something I was completely unprepared for but one of my supervisors was kind enough to give me the rundown beforehand. I was asked to give three positive points of my experience with this company and three negative ones. I was asked if my "new" job is one I sought out or if it came to me, about how my supervisors handled the department, etc, etc.
It was a piece of cake for the most part, I mean, the reason I'm leaving has nothing to do with the company - it's a personal decision. I thought what my career life needed was 40 hour weeks, HR departments, repetition, but I was wrong. I thought I could handle not going into work until 12:30 and getting home anywhere between 9 and 10 at night. I was wrong. I thought I wouldn't miss being behind the camera, but I was wrong.
I explained all of this to Pat, the woman who conducted the interview and we ended up spending more time talking about photography and art than we did discussing technicalities. She told me stories of her sister's husband's father who made his living with a photography business. Her cousin was an Allstate insurance agent for 30 years before selling his business and pursuing his true passion, which was oil painting. She said he would go through phases where he'd go to work, go home, paint all night, and do it all over again, day after day. Then he sold his business and moved to Florida, then wound up in New York City, and is still exploring his artistic passion.
Then she told me about a friend of her's that lived in Ohio. When it came time for her son to have his senior portraits done, she tracked down a photographer who could give them something different (very common in the Midwest - hiring a different photographer other than the one the school uses to get more out of the experience.) One day not long after her son had his portraits done, the woman dropped dead from some sort of aneurysm. Pat looked at me and said, "I said all of that to say this, something my mother told me time and again - you never know when it will all be over. You have to live in the moment, because before you know it, it could all come to an end."
I said, "That's exactly what my own mother tells me. I have the hardest time with it, and am working hard at not over-thinking the past or the future, but concentrating on the present. I have all the reason in the world to, especially when I think of what my own family has gone through."
"You're doing just that by going back to your passion."
I could have cried.
It was a piece of cake for the most part, I mean, the reason I'm leaving has nothing to do with the company - it's a personal decision. I thought what my career life needed was 40 hour weeks, HR departments, repetition, but I was wrong. I thought I could handle not going into work until 12:30 and getting home anywhere between 9 and 10 at night. I was wrong. I thought I wouldn't miss being behind the camera, but I was wrong.
I explained all of this to Pat, the woman who conducted the interview and we ended up spending more time talking about photography and art than we did discussing technicalities. She told me stories of her sister's husband's father who made his living with a photography business. Her cousin was an Allstate insurance agent for 30 years before selling his business and pursuing his true passion, which was oil painting. She said he would go through phases where he'd go to work, go home, paint all night, and do it all over again, day after day. Then he sold his business and moved to Florida, then wound up in New York City, and is still exploring his artistic passion.
Then she told me about a friend of her's that lived in Ohio. When it came time for her son to have his senior portraits done, she tracked down a photographer who could give them something different (very common in the Midwest - hiring a different photographer other than the one the school uses to get more out of the experience.) One day not long after her son had his portraits done, the woman dropped dead from some sort of aneurysm. Pat looked at me and said, "I said all of that to say this, something my mother told me time and again - you never know when it will all be over. You have to live in the moment, because before you know it, it could all come to an end."
I said, "That's exactly what my own mother tells me. I have the hardest time with it, and am working hard at not over-thinking the past or the future, but concentrating on the present. I have all the reason in the world to, especially when I think of what my own family has gone through."
"You're doing just that by going back to your passion."
I could have cried.
For The Love Of Music and Writing For My Life
So I'm writing. I'm writing and I'm writing, and not worried about it making any sense until it all ends up fitting together.
Today I sat down at the computer and my thoughts returned to the dream I had last night. I dreamed of my father, a rare occurrence. I'd have to say it was inevitable because I've been thinking about him so much lately, especially since I've revisited Meat Loaf's Bat Out Of Hell. Anyone who knows my immediate family knows that my parents passed on a mind-boggling love of music to my brother and me.
It's because of them that Hammie and I will call each other at random times to say, "Hey have you heard of...?" Or "You gotta listen to this song." I truly believe that the love of music was one of the things that kept our parents together for so long. I mean, if it weren't for The Beatles, I wouldn't be here - when my father picked my mother up for their first date, he noticed her record collection and they stayed in all night talking and listening to music. They were married maybe a year later, and I was the result of the honeymoon in Bermuda.
When my brother turned 11, my parents gave him a Fender Stratocaster that he still plays. When I was 8, they encouraged me to pick up an instrument and it was then that I started playing the violin. Not to mention being taught to use the voices we were blessed with - both my brother and I were chorus members throughout our entire school careers, with a couple rounds of All State Choir stints thrown in. People still talk about my brother, my father and me doing trios in church.
Hammie now plays with Pop's band and it's like my father is standing there holding that Gibson guitar. I haven't touched the violin since high school, but it still sits in my room and once I scrape together the money to get it back up to par - violins are finicky instruments, susceptible to the elements and neglect - I will make it sing again.
So I sat down to write today and I was going to start with the dream. But it hit me - I am not ready to write about my father yet. I don't think I even addressed his death in my personal journal; if I did it was more of a statement and I stopped writing for a while. No one wants to relive the tragedy of losing a parent so sudden and unexpectedly. One day I will be strong enough, but I feel like it needs to be soon. It's not a matter of enough time passing (it's been about two and a half years,) but a matter of whether or not my head and my heart are ready.
Writing about my father will be like opening a giant can of worms. You can't focus on the good things alone when writing for your life. This can sits in front of me, waiting, beckoning for me to open it. It's only a matter of time.
Today I sat down at the computer and my thoughts returned to the dream I had last night. I dreamed of my father, a rare occurrence. I'd have to say it was inevitable because I've been thinking about him so much lately, especially since I've revisited Meat Loaf's Bat Out Of Hell. Anyone who knows my immediate family knows that my parents passed on a mind-boggling love of music to my brother and me.
It's because of them that Hammie and I will call each other at random times to say, "Hey have you heard of...?" Or "You gotta listen to this song." I truly believe that the love of music was one of the things that kept our parents together for so long. I mean, if it weren't for The Beatles, I wouldn't be here - when my father picked my mother up for their first date, he noticed her record collection and they stayed in all night talking and listening to music. They were married maybe a year later, and I was the result of the honeymoon in Bermuda.
When my brother turned 11, my parents gave him a Fender Stratocaster that he still plays. When I was 8, they encouraged me to pick up an instrument and it was then that I started playing the violin. Not to mention being taught to use the voices we were blessed with - both my brother and I were chorus members throughout our entire school careers, with a couple rounds of All State Choir stints thrown in. People still talk about my brother, my father and me doing trios in church.
Hammie now plays with Pop's band and it's like my father is standing there holding that Gibson guitar. I haven't touched the violin since high school, but it still sits in my room and once I scrape together the money to get it back up to par - violins are finicky instruments, susceptible to the elements and neglect - I will make it sing again.
So I sat down to write today and I was going to start with the dream. But it hit me - I am not ready to write about my father yet. I don't think I even addressed his death in my personal journal; if I did it was more of a statement and I stopped writing for a while. No one wants to relive the tragedy of losing a parent so sudden and unexpectedly. One day I will be strong enough, but I feel like it needs to be soon. It's not a matter of enough time passing (it's been about two and a half years,) but a matter of whether or not my head and my heart are ready.
Writing about my father will be like opening a giant can of worms. You can't focus on the good things alone when writing for your life. This can sits in front of me, waiting, beckoning for me to open it. It's only a matter of time.
Two Weeks 'Til Party Time
I can't believe summer is almost over. Damn near feels like I haven't even had one, between the issues we had opening the pool, working what feels like 24/7, and more uncooperative weather than I've seen in years. At least I've got one more month to salvage what's left of my favorite season.
August will be kicked off with my 30th birthday party - an Italian style cook out with 50 or so of my closest friends, live music, pool volleyball, and most likely late night skinny dipping for those that are brave enough to shed their bathing suits when the sun goes down.
I haven't hosted a party of this magnitude in years. I'm freaking out just a bit. Do I make 50 meatballs? Or 100? Two trays of sausage and peppers? My neighbor is going to slow roast a pork shoulder for me as well. Shit, how many dozens of Serpe's rolls will I need? Is 30 too old to still have a birthday cake with a photo of 311 and I on it? (According to my brother, yes. I beg to differ.) At least the week before the party I will be home from work by 4 or 5. No more of this 9:30 shit. I'll be able to do all of the grocery shopping, cooking and other prep without taking time off.
While most of my friends were/are not too happy about turning 30 this year, I decided to embrace it. I'm sure there is a small part of me that feels the way they do, but I'm doing my best to ignore it. It's one of the reasons I decided to have a huge party - to celebrate the end of my third decade and the beginning of a new one. I've done most of the things on my Dirty Thirty Bucket List - I cruised with 311, I improved my health and self-image, I quit one job and tried another career path. I like what Tyler responded with when I told him I had made the decision that pharmaceuticals were not for me and I was going back to photography - "You did what you had to do, you tested the waters and learned it wasn't right for you. You have to do what makes you happy. It's all about balancing work, life, and the pursuit of happiness." Ty is one of my dearest friends, and his support of my decision means a lot to me.
So the fact that I can say I've come a long way this past year is a big deal to me. What better way to celebrate than at home, in my backyard, with people I love, good food, good drinks and good music?
August will be kicked off with my 30th birthday party - an Italian style cook out with 50 or so of my closest friends, live music, pool volleyball, and most likely late night skinny dipping for those that are brave enough to shed their bathing suits when the sun goes down.
I haven't hosted a party of this magnitude in years. I'm freaking out just a bit. Do I make 50 meatballs? Or 100? Two trays of sausage and peppers? My neighbor is going to slow roast a pork shoulder for me as well. Shit, how many dozens of Serpe's rolls will I need? Is 30 too old to still have a birthday cake with a photo of 311 and I on it? (According to my brother, yes. I beg to differ.) At least the week before the party I will be home from work by 4 or 5. No more of this 9:30 shit. I'll be able to do all of the grocery shopping, cooking and other prep without taking time off.
While most of my friends were/are not too happy about turning 30 this year, I decided to embrace it. I'm sure there is a small part of me that feels the way they do, but I'm doing my best to ignore it. It's one of the reasons I decided to have a huge party - to celebrate the end of my third decade and the beginning of a new one. I've done most of the things on my Dirty Thirty Bucket List - I cruised with 311, I improved my health and self-image, I quit one job and tried another career path. I like what Tyler responded with when I told him I had made the decision that pharmaceuticals were not for me and I was going back to photography - "You did what you had to do, you tested the waters and learned it wasn't right for you. You have to do what makes you happy. It's all about balancing work, life, and the pursuit of happiness." Ty is one of my dearest friends, and his support of my decision means a lot to me.
So the fact that I can say I've come a long way this past year is a big deal to me. What better way to celebrate than at home, in my backyard, with people I love, good food, good drinks and good music?
Wasted Youth
I remember everything! I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday. I was barely seventeen and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar. I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel. I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy. It required the perfect combination of the right power chords and the precise angle from which to strike.
The guitar bled for about a week afterward and the blood was, ohhh, dark and rich, like wild berries. The blood of the guitar was chuck berry red. The guitar bled for about a week afterward but it rung. Out. Beautifully. And I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.
So I took my guitar, and I smashed it against the wall! I smashed it against the floor! I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader! I smashed it against the hood of a car! Smashed it against a 1981 Harley Davidson! The Harley howled in pain! The guitar howled in heat....and I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom - Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight.
Slowly I opened the door, creeping through the shadows right up to the foot of their bed. I raised the guitar high above my head, and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed, my father woke up screaming, "Stop! Wait a minute! Stop it boy! What do you think you're doing?! That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"
And I said "God dammit Daddy! You know I love you. BUT YOU'VE GOT A HELL OF A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT ROCK AND ROLL!"
Jim Steinman
The guitar bled for about a week afterward and the blood was, ohhh, dark and rich, like wild berries. The blood of the guitar was chuck berry red. The guitar bled for about a week afterward but it rung. Out. Beautifully. And I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.
So I took my guitar, and I smashed it against the wall! I smashed it against the floor! I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader! I smashed it against the hood of a car! Smashed it against a 1981 Harley Davidson! The Harley howled in pain! The guitar howled in heat....and I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom - Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight.
Slowly I opened the door, creeping through the shadows right up to the foot of their bed. I raised the guitar high above my head, and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed, my father woke up screaming, "Stop! Wait a minute! Stop it boy! What do you think you're doing?! That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"
And I said "God dammit Daddy! You know I love you. BUT YOU'VE GOT A HELL OF A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT ROCK AND ROLL!"
Jim Steinman
Back In The Saddle, Again
Okay, so quick update before it's time to get ready for work.
I did it. I went and saw my old boss and I'm already back on the schedule for August. I put in my two weeks' notice at work and am counting down the hours and minutes until I will never have to see that place again. (As I write this I realize I need to write my resignation letter. HR isn't in until Monday though so I have some time.)
Come August I will be back in the midst of the chaos and couldn't be happier. That chaos is where I belong, in the middle of that big, dysfunctional yet loving family of photographers. You can't kill the creative side of your brain. I tried, twice, and failed. So I'm just going to go with it.
I have started writing for real. I have pages and pages coming together and it's blowing my mind. Granted, I'm somewhat all over the place right now, but it's just the beginning and we all have to start somewhere. The fluidity of the pace at which I am writing is astounding, when last year I couldn't get a paragraph done. I realized that when it comes to writing, get it out and then worry about structure. I had tried outlines, creating characters and organizational thinking to no avail. It wasn't until I said screw it and just started going with whatever was in my head at the moment that it all started coming together. The characters will build themselves. The story line will be under construction until the last sentence is written. But my main focus is that whatever this turns into - whether it ends up a short story or a novel - will be something people will want to read. It will be something they can relate to. It will be interesting. It will be heart wrenching. It will be heartwarming, it will be uplifting, it will be funny, it will be sexy. It will be my life, or whatever I choose to make it, on paper. Because trust me kids, my trips around the sun have been far from boring.
I did it. I went and saw my old boss and I'm already back on the schedule for August. I put in my two weeks' notice at work and am counting down the hours and minutes until I will never have to see that place again. (As I write this I realize I need to write my resignation letter. HR isn't in until Monday though so I have some time.)
Come August I will be back in the midst of the chaos and couldn't be happier. That chaos is where I belong, in the middle of that big, dysfunctional yet loving family of photographers. You can't kill the creative side of your brain. I tried, twice, and failed. So I'm just going to go with it.
I have started writing for real. I have pages and pages coming together and it's blowing my mind. Granted, I'm somewhat all over the place right now, but it's just the beginning and we all have to start somewhere. The fluidity of the pace at which I am writing is astounding, when last year I couldn't get a paragraph done. I realized that when it comes to writing, get it out and then worry about structure. I had tried outlines, creating characters and organizational thinking to no avail. It wasn't until I said screw it and just started going with whatever was in my head at the moment that it all started coming together. The characters will build themselves. The story line will be under construction until the last sentence is written. But my main focus is that whatever this turns into - whether it ends up a short story or a novel - will be something people will want to read. It will be something they can relate to. It will be interesting. It will be heart wrenching. It will be heartwarming, it will be uplifting, it will be funny, it will be sexy. It will be my life, or whatever I choose to make it, on paper. Because trust me kids, my trips around the sun have been far from boring.
I Create My Own Confusion
Here I am back again at square one in regards to what I do for a living. If a living is even what you can call it; I'm scraping by unable to save a dime. Sure, having health benefits is great, still being paid for time off is great, but the toll it is taking on my sanity is of a magnitude I didn't think possible. No wonder 40-hour-a-week drones, those who spend that time in a cubicle or at a desk, are miserable. I'm not even in a cubicle but I lose my damn mind walking into that same building every day, going into the same locker room, putting on the same scrubs, and doing the same jobs over and over again. The time just drags on, and I spend more of it there than I do anywhere else.
Yes, I know how lucky I am to even have a job. I also realize how lucky I am to have the ability to make choices when it comes to my job and what I do to pay the bills. The enormity of it is not lost on me. BUT...
I've begun to ask myself, Is this the quality of life I want? I know, I know. It's only been four months. I've applied for two different positions within the company; I didn't get the first one for reasons I completely understand, but I wanted to prove I had the guts and gusto to move upwards. Still waiting to be interviewed for the second one, or at least hear something, and it the outcome just might make the decision for me - the decision I'd never thought I'd face again and the conclusion I've already come to - that this is not for me. I walk around that place and think, I am not like these people. I can't handle this. I need to be using the other side of my brain again. At least the stress that caused me was worth it in some twisted way.
The stress I'm experiencing now is of a whole different caliber - working twice as hard for less money, missing my family, my life, popping one or two Klonopins just to get through the day. With my old job they were there if I needed them, but it was rare that I had to run to the bathroom with a bottle of water and dig through my purse in search of my prescription. (Which reminds me, I need to get it refilled for the first time in almost an entire year. What does that say?)
I don't know what the hell to do. My old job is beckoning me to come back. Come back Dana, your passion isn't dead. Come back, you can make a few small demands from your old boss that would make it worth it to both you and him.
Now that my major debt is paid off, I'd be able to sock away some money. I'd be able to repay those who have helped me out, because right now, the paycheck goes into my account and then right back out, regardless of the fact that I have slashed my monthly bills by almost a third. I've been sitting on $20 since last Monday to get me through until this Friday.
Maybe I needed a break from the photography gig to reset my mind frame. Maybe I needed a wake up call to realize how good I had it, even with all of the traffic and snot nosed brats that I had to make look fabulous. I remember cutting the grass one day, my thoughts following the trails I was making while pushing the mower, and thinking, Maybe being the Picture Lady, being the school portrait photographer, for the rest of my life wouldn't have been such a bad gig. At least there I had coworkers I looked up to and aspired to be like. At least there, when summer time came, I had the ability and freedom to express my creativity by taking actual portraits that wouldn't just be discarded the following year. Oh and the stories I had. The stories I would come home with were some of the best.
Like I said, I don't know what the hell to do. I am more confused now than I've ever been. What does my heart want? What does God want for me?
I better get my ass in gear and head to the gym to (hopefully) clear my head a bit before it's time to go to work. Shudder.
Yes, I know how lucky I am to even have a job. I also realize how lucky I am to have the ability to make choices when it comes to my job and what I do to pay the bills. The enormity of it is not lost on me. BUT...
I've begun to ask myself, Is this the quality of life I want? I know, I know. It's only been four months. I've applied for two different positions within the company; I didn't get the first one for reasons I completely understand, but I wanted to prove I had the guts and gusto to move upwards. Still waiting to be interviewed for the second one, or at least hear something, and it the outcome just might make the decision for me - the decision I'd never thought I'd face again and the conclusion I've already come to - that this is not for me. I walk around that place and think, I am not like these people. I can't handle this. I need to be using the other side of my brain again. At least the stress that caused me was worth it in some twisted way.
The stress I'm experiencing now is of a whole different caliber - working twice as hard for less money, missing my family, my life, popping one or two Klonopins just to get through the day. With my old job they were there if I needed them, but it was rare that I had to run to the bathroom with a bottle of water and dig through my purse in search of my prescription. (Which reminds me, I need to get it refilled for the first time in almost an entire year. What does that say?)
I don't know what the hell to do. My old job is beckoning me to come back. Come back Dana, your passion isn't dead. Come back, you can make a few small demands from your old boss that would make it worth it to both you and him.
Now that my major debt is paid off, I'd be able to sock away some money. I'd be able to repay those who have helped me out, because right now, the paycheck goes into my account and then right back out, regardless of the fact that I have slashed my monthly bills by almost a third. I've been sitting on $20 since last Monday to get me through until this Friday.
Maybe I needed a break from the photography gig to reset my mind frame. Maybe I needed a wake up call to realize how good I had it, even with all of the traffic and snot nosed brats that I had to make look fabulous. I remember cutting the grass one day, my thoughts following the trails I was making while pushing the mower, and thinking, Maybe being the Picture Lady, being the school portrait photographer, for the rest of my life wouldn't have been such a bad gig. At least there I had coworkers I looked up to and aspired to be like. At least there, when summer time came, I had the ability and freedom to express my creativity by taking actual portraits that wouldn't just be discarded the following year. Oh and the stories I had. The stories I would come home with were some of the best.
Like I said, I don't know what the hell to do. I am more confused now than I've ever been. What does my heart want? What does God want for me?
I better get my ass in gear and head to the gym to (hopefully) clear my head a bit before it's time to go to work. Shudder.
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