That Not So Fresh Feeling

So, it turns out that it wasn't just PTGSAS -- post traumatic grad school application syndrome. I'm actually sick. I don't think I have the pig flu because my main symptoms have been low-grade feelings of fatigue and apathy, which can easily be mistaken for failure and PMS. When I realized that the chest congestion, loss of appetite and cough were not among my usual responses to fears of an unjust MFA god, I decided I needed to get proactive about my healing.

I wasn't well enough to drive all the way to the health food store, so I went to Safeway to see what kind of healing I could squeeze from Celestial Seasons tea and Stovetop Stuffing. I spent fifteen minutes scrutinizing the ingredients of all the herbal teas, muttering to myself about the lack of selection. Where was Grandma's Tummy Mint? Isn't it against the law to not stock this? I did find a few boxes of fantastic teas from a company based in the town in California I used to live in. But Safeway is apparently ignorant about which herbs would have been most helpful to me. Their buyer is clearly not an herbalist. So, I settled for Sleepytime tea and Tension Tamer. It was the best herbal combination I could come up with from the limited selection. Plus, it was two for five bucks, so that meant I would have enough money left to buy a piece of ginger root for maximum stomach settling power.

I bought a frozen dinner because I am sick of miso soup. I drank tea. I absorbed the super healing powers of two movies -- Planet of the Apes and Psycho. Yes! Anthony Perkins puts Vince Vaughn to shame as Norman Bates. (The remake was on last week. I watched it. Don't bother. Fake lezzie Anne Heche is okay as Marion Crane, but Vaughn was terribly miscast. He gave it a good shot, but he came off like his character from Swingers with a bit of Down's Syndrome.) And while Charlton Heston is largely annoying as the lost astronaut known to his ape captors as Bright Eyes, that movie remains compelling. Maybe it was my sickness, but I threw up in my mouth a little bit when Heston (as Taylor) decides his beautiful and mute (and therefore perfect)
mate (played by Linda Harrison) should go by the name Nova. He tries to teach her to say it. His misogynistic smirk pretty much conveys, "Damn, I love stupid snatch." Nevertheless, it's a great flick to be sick to. There is one scene in which three gorillas stand smiling and posing for photos behind a stack of humans they've killed. It is so Abu Garaib it ain't funny.

Since it's Halloween, I may have to conclude my healing with more horror movies. I'd prefer to see a marathon of What Not to Wear, but I may have to settle for Bridezilla. No, I won't. I can't take that level of bitchiness, even if it is one of my father's favorite shows and I have yet to watch it enough to determine exactly where this places my father in the DSM IV book. Really, I'd like to finish my library books. I'm trying to read this memoir written by a potential future professor of mine. But I can't do that either. It hurts to read right now. It makes me feel worse. You would think that spending a few hours watching crime shows on the Investigation Discovery network would also make me feel bad. But no. Oddly, I feel just a tiny bit better. Maybe because I consider myself matching the paces of the forensics team and figuring out before the narrator says it that "the neighborhood sweetheart has a taste for murder." Actually that's not a quote. I made it up. But it sounds right, doesn't it?

So, here's where I confess the truth. I didn't find Grandma's Tummy Mint. No. But I did find Mom's Pharmaceuticals. Holy crap! All I can say is that there must have been some magic in that old pink pill I found because when I put it in my mouth I began to dance around (no, I fell asleep for twelve hours.) And actually, she gave it to me. I didn't raid her apothecary (I mean her strictly legal medicine cabinet.) But I might tonight. For now I am drinking Tension Tamer and eating fresh fruit. The MFA application process didn't kill me, but it may have made me sick. Still, my applications are all where they need to be -- out of my hands. If I could I would hibernate like a bear and wake up just in time to pee and to read more than one acceptance letter. For now, I am accepting the things that I cannot change. Like the fact that Safeway doesn't know jack about herbs and that there is a long time between now and when I find out about grad school.

Shiny, Happy Applicant

I have a hangover -- an MFA applicant hangover. I am nauseous, headachey, unable to sleep well at night and unable to stay awake well during the day. I had a dream that I was walking on a very wet sidewalk semi-covered with autumn leaves (the Portland rains have begun) while carrying my letters of recommendation from former professors. I dropped one. True to stress dream form, this letter landed on one corner and balanced precariously between the wet street and the storm drain. It hung there, waiting for my slightest exhale to knock it into the storm drain and into the sewer where it would be washed out to sea. Great. My letter would become litter, and it would likely contribute to the deaths of plankton. Perhaps I would even be arrested. I had to act. I reached, holding my breath like I was disconnecting a bomb. Once the letter was back in my hand, my sigh of relief turned into panic as I saw that the wetness of the street had loosened the seal of the envelope. My officially sealed letter was now officially unsealed. My efforts to simply press the flap back into place only warped the envelope. Soon I found myself suffering from some kind of cognitive disorder that rendered me unable to figure out how to deal with this situation. Fortunately, I woke up before I had to do the unable-to-scream-and-forget-how-to-walk thing.

Underneath the shackles of my merciless unconscious lies some good news. A couple days ago I released my final application to the ethers also known as the US Postal system. Wow! I am going to take a moment here and give myself the pat on the back that I deserve because that was one long obsession. I know that I could not have submitted materials better than I did. In that regard, my applications were perfect, and so were my efforts. I wouldn't have made it through as semi-sane as I am without the people at the MFA Weblog and the MFA Chronicles. At this point, my friends are more or less pretending to pay attention when I talk about grad school, so my cyber peeps have saved me and validated my reality. It was helpful to have people say, "We do, in fact, need to open our envelopes and recheck the materials for a fifth time." And when I accidentally applied a stamp so that the American flag flew upside down? For a few seconds, I seriously worried that this could potentially cost me acceptance at a school that might view my harmless mistake as treason. I mean, I've been a blue state dweller for a long time. I'm applying to some schools in areas where let's just say there is a renewed interest in tea. And bags. And parties. Fortunately, wiser MFA applicant heads prevailed and reassured me, saying. "It's not like you mailed in an upside down crucifix."

Nevertheless, the whole process has drained me. I've decided to go get a massage if I can ever get off the couch. I am too tired to lay on a table and drool while somebody rubs me. For real. So, for now I am trying to rebuild my strength by eating miso soup, drinking lots of herbal tea, taking baths and watching some serious TV. Last Sunday was the MSNBC Cult Marathon, which was must-see TV for me, for sure. (Jonestown and Waco and Manson -- oh my!) One of my alternative careers besides FBI profiler, dominatrix or cosmetologist is cult expert. Some would find renewal in a nice long hike or maybe drinking. I feel more one with myself and the universe when immersed in an investigative journalism piece that involves the words "compound," "charismatic, but with a dark side" and "spiraling out of control." It's like Behind the Music, but with God instead of gold records.

My sister made me pancakes for dinner last night. I watched old episodes of My Life on the D-List on You Tube. I fell asleep after rubbing clary sage essential oil into the soles of my feet and pushing an eye pillow into my face so I would go out in a cloud of aromatherapy and flax seeds. I still feel pretty crappy, to be honest. But I am on my way. I researched MFA programs for over a year and worked on my applications for months. Next year at this time I will most likely be living in another part of the country, laughing about how hardcore I was about this whole process. This is what I hope anyway. For now I am kind of messy and in need of some fresh air. Still, I did it -- even when it was hard. Nevertheless, I should consider my back up plan. I think I would make the most money as a dominatrix, but find more personal fulfillment as a cult expert. Both fields have potentially large and loyal customer bases. Wait, why did I apply to grad school again?

MFA: My Fading Attention

I've been away a few days due to obsessing over completing my applications for grad school. Can I get a Hoo-hah, Hoo-hah? It's a sickness really. I've read every snippet on every creative nonfiction MFA program in the United States on every blog and website in existence. I've made notes. I've made a list and checked it twice (a day.) I've decided that, should I be lucky enough to be admitted, I do have the strength of character to live in a state whose supreme court just upheld the illegality of vibrators and dildos. I've revised my statement of purpose so many times that I think I accidentally became somebody who has a five-year plan. I have a stack of partially addressed envelopes that are partially filled with my writing samples, transcripts and the glitter I've glued to the hopes and dreams I intend to manifest as a writer at one of the better places to study writing.

If I had a real circle of friends in this city I would probably go have drink and, as my stepmother used to say, "go blow the stink off." I considered throwing myself into a willfully casual and strictly low maintenance relationship with a man with no apparent redeeming qualities outside of his knack for finding creative ways to make me sweat. But no. I guess I am officially old if I admit this, but um, that's just too much work right now. Besides, I am making myself sweat every day on my walk -- my walk that just became a six-mile walk instead of a four-mile walk. Yes, I am bragging. But if you read me regularly then you know that I am still more or less a big wuss. I'm just a wuss with a much tighter butt and blood blisters underneath her water blisters.

So, I guess I don't have much to say. My brain is mush. I should find a nice true crime and forensics story on TV and try to guess who the real killer is. (Duh, it's the husband.) Last week MSNBC lied to me and said it was airing a show about Jonestown. Maybe I got the date wrong, but as an unofficial expert on cults, I considered it required viewing. Of course, I've probably already seen it, but I probably haven't seen it enough. I mean, they aren't called charismatic leaders for nothing. I watched a show on David Koresh and Waco recently. I hate to admit it, but the man had some mojo. Not a lot, but enough, clearly. Plus, he whipped out a guitar at one point and sang a song about "There's a mad man living in Waco..." I don't know, it kind of got to me. I should include him on my list of people I am sort of attracted to against my will. The top of that list is the lead singer of the Free Credit Report dot Com commercials. I can't believe I just admitted that in public. Did I already mention that I am having some mental instability brought on by grad school applications?

I've got three library books to read. I need to pay my car insurance. I need to write thank-you notes to the professors who wrote me letters of recommendation. Oh, and it's my birthday this week. So, I've got to find a way to celebrate myself. On this year's budget I'll likely be considering one-with-nature options that don't cost anything. I think I should write a new sacred contract for my life. One that includes unlimited funding to the grad school of my choice. I could do a commitment ceremony between me and myself, pledging my loyalty to the creative spirit within. I promise to love myself for better or for worse, in sickness and in health and regardless of what happens with grad school. So, I guess it's done. I'm my own ball and chain. I'm more than a little wiggy due to mental exhaustion, but I have a feeling that I've made a good choice. If not, I will start my own cult. I will be my own rock star. Okay then.

Sucking the Marrow From the Metaphor

I'm back to walking. It's been a few days now, and I am glad to be back. And, as I was surprised to find out, my absence was noted by some of the people who got used to seeing me there. Baggy Sweatshirt Lady is probably my favorite of all my co-walkers. I am pretty sure she is emaciated underneath that big sweatshirt. Maybe she has an eating disorder or maybe she's rehabilitating herself from cancer or some other illness. Or maybe she's an ultra marathon runner who takes the sport so seriously that she wears Depends so she can poop and run at the same time. The mother of an ex-boyfriend of mine did that kind of thing. I don't know about the diaper part, but she literally ran with a crowd that would run all night and into the next day without sleeping. I have to think there was at least a small degree of pants-peeing involved. These people were hardcore. Many were recovering alcoholics. They had to be intense about something.

But in regard to Baggy Sweatshirt Lady, I don't know because I don't know her. I don't know her name or anything about her except that whether I arrive at 10:30 a.m. or 11:30 a.m. she is always there, charging ahead with her headphones and her sweats in muted colors. I could tell she was hardcore right away. She never looked at me or acknowledged me when I passed her, and she seemed very focused on just pushing through the next lap. I made sure to give her plenty of room when I saw her heading toward me. And then it just happened. She started smiling at me. Then sometimes she waved. It's a stretch to say I felt like I had tamed the meanest dog in the development, but I did feel like somehow she had decided to let me in just a tiny bit for the few seconds it took to pass one another a few times.

I guess very social people might read this and wonder why I would perhaps obsess over something so small and insignificant. My answer is that I tend to find refuge in the small things like smiles between strangers. I also find solace in the synchronicities. Due to my minor knee injury I was unable to make it for my daily four-mile walk. Hell, I could barely make it four feet. I was holed up with a bag of ice, a hot water bottle and a high level of annoyance that one of my favorite parts of my day was at least temporarily off limits. This pulled muscle also caused me to cancel a date -- with a man, I mean. I figured I was already injured enough. Why add unnecessary variables? I didn't have that many pain pills.

As it happens, the man showed himself to be unworthy of my time even before we ordered coffee. Or maybe the kinder way to say it is that we would not have been compatible. He didn't know it, but he would have hated me. And I was well on my way to despising him, I realized rather quickly. Had I not injured my knee I would have met him that night. Mutual squirming would have occurred as we sipped overpriced coffee drinks and tried to gracefully exit without saying anything too horrible to each other. I am grateful to have been spared from this, and I have to thank my swollen knee for that.

Likewise, it turns out the trail I walk on was scheduled for maintenance for several days. New cedar chips were laid while I was laid up, meaning that for almost half the time I was unable to walk I would have been unable to walk anyway. The fitness trail had been closed completely. I didn't notice the signs until today. I actually stopped walking for a moment to take in the coincidence. Only, I don't believe in coincidence. I believe that things usually do happen for a reason, even if I never get to know what those reasons are. My God, it's just a knee and a few days of missed walking, you might say. And for you that might be true. For me it was a little reminder that sometimes missing out on what I think I want is the best possible outcome. I'll take that where I can get it.

A few days ago I got it partially from Baggy Sweatshirt Lady who greeted me with an actual "Hi!" so loud that it busted its way through David Byrne in my mp3 player. She hadn't been able to walk all those days either. I suspect she still found a way to move even if it was up and down the stairs in her own house. Like I said, she's hardcore. As for me, I think I've probably wrung most of the moisture from this Kerry-working-out topic. Of course, I still want to get up to six miles. So, we will see. For now I hope for the wisdom to remain grateful even when my feet are blistered and my heart hurts with the pain of unknowing. Wish me luck.

Not Extended -- For Her Pleasure

Am I the only one who is totally creeped out by that smirky spokesman for Extenz? No, not the semi-harmless, kind of effeminate gym teacher-ish guy who delivers his pitch in a gym. That's the commercial that also makes sure to show us a woman doing whatever people do on a treadmill in tight workout clothes so that we basically see her ass for the duration of the advertisement. That's annoying, but not nearly as gross as that weirdo who does way too good of an impersonation of a 70s swinger. He ends his gross spiel by saying, "And that increase in size?" (Pause for women to swoon.) "Well, (heh-heh), that was kinda fun too..."

Kinda gross actually. Somebody tell me they also feel the need to shower after seeing that commercial...

(My shortest post ever, but believe me, this is far from over...)

Riding the Couch to Health Care

Well, that was short-lived. My athletic glory, I mean. Thanks to pulling something or contracting an as-yet-to begin killing-me flesh-eating bacteria in my knee, I have officially been suspended. As in I haven't walked my laps in almost two weeks. As in I am warming the bench and not liking it. As in do those stretchy knee braces actually do anything?

I've iced. I've heated. I rubbed my magical St. John's Wort oil into my knee, trying to convince myself that maybe I was always lopsided and am only now noticing this. My mother wants me to see a doctor so badly she's insisting she will pay for it. I don't want her to do this because underneath my whiny and wussy exterior I am sure that it's just a pull or a twist or some other form of tweaking that has temporarily put an end to my seriously considering the racks of "active wear" at Target that I have purposely never looked at my entire life.

The thing is that in other lands, socialist, pagan-atheist, no death-penalty-having lands, I would be able to pop into a doctor's office for free (via taxes.) I'd limp onto the table, hold out my right leg and say, "Am I crazy or does this knee resemble a water balloon?" It'd be over in five minutes. The doctor would assure me that all was fine in knee-town. He'd indulge me by making me prove that I can still point my toes. He'd make a little joke at my expense. So, have you like never done anything athletic ever? Maybe I'd even get a fun prescription just for being a good sport. In short, I'd get the tiny pep talk that would convince me to hang onto my sneakers, and I would get it without having to sell myself on the Internet (several times) to pay for it.

But no. Apparently, for me to receive this level of care is to take away the country from others -- others who are so riled up they are bringing semi-automatic weapons to rallies about health care. They carry these weapons without irony while holding bibles in their other hands. They fear a government takeover, death panels and federally-funded abortions, and therefore, they fear people like me, who simply want to be able to get their teeth cleaned twice a year.

It is too late, people. The country you are trying to preserve is, in fact, already gone. Most of us are happy about this. We want change, for better and for worse, which includes having to share voting ballots and media access with people like you. It's rough for us too. We know that the work before us is hard and requires sacrifice. I'm willing to do what it takes. I eat in a fairly healthy manner, I exercise and I don't smoke. It's a significant contribution that I make toward maintaining the health that I have and hopefully preventing conditions that I want to avoid.

I've gotten very attached to my daily four-mile walk. It clears my head of the obsessive compulsive disorder I am developing in response to applying to eight MFA programs. It feels good to sweat out the residue from my statement of purpose essays and GRE scores. And yes, I look cute in my tank tops. But I am also taking action by walking. I'm taking care of my health proactively because I can't afford to see doctors. So when a wuss like me pulls a muscle it scares me. I lost my career as a massage therapist a few years ago due to an injury that I thought was just a pulled muscle. I'm just now getting back on my feet -- my feet that, at least on one side, lead to a temporarily tweaked knee. It scares me a little to be limping, even though most of my gut says, Seriously, you just need more ice and more downtime. Turn on "What Not to Wear," take that half a Vicodin you scored off your mother and be done with it.

And so I have. It's a break, and it's fine. But it wasn't fine when I permanently injured my arm. And it's not fine for people who are in far worse shape than I was. To those who would deny us basic health care, I have to ask you, why are you so mean-spirited about this? And for those of you who claim to be Christians while fighting hard to make sure that those who need coverage the most remain excluded, I congratulate you on your certainty that Jesus would be proud of you. Nevertheless, you'll be leaving for the Rapture soon enough. You'll have an eternity before you in which you can keep out the rest of us and feel good about it from the safety of your Heavenly chariots. For now, you're still on Earth, which, in theory, should be big enough for all of us.

Change I Can Believe In

People who know me know that I am loath to feel the burn. I tend to limit my exertion to the mental realm, focusing on books and whatever random topic I feel the need to research exhaustively for a few months -- cults and murderers being my longest running themes. I've been able to get away with this because I inherited the doesn't-get-very-fat gene and because I eat fairly well. Every once in a while I reignite my yoga practice for a few months, and I have made a point to walk while running errands when conditions permitted. I can assure you, however, that I have never voluntarily strapped myself to a weight machine, jogged or hiked unless one of my boyfriends pressured me into it. I think working out is boring. I'm also easily intimidated by reminders of my poor performance in gym class. (It is possible to get a D in Phys Ed.) So, it is with no small amount of surprise that I find myself working out and liking it.

The truth is that it started as a purely preventive measure. I had just relocated to grey, wet Portland, OR from sunny Sonoma County, CA -- a place that boasts a climate I consider perfect. The damp chill settled into me almost immediately. I was not accustomed to dressing like a lumberjack. I didn't like it. I am strictly tank-top-and-platform-sandals. Or at least I was until I was forced to borrow heavily from my sister's ginormous collection of fleece. I needed to move my body to stay warm. After a few laps around the neighborhood I felt heated enough to wear two layers of clothing instead of three. After a few more I felt like I could counter the creeping grey that threatened to take me down in a seasonal affective disorder stranglehold. One of my best friends here had become dependent on her lightbox like it was a little plug-in Jesus. I saw how far I could potentially fall if I didn't take action. And so I began my transformation.

I just kept walking is how it happened. I was pissed because the sky was hailing on me like a curse from God. My ears were going numb even covered by a hat I found in the street and claimed as my own. (I washed it first.) I was so irritated that I decided to just keep walking. I moved here without a job. Dammit. I moved here without an apartment. Double goddammit. I moved here on the heels of a doomed romance that just wouldn't die its good death. What-freaking-ever dammit. So I walked because I sort of hoped I would fall off the edge of the planet. I would walk until there was something besides my own fear to focus on.

Spite, I've found, is not a bad motivator. Turns out I was walking a lot further than I realized. That's the thing about not knowing your way around. You don't know that when you get to the Asian bakery you've walked at least a mile. When you pass the 7-11 on Division St. you've walked close to two. As the days passed and I still couldn't find anyone to hire me, I knew that I had done at least that. I had walked. It was the one thing that I knew, for sure, was positive and that would maybe keep me sane. I walked and I wrote. I unloaded the dishwasher and walked. I walked and scrubbed the bathtub. My sister lent me a raincoat and an mp3 player. She pointed down her street and said, "There's a bike path down there..." I got up and went because by now my legs were craving the daily movement and my mind still needed a release from the extreme clerical sport that is grad school applications.

By the time the sun began making regular appearances, I was walking on the fitness trail that circles a nearby golf course. I was sweating to the oldies like Grandmaster Flash and the Smiths. I wore a brand new pair of magical sneakers my sister found on sale -- half off and the only seriously athletic shoes I've ever owned. She surprised me with them as a gift. She said, "You're like, working out now." She said this with a mix of confusion and respect. As a naturally gifted athlete, she has always been the one to hang the ribbons of recognition on her wall while I have hung them in my hair, trying to think of ways to get out of having to play kickball during recess.

Currently, I'm up to four miles a day. I see the same people: The super skinny woman in the huge sweatshirt, the really old guy with the cane, the high school boys with no shirts and loud jokes, the moms with strollers and tired smiles. They're starting to say hi to me. Like I belong there with all the other joggers and power walkers. I admit that it means something to experience even this tiny shred of community in a town that has been less than welcoming. There's a cute guy who waves hello to me every time we pass each other. I've been too afraid to take out my ear buds and actually talk to him. I mean, what if he thinks I'm (God forbid) sporty? The last thing I want is to be dumped for being a jocktease. Still, the whole things gives me hope, even if I haven't worked through all the scar tissue.

I have muscles. I am, in fact, feeling the burn and loving it. I've surprised myself -- in a good way, and I know that this means more than a good cardio workout. I guess what I see is that I'd still pick myself to play on my own team. There's no fucking way I'm wearing one of those visor hat things though.