I love singing. In the shower, in the car, to my dogs, in response to questions. Busting out jams is therapeutic. It doesn't matter whether you are particularly good at it as long as it makes your heart happy. My house is not filled with musical enthusiasts (unless of course you count my dog Pearl during the noon siren). Therefore, I have decided to share my ample love of belting tunes with the brave souls who traverse this blog. Sing along if you know it (no one is judging here).
Everything hurts. This could be the mango margarita from last night, or the 11,162 steps I walked yesterday! I'm going to go with the latter. That number of steps is equivalent to 5.01 miles. The days I work definitely hike up the step count, I have to push a lot harder on the days I don't. I was also able to work three days in a row on five hour shifts, so my stamina is improving. I won't be running any marathons soon, but hey, I'm doing me and it feels good.
My biggest fear is the procedure I have coming up in 10 days. It's called an ablation and I won't go into detail as I'm confident your google finger is yearning for action. I will say that it is not as invasive as my previous failed operation. No one is cutting through my torso again (huzzah!). It is a procedure with mixed results though. Some women are helped permanently, some temporarily, and some not at all. After reading all the literature, I am confident that this is my best option given the circumstances.
I have made a lot of strides since the surgery in October, and this procedure is supposed to be a one day off work deal, but I would be lying if I said I don't have concerns. Given my past history with medical procedures, the outcome is often a crap shoot. I tend to be the 1 in 1,000,000 that turns blue or vomits on a shrubbery (both have happened).
I suppose that I just hold my head high, hold on to faith with both fists, and keep on keepin on like the unstoppable sea cow that I am.
I hate housework. I've always wanted to be one of those really organized people that has all of their poop in a scoop. You know, the people who apologize for their house being a mess when there isn't so much as a sock on the floor. I'll confess, I think that ALL of my laundry has been clean at the same time maybe twice in my life. It's weird, my mom says that when I was a little kid, I was oober organized and tidy. Then, about middle school it all went to hell. My dad actually took a picture of my room once for posterity and proof that it really was that bad. It would give those pooper scoopers nightmares.
So what exactly happened. Where did I go so wrong? I think it all goes back to that control thing. My parents got divorced when I was just a baby. Mom remarried when I was almost 4 (dad who took said photo). I spent every other weekend and 8 weeks out the summer with my biological father until the summer before my freshman year of high school. It was a lot of back and forth, and a lot of missing out on social activities. That coupled with the fact that I was sick ALL the time for one reason or another mostly tied to complications with my impaired kidney, I got weird.
Yeah, I was that kid. I was pasty and loved to read. I devoured books way above my grade level at the rate of 10-12 a week. I had a pension for eccentric fashions (one which I maintain to this day), and I was filled with indignation. Not to mention that I hit 5'5 and wore a size 10 shoe by the 5th or 6th grade. Elementary school was tough. I made friends with underdogs, defended my personal beliefs, and was on a one woman crusade for justice and plaid pants. Let's just say, I got beat up a lot (verbally and physically).
To steal the words of my brother, my life was a merry-go-round of madness (and with my vertigo, I was about to barf). But since there was no way to get off the ride, I did what any sensible teen would do - I rebelled, hardcore. Never pick up after myself - check. Choose friends just as unstable as myself - check. Smoke, drink, and commit other acts that inspire rage in parents - check. I was an emotional masochist on a bender.
That kind of self destruction takes dedication and I was a die hard trooper. Unfortunately but thankfully, the woeful misfortunes of others in my rebellion was a sufficient cold, hard slap in the face to finally acknowledge the potential repercussions of my downward spiral.
I mostly snapped out of it, got myself together, and graduated high school with good marks. Unfortunately, nobody gets off that particular merry-go-round without some potentially serious scar tissue. Ergo, my inability to keep house. So, here I am, almost 20 years later cleaning up the messes teenage me threw at the fan. Fun times. But you know what I can do? I can step. And every time I reach a goal, I prove to myself that I can do it. And then I say, hey, I bet I can do some more. And every time I do some more, I feel a little bit stronger, so I do a load of laundry, or I cook a meal. And then the world is full of possibility, and I think, just try and stop me now.
Ever since I set this step goal for myself, I have made a much more concentrated effort to reach it. Something about posting it online makes me push a little harder. It doesn't matter if no one reads it, the fact that I wake up and post it gives me a sense of accountability - a little more wherewithal. To reach this week's goal, I have to achieve 6,500 steps or more a day (more if I miss a few, less if I do more). That might not seem like much, but since the surgery, I haven't averaged anywhere close to that. Last night at 11 p.m., I only had 2,500 steps and I panicked a little. How many extra steps would I need to do each day to meet the goal? How am I going to reach a higher goal next week if I'm struggling with this one? Why does pie taste so good?
I figuratively slapped myself in the face a few times, dialed up some tunes on my amazon app, and started stepping. Man, music gets me pumped! Right about now, funk's your brother...that's right this sea cow is getting funky. Before I knew it, I was working up a little bit of a sweat. Could I actually call this working out? The burn in my under worked calves said yes. By the time I hit Cher, I had to calm down a little because I was starting to channel my inner Richard Simmons, waving my arms about and getting sassy. My poor torso just wasn't ready for that kind of action. It was already 11:36 p.m. I had met my 6,500 step goal. Look at me go!
I drug myself up to bed where I promptly zonked out and dreamed of house sized steaks. I didn't wake up until 8:30 this morning, and when I rose, I was hungry and feeling the sweet sweet burn of victory.
Faith is hard. When you have anxiety, holding on to faith is like taking on a grizzly bear with nothing but your fists. It's big, and mean, and scary, and every bone in your body is screaming, "There is no fight! Only Flight! Run, Run, Run!" So how do you stick to it? How do you make yourself fight? I suppose it's like this guy I read about in an article once. He was being mauled by a big ole bear and he just didn't want to die, so he shoved his arm down that bears throat (apparently they have a terrible gag reflex or something) and while the bear was trying to deal with the aftermath of that nonsense, the guy got away. Now, I'm sure that guy was scarred and traumatized in ways that I can't possibly imagine, but he got away. His desire to live overpowered his fear.
Right now, faith is all I got and if I have to fight a bear to hold on to it, you damn well better believe I'm going to.
After I gave up teaching, I had no idea what to do next. I'd always thought that was the job I'd have until I retired but then, you know, life, a pack of crazed weasels and that chapter of my life was over. I needed a new job by August and it was the end of July with scant prospects but the heavens opened up and God said "Hey, what do you think about working at a home decor store?" I was intrigued and a little skeptical, but I took the job and couldn't be happier with my decision. I really love this job and I've learned so much in the short time I've been here. But, now we are closing at the end of the month and I find myself searching again.
Much like the Judy Blume novel I find myself asking, "Are you there god? it's me Dee." I'm anxious and uncertain, but still hopeful. I have faith that everything happens for a reason. I have faith that I am strong enough to survive the journey. I have faith that I will find what I am looking for. In the words of the immortal Rolling Stones, 'You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need."
I did it! I finished my step goal for the week yesterday. I am so pumped! I know that it was only 42,000 steps (roughly 6,000 steps a day), but I've had a really rough go of it since the surgery and I've proved to myself that I can finish something that I start.
Research proves that diet and exercise positively effects your mood and right now I'm happier than Richard Simmons in a spandex store. I know that if I just push myself a little bit more, keep striving to hit the little markers, it will give me the confidence to accomplish bigger things.
My step goal this week is 45,000 by Saturday night (about 500 more steps each day than last week). I know that this is not the stuff of legends, but everyone has to start somewhere. This is my chariot of fire.
I hear that whistle blowing as the train is coming down the track - choo choo! It's the doom train - all aboard. Am I being melodramatic? Absolutely! Am I stress eating sea salt milk chocolate caramels? Damn skippy. If we are being honest here, I like to be in control. As Hedwig once said, "The thrill of control, like the rush of rock and roll, it's the sweetest taste I know..." Right now, I am in control of a clear plastic container of chocolates and that's about it.
The store I manage is closing at the end of the month, I'm studying for an insurance licensing exam with four million pages of material, and I can't will my body to do as I command. Also, I have anxiety and I refuse to be medicated (but that's a story for another day). Writing helps. There is something soothing about the clicking sound of the keys. Plus, I am easily distracted so when I write, I start thinking about other things. Like manatees. Now there is a species that knows how to relax. They spend up to 50% of their day sleeping and the rest of it eating.
Oh, my god! I just realized that sea cows are my spirit animal. I know what I need - to go to the pool or better yet, the hot tub. I am convinced that manatees have it all figured out. I feel better now.
Yesterday at work, I broke myself. I've been on a role the last few days with my step goals, and meager though they are, I have kind of been feeling a bit like Moon Girl (Poopsie knows what I'm talkin bout). I did my first five hour shift since the surgery and, since I've been taking my vitamins, it started off pretty strong. Now, if my boss is reading this, I promise that I did not exceed my weight restrictions in any way (I did promise not to die on the clock). What I did do was hustle like Richard Simmons "Sweating to the Oldies".
I checked out customers, organized shelves, climbed up and down ladders, heck I even moved a Christmas tree and then it happened. This pole we use to get items off the ceiling fell on the floor. No biggie, I'll just bend over and pick it up. That's when things got interesting. I could not bend. My knees were copacetic, but my torso refused to budge. Hmmm. It was time to use my Jedi mind powers? Come on, how hard could this be. Just bend. I willed my torso muscles with all of my might, but no dice. I broke myself.
Now I was not in pain per say, it just felt weird. Understand that this is a relative term because, due to the excessive amount of scar tissue in my abdomen, I have very little actual sensation anywhere in my front torso. This freakish phenomenon continued for about half an hour before life returned to normal. I can only assume that despite my aspirations of becoming a superhero, my body had decided to remind me of my limitations with an ill timed spasm. After work, my whole body felt like I had lost a boxing match with an elephant BUT I got in over 8,000 steps - so totally worth it. I got this.
Entrepreneur. Blogger. Eternal Optimist. Helping people find their happy, encouraging others to grow.