Worries in my worry corner

I'm back to being obsessed with my weight. Even thought I've lost a lot of it, I still have a chunk to go and can't seem to get there. More importantly, however, is where I seem to locate stimuli to keep going.

I'm at ACC this morning, and my class is not until 8:30. Typically I get here around 7 so that I can (1) avoid major rush hour traffic, and (2) so I may sit in the coffee commons and have some solitude. Several other people regularly do this, and one of them is a man who appears to be about my age, grossly overweight, and in the nursing program here. He comes in each Tuesday and Thursday I am here, lumbers himself up the whopping three stairs to the first level and with his wheelie backpack in tow. The three-stair walkup winds him excessively, and while he is at least twenty feet away from me right now, I can hear him breathing even at rest. As if the fat in his body is weighing so heavily on his lungs that he has to work hard to do what the rest of us do unconsciously.

I do not stand in judgment of this man, by the bye. No one understands more than I do how hard it is to simply not be Jabba the Hut, let alone find a thin place to exist. Some of us - and I include myself in this - are not meant to be tiny people. I know that I've got boobs and hips and a good deal of muscle; I'm densely packed and the BMI scale is not realistic for me. At my thinnest point, which I cannot maintain by anything short of anorexia, I'm still ten pounds over the highest suggested BMI for me. I want to be honest with myself and not make excuses, but I would really like someone of the health profession to further examine this whole "ideal weight range" thing. Twenty more pounds can easily go from my body, I'll admit, but beyond that I have to wonder; are we all really supposed to fit into a thirty-pound ranged category based on our height?

Something about the logic of such things does not add up. It makes me wonder how well anyone understands the human body and its capacity for weight maintenance. Most people who are seriously overweight are so for lifestyle reasons - sitting too much, no exercise, and a parade of crappy food.

I don't always tow the line, but for the most part I take the stairs rather than the elevator, walk the dog, lift weights and do yoga three times a week, almost never eat fast food or red meat or whole milk anything; I never drink sugared soda, rarely drink alcohol and when I do it's a marginal amount. I don't eat after 8 p.m. I take vitamins. I order dressings for salads "on the side" and I count every calorie I put into my mouth. In fact, if I can't at least reasonably approximate something's caloric value, then I just don't eat it. I pass the cookies on in class. I don't stop at snack tables. Pass on birthday cake. Choose whole wheat instead of that six-cheese bagel. I get eight hours of sleep a night. I'll drink my coffee black if my only choice is half-n-half rather than skim milk. I sit on an exercise ball when I work at my desk so I can work my core while I'm sitting. I do crunches while I'm watching TV, yoga stances when I'm teaching. My blood pressure is 110/65, my cholesterol low, my resting heart rate spot-on. I get enough vitamin D and calcium; I get my antioxidants. I do not smoke or eat anything with hydrogenated oils in it. I use sunscreen and moisturizer.

You get the idea.

And yet any health professional or person on TV who works on a weight-loss show will tell me that because my BMI is what it is, that I'm fat and at risk for horrible diseases. Despite all evidence to the contrary in my life. I simply don't get it. And I don't buy it either.

Here I go again

It's time once more to have a come-to-Jesus talk with one of my classes. I'm tired of having to do it, but that is the price sometimes for instructing freshmen. Most of the time they jump on board but sometimes you get slackers. I don't care about them per se, but I care about the grief and stress they cause ME, and that's what counts.

In the interest of self-preservation, then, I have to go to a class today and tell them - save a handful - how much they suck and how much I don't appreciate their wasting my time. It doesn't matter to me if they like me or not, but when I do this, it shuts down all conversation in the room and that's what I hate. In the Machiavellian spirit, it IS better to be feared than loved, but I'd like to think that their fear is inwardly represented rather than outwardly.

I don't care what you think as long as it's about me

I've lamented this before and I'll likely do it again, but here goes. I'm sick of people who think that being purposely odd makes them somehow more interesting. That if they dress in costume every day and see their lives as art, they can be idiots and everyone will excuse them because they are "artists." I used to think that such folk were worthy of envy, that I could or should in some way dislike my own oatmeal-ness - my middle class, normal upbringing; that I should be ashamed of my Harry Potter obsession and simultaneous revulsion of literary theory. That if I cannot squeeze juxtaposition, a French film reference and at least one nod toward Nietzsche into a sentence in a grad seminar that I am less than cool.

But I'm here to tell you that I no longer give a flying fuck about such matters, and this is truly liberating. Love me or hate me; think I'm a bitch or a saint. I simply cannot care because something happens around 35 in which you realize that (1) life is speeding by quickly, and (2) that you are who you are and I feel a sense of great relief that I'm no longer making an effort at performing something else. I say stupid things, I don't always get stuff, and oftentimes my clothes are wrinkled $3 clearance rack items from Target, and yes, I will carry my real Prada bag with such outfits because I feel like it. My public persona is ever-changing, often caustic, and I don't care about this either. Hiding my disdain for people and things I don't like is simply too much work these days, and I'm starting to understand the in-your-face, no sugar people I used to shy away from for fear of incurring their wrath.

Yes. I watch television. A lot. And it's un-intellectual shite like Judge Judy and Bridezillas. I do read bestsellers and no, I haven't heard of that small press, whateveritis.

Meh, part deux

I'm grouchy this morning because I'm tired. I feel tired all the time now and it's because my schedule sucks. Part of me wishes I was the kind of disciplined person who just functions and gets things done in a timely manner; the sadder part is that comparatively speaking, I AM this person and still can't give myself a break. Whatever I'm not doing sits in the back of my brain, scowling at me without regard to what I am accomplishing. Alas.

I'm going to gripe about students, so if you're bored already, stop reading here.

For the duration of my being a teacher, I have marveled at the number of students who go to college, pay for books and tuition, and sacrifice the time they could be partying or working, only to slack off and pretend they're still in high school. I know that needs no direct response because it's a given that most people under 25 have no concept of the forest; only trees. Having said that, I'm sick to death of having to play Mommy with these people who need Mommies more than they need professors to teach them something. I must again undercut this by confessing that with dedicated students, I often enjoy mothering/mentoring; it's the fucking slackers that I can no longer suffer.

A is a girl who missed the entire first week of class, which is never a good sign. It also means that she has missed every single thing I said about how I operate, what the course is all about, and the grumpy syllabus rules that dictate all of the shit I refuse to accept. Then she disappears for another entire week, writes me a half-assed email about a death in the family - which, can I say, is the LAMEST excuse ever. Not that it doesn't happen, but I have a hard time believing that so many grandmothers can die in a single semester span. Seriously. Is there a dead grandmother epidemic I should know about?

Even if that is bitchy and sending me straight to hell, how does that death - if it happened - justify a week's absence from school? My grandfather died when I was a freshman in college and he was in Wisconsin; do you know how many days of school I missed for that event? NONE. Pam lost her husband three weeks before master's comps, and how many classes did she miss? NONE. Either school is a priority for you or it isn't. This is a simple concept, and my thing is, if school isn't or cannot be a priority for you due to personal life constraints, then quit and return when you can dedicate yourself. I don't know why so many people think I should have to hear about their lives and their supposed tragedies and make exceptions for them. Fuck their collective sense of entitlement. Grrrrr.

I don't need a single book to teach me how to read

I feel exhausted today; completely spent. I have never noticed the sense of getting older before, but I feel it now more than ever. And I'm not sure how I feel about it, either.

On NPR yesterday, I found myself completely involved in an interview with the Episcopalian Bishop who is openly gay. It's shameful that I don't know his name. Normally, I find little interest in listening to religious folk - particularly those who hold high church positions - but this man is someone I am actually inspired by. I don't necessarily admire him because he's not afraid to be all of the things he is without apology (though it's a factor); what struck me is the entirely practical approach he has to leading a spiritual life.

When asked how he responds to hateful remarks or challenges to his faith because of his gay status, he answered like a normal person. No rehearsed bible verses or platitudes; he simply said that he responds often angrily in the presence of those he trusts and then tries to be forgiving. He said (and I'm paraphrasing), "I believe God loves us all, and if God can find something about this person to love, then at least I should be able to think of that person as one of God's children if nothing else." And he admitted that it doesn't always assuage his anger to think this way, but that he tells himself this not to be righteous but to make himself feel better. He also talked about prayer in a practical way as well. He said he didn't need to tell God what is wrong in the world or to ask for anything; instead, he spends his prayer time simply meditating, by "letting God love him" for a little while.

There's something wonderful about this man and what he is putting out into the world; I love that he sees what he does in a real way and that what he had to say didn't sound like church. It sounded like a person who had found some peace in being himself and focuses on what's good in the world and how to spread that positively to others. No preaching. If only we could all be so balanced. I wish I lived anywhere near this church; it's one I might even consider going to.

And that's saying something.

You are at the top of my lungs, drawn to the ones who never yawn

Tuesday morning at ACC and I'm thinking about the whole world this morning. My distractability factor is off the charts lately and I always feel like the answer to this is more discipline, more regimented behavior, more schema building. Another part of me thinks that this kind of crackdown on myself is exactly what creates my cognitive dissonance. I know that I am juggling too many things and people often ask me how I "do it all" and then seem surprised that I devote as much time as I do to pointless endeavors like Judge Judy and Scrabble on Facebook. I often wonder the same; if I have so much disposable time, then why isn't my dissertation written and why do I feel like I'm constantly short-changing my students? There isn't a student alive who would notice, of course, as I believe nearly all of them would gladly take less over more. This includes me.

Speaking of my student self, she is getting to be quite bothersome. Yesterday, my one and only professor this term in the last class I will ever have to take stopped after class to get a reading on my state of mind. I know this move because I am a veteran of the student-whose-vibe-sours-the-room-and-should-be-dealt-with school. Ferreting out such individuals and speaking to them directly is the surefire way to prevent their shooting you when they finally snap. I was a bit surprised to find that I no longer bother to hide my disdain for the DU environment and felt a smidge guilty at forcing Brian to have to speak to me to ask "how it's going" in a manner suggestive of "you're not going to go postal and kill me, are you?"

My attitude, I know, is terrible. My criticisms of classmates is harsh and perhaps unfair; sure, at least three of them annoy me so badly that I cannot keep from glowering and rolling my eyes, but it is certainly a new thing for me to outwardly express this. I am normally not an unkind person; in fact, I used to consider myself relentlessly optimistic. Funny thing is, I still do. When I look out into my own classrooms, I see these people kindly, and offer them almost boundless patience. I hope that they will succeed, that they will embrace the concept of education for education's sake, and that I will have a positive and lasting influence on them. I think what makes me so angry in the grad school classroom these days is - perhaps - the complete self-centeredness, egomania, and exclusivity that pervades such programs and particularly creative writing ones.

There seems to be only feigned humility among this particular group, if it exists at all, and I have no time for nonsense I guess. No time to devote to discussion of matters that don't further my education or make me a better teacher, except by default of knowing what I never want my classrooms to be like. I'm angry that my Ph.D. journey has so jaded me that I cannot and will not respond to people who use "nom de plume" conversationally and without even a hint at irony. Who take pictures of themselves each day in ridiculous outfits and post them on the internet and do not know who Thomas Becket is. Prima donnas who think they can hand you a workshop piece of five packed pages of crappy prose and then defiantly defend the 10-point, single-spaced font because she can. I'm sick of people who insist on bringing in a dozen books to a presentation for a final project that is only 10-15 pages and talking about herself and her writing as if anyone cares a whit about it.

I know that all of this is par for the course, and in some small way the fact that I don't fit in here makes me feel better rather than worse. Not one of these people could walk in my shoes for a single day and survive. When they started grousing about their 10 credit hours and shifts in the writing center as not providing them any time to write, I laughed out loud. I told them that I have been teaching more than full time, have a child and spouse, and a home to maintain the entire time I've been at DU, and I still managed to write a whole novel, compose a regular blog, and work on my dissertation. The whole conversation felt like, "bitch, please." Oh, and there's still time for Scrabble and Judge Judy. Take that, SoupandBread.

I don't have the patience to keep it on the up

Lost in thought this morning. Mondays feel both hopeful and overwhelming, especially when I leap from bed and face down the to do list and think: I can beat this monster this week. I will. I have to. But there is always the inkling in the depths of my conscious self that knows full well that it won't happen. That before noon today, I will have lost all sense of possibility and resign myself to another Sunday pep talk about how things should be going in my life.

What is this business with "should" anyway? I can only laugh at the concept when I unpack it at all because "should" is always self-imposed nonsense. It occurs to me that I should be working out more; I should cook at home; I should write; I should study; I should prepare more solidly for my classes. I should want success and the good feeling of a job well done. The problem is where this all ends. Should I feel guilty for ignoring my laptop in lieu of a bubble bath? Or tuning out to complete a jigsaw puzzle? Of course not. But I do.

And I think too much. About everything. What does it mean to be happy in the world? I have to wonder if part of it isn't turning off the television and radio and absorbing moments to oneself more frequently. I always find my center of gravity in the solitude of me time, whether I'm working in silence or simply staring at pieces of a puzzle. I find that my happy place is quite shockingly inside my own head sometimes.

And the words have been spoken

Alas. Four weeks of teaching have passed smoothly: students are mostly on board with my variable nonsense and attrition rates are at zero. But then it happened.

Thursday night, I teach a delightful group of introduction to literature folk at ACC. The class is small at 17, and among them there are five high school students and at least that many more who are my age - all of which adds up to insightful and rich conversation. I know she meant nothing by this, but one such older person in the room uttered the phrase, "From a feminist perspective" and I think I might have visibly winced. I didn't have the heart to tell her that despite the intelligent thought backing her opening clause, those words in that order make me want to go postal. Those of you who've read my fiction know that I have composed entire chapters of work dedicatd to why I never want to hear those four words again after graduate school.

Not that I hate feminism out of hand, mind you, but Feminists (and I mean the capital F type) are a lot like Christians: most of them aren't bad, comprehend the often hypocritical nature of that to which they so desperately cleave, and seem otherwise quite normal; it's the crackpots and the diehards that one must categorically avoid, however. I'm sick to death of Feminists - and this category covers some women I know who are now in their late fifties and sixties - who internalize the issue to the point of hating all men. Who see any opposition to them on any level as a sincere threat to their hard-earned female "equality," by which they mean massive-insecurity-complex-manifested-as-selfish-political-power. Who see - ironically - younger women with any degree of intelligence as a threat and will stop at nothing to degrade and/or debase them. Certainly such irony is not lost on you.

Furthermore, I cannot fathom why we - and I mean the royal we - insist upon imposing the tenets of feminist thought on periods of literature which do not include such modern perspective. Is it really fair to call Chaucer a misogynist when the culture from which he arrived held women in a certain light? When he belonged to a political system where church and state are one in the same? I might actually make the same argument for Hemingway, but I don't wish to engage that battle. After all, we do not fault Mark Twain for referring to all black people as the N-word, do we? We accept that it was cultural norm for him to use this word, and even if he meant it derogatorily, there is also something of a cultural norm there too.

I know that much of my current status in the world is in large part due to the feminist movement and I do necesarily believe in equality - for ALL, not just women. However, that does not prevent me from recognizing certain principles of reality: men and women ARE different, and because of that lovely fact, it makes certain things true about the nature of relationships and home life and I'm okay with that. Chivalry should not die. Men should hold doors open for women, should offer a hand to stand up or get out of a car, offer to take a coat. I have a hard time getting angry about a man asking "are you PMS-ing?" when I'm being a bitch, because at least 98% of the time, it's true. Why is that offensive? At least where Jamison is concerned, I know that he's asking the question not to dismiss my anger, but to try to understand it.

Part of me will always have some feeling of pity for men when it comes to comprehending female behavior. It really is a large-scale mystery to most of them, and I've yet to meet a straight man who has the slightest clue what to do with a crying woman, be it friend, lover, spouse, sibling, or parent. When I ask Jamison what's wrong and he says "nothing," what he actually means is: nothing. When he asks me the same, and I reply with the same, he knows full well that it's not nothing, but has no idea what to do about this fact.

When people worry about a woman being president and that she might break down and cry when things get tough, this is an actual concern. Women cry, but not for the reason that most men think. I cry out of frustration, anger, sadness, happiness, and sometimes just because it feels good. I'm all Irish in this regard and my emotions are always at the surface of who I am at any given moment. If you anger me, I might verbally crush you or kick you out of my class, but that does not prevent me from getting choked up while reading Tennyson's Ulysses to students.

So, I am ~not~ a Feminist I suppose. I would like to think, in fact, that I am not anything that results in an -ist. I'm sure I am, but I'll always fight to avoid it.

Gotta move back

I never got round to "feelin it" at WordPress. Something about writing in this space feels more authentic. It shall be as it was.