Category: Megalomania

The Music In My Head

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

An orange note music.

It’s not secret that I love music. I listen to it a lot. I use it as a buffer between me and the outside world, usually when I’m writing. I listen to it when I make dinner and when I go out with my cats, showing no shame as I sing (and sometimes dance) along with my iPod. I’ve gotten into the habit of watching music videos on YouTube before I go to sleep at night.

So it should be no surprise that I get songs stuck in my head on a regular basis.

Most of the time it makes perfect sense. For example, I’ve been on an Ok Go kick lately, so it’s no surprise that their songs are playing on a kind of loop in my head, though it’s fun to go to sleep with “End Love” playing in my brain and wake up with “A Million Ways” there instead.

Even though I love their music (obviously, or I wouldn’t be listening to so much of it), sometimes having one song stuck in my brain gets tedious. I love “Needing/Getting”, but it turns into an itch that can’t be satisfied when it’s playing on loop in my brain for six days.

That’s the thing with my brain. It’s got a mean streak.

I find most of Lady Gaga’s music, particularly from her first album, to be pretty good. However, I don’t like to listen to most of her songs because they’re earworms. They get into my brain and proceed to melt important neurons and synapses. Now, if my brain can take a song that I like and wash, rinse, repeat it for six days, imagine how tiring it is to have every song I listen to clashing against “Bad Romance” for a week and a half. Yeah, that really happened.

And do you think my brain spares me from songs I don’t like? No, don’t be silly. It’s unfortunate, but not unheard of for “We Found Love” by Rhianna or “Moves Like Jagger” to randomly pop in my head off and on for two weeks like some kind of cruel torture technique (for the record, I don’t think these songs are bad as I’m not qualified to make such judgments; I just don’t care for them).

I try to influence the songs that get stuck in the crevices of my mind, but sometimes they come to me randomly. I’ve had songs that I haven’t heard in literally years just appear in my mind. Of course, when that happens, I’m compelled to seek them out to listen to them in their entirety. “Weapon of Choice”, which I posted last Friday, is a good example of that. That just happened. I was having a bad day and suddenly, Fatboy Slim was there. Who knew?

My brain did, that’s who. Sometimes, it comes through with an appropriate musical reaction.

But usually I’m singing snippets of songs for days on end.

And that’s okay, too.

Hey, Stupidhead!

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

The Stooges read the fine print of their deed ...

In my early 20’s I ran around with a group of mostly guys that worked the pro wrestling indy scene in Chicago. One of the guys had a fun nickname for me. He called me Stupidhead. It was a childish thing, not meant to be insulting. It was great fun, particularly when he shouted it across crowded establishments. The odd silence that followed it was always good for a laugh.

Now, I know I’m not stupid, but I have to admit that I live up to that nickname a little more often and a little bit better than I’d like.

Mistakes happen. I don’t like to make them, but I do. However, it’s the stupid mistakes that really get to me, the ones that make me go, “Why did I do THAT?”

And sometimes it feels like I make more than my fair share.

I am my own worst enemy. Even if there are other factors at play, the blame lays on my own shoulders for not doing everything I could, everything I SHOULD, to prevent these mistakes from happening. It comes down to not following up or reading the fine print. I KNOW better.

I made two such mistakes in the same week. Talk about banging my head against a wall. Both mistakes were my fault. One was not following up and paying attention. I should have read the fine print. It was one of those things that I let go because I figured it’d be okay and that attitude got me snake bit. The other mistake was a product of not thinking. Period. I forgot to consider a big piece of important information when making a decision and as such, it could cost me in the long run.

Of the two mistakes, the first one was the most immediately costly and the one I’m working to rectify right now. The other one might actually not pan out to mean much in the end. There are other variables out of my control that will contribute to the outcome of that decision. The point is that neither are mistakes that I should have made had I been thinking and paying my due diligence.

Why am I being vague about these two mistakes? Because I’m embarrassed to have made them. Talking about them in general terms is as detailed as the burn of shame will allow.

I wonder why I do these things. I’m supposedly intelligent person, but I’ve made some dumb decisions in my life. Blatantly dumb. Now, I don’t count anything before the age of twenty-five because I’ve got the great biological defense of my brain not being fully formed yet. However, that defense doesn’t hold up now that I’m past thirty and I’ve got the advantage of not only a fully formed brain, but also experience on my side.

Part of my problem I know is laziness. I don’t want to deal with it. I don’t want to follow up or read that fine print or dig a little deeper. So I just let it ride and hope it turns out okay, which is unbelievably dumb of me as my life is a perfect example of what happens when I give the Universe a choice for things to go okay or to not okay. Unless my life is on the line, the Universe tends to prefer things go pear-shaped for me than not.

Part of my problem is forgetfulness. I used to have a great memory. Now it’s suspect at best. I forget to follow up on things. I forget key pieces of information when making decisions even if they are in some way a key reason why I’m making the decision in the first place. It’s like I get focused on an angle of a picture and it’s only until I look away and look back that I see the huge barn that’s supposed to be the focal point.

It’s a frustrating thing to be dumb in this particular way. Bad decisions made with all available information I can live with. I paid my money, I takes my chances.

Sloppy thinking that leads to glaring mistakes are a little harder for me to swallow.

I really need to stop doing that.

Words to Live By

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Quotation marks

I like quotes. Real people, fictional people, doesn’t matter. I like a good, strong quote. I like a quote you can apply to your life. I’ve got my share of those. Here are a few of my favorite ones.

“Simple respect. I expect nothing more and I’ll accept nothing less.” -Margaret Houlihan, M*A*S*H

It’s the baseline for my life. I’m big on respect. I give basic level respect and I expect to get at least that in return. As I get to know you, the respect increases, but sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I keep in on that basic “You and I are both humans and I was raised with manners” level. And sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I decide you don’t deserve my respect, and I’m not going to give it to you. Period. End of story. I won’t treat you badly or disrespect you (unless I’m forced into that position); I just won’t deal with you at all. If you’re not worth my respect, then you’re not worth my time.

Likewise, I expect basic respect and I won’t take anything less. I won’t let you disrespect me. I won’t settle for it. I won’t stand for it. I got that sort of treatment more often than I should have when I worked in retail and I tell you what, I didn’t get paid enough to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. Customers were corrected, as nicely as possible at first, of course. Because I’m working a job that YOU think is lowly doesn’t mean you get to treat me that way. You will treat me with common courtesy and basic respect. Period. It’s up to me to earn anything more.

“My guts are not here for you to love.” -Margaret Houlihan, M*A*S*H

Another line that I apply to my general existence. You don’t have to like me. I wasn’t born for you to like me. I’m here for my own purpose and I act on my own reasons and I make my own decisions and you don’t have to like any of that. I’m not here to make you happy. I’m here to live my life and do my time and make the most out of what I’ve got and do it in my own way and if that doesn’t satisfy you, Scooter, then I don’t know what to tell you. Get used to disappointment, I suppose.

“I cannot sit here waiting for you to have an epiphany. I am losing the will to live.” –Radek Zelenka, Stargate: Atlantis

I use this as a reminder because I have a tendency to do a lot of sitting and thinking and don’t always follow through on the action part. Problems are typically solved through action and granted, it’s good to attempt a solution after thinking one up, but there comes a point when you can only do so much thinking and then the doing has to start. I can’t sit around and wait for a better idea or a better option. I’ve got to run with what I’ve got and risk failure.

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” -Samuel Beckett

If there was every a quote for writing, this is it. If there was ever a quote for LIFE, this is it. It does me no good to go through life afraid of failing and as a perfectionist, that’s sometimes difficult for me to grasp. This quote reminds me that failure is part of life and can be the best teacher.

“The power is inside you. Nobody can give it to you. Nobody can take it away. Now go play the harp.” Michael Nesmith, The Monkees

The ultimate self-esteem boost. I don’t need anyone’s permission to be great. I don’t need anyone’s approval to be great. I can be great if I want to be and no one can stop me. In the end, I’m the only one that rules over myself. No one else.

“They can’t yank a novelist like they can a pitcher. A novelist has to go the full nine even if it kills him.” -Ernest Hemingway

A writing reminder that can also be applied to life with a little revision. I’m in it to win it, baby. I’ve to be ready to throw a complete game every time I step on the mound. (And sometimes after a particularly rough writing jag, I feel like I just threw nine innings, too.)

“Hope for the best. Expect the worst. Life’s a play. We’re all unrehearsed.” -Mel Brooks

In the end, we’re all just muddling through the best we can. Might as well make the best of it.

Tornado Dreamer

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment
A tornado near Seymour, Texas

I dream about tornadoes a lot.  I suppose that stands to reason since I live in a cornfield located in the eastern portion of tornado alley and have been ducking and covering all of my life.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. I fully admit that I’ve only ever taken cover during a tornado warning at school and at Walmart, the only job I’ve had that made me. The only other time I was at work during a warning was when I worked at Taco Bell and then we were slammed and I couldn’t take cover if I wanted to. A lot of people wanted their last meal to be a gordita, I suppose.

I haven’t taken cover in my own house since I was a kid (and I was the only one that did). My parents, hell everyone on my block, would go to the window or go outside whenever the sirens sounded. We still do. Twenty-five years ago, when the warning system wasn’t the greatest, false alarms were the norm and a seeing-is-believing attitude was adopted. It’s become so normal to me that if the warning siren goes off and I’m told to take cover, I get anxious because I can’t SEE what’s going on.

I’ve been on the computer playing Word Whomp while a tornado touched down a mile from my house. I’ve grilled during tornado warnings. I drove through one on the way to a bar (in my defense, I didn’t know there was a tornado; I just thought it was a really bad storm and didn’t learn differently until I got to the bar). The only precaution I take it putting on my shoes because I’m convinced a tornado won’t hit my house unless I have to climb out of the rubble barefoot.

Despite all of this, I’ve never actually seen a tornado (like I said, I drove through one without actually seeing it). But I dream about seeing them all the time. In the dreams, I’m almost never concerned about being hurt. In most of them, if I haven’t taken cover, I usually have an easy time of doing it. And then as I’m watching the twister do its thing, I tell myself that this time it’s not a dream. This time it’s real. I’m really seeing this tornado.

Inevitably, I wake up and spoil it for myself.

According to dreammoods.com, dreaming about tornadoes could symbolize extreme emotional outbursts and temper tantrums. It could symbolize volatile situations or relationships. It could symbolize feeling overwhelmed and out of control. I suppose it could, for a normal person.

But, the wonder and awe I feel during these dreams kind of cancels those interpretations out, huh? To me, tornadoes are beautiful, amazing things, yet I don’t discount their ability to destroy anything that gets in their path. However, I feel like (particularly in my dreams) that they won’t hurt me.

It’s like swimming with sharks. They’re beautiful, but potentially lethal creatures and you have to have some confidence that you’ll emerge from the water unscathed if you’re going to get into the water in the first place.

Did I mention that I dream about sharks a lot, too?

 

Remembering Davy

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Davy Jones of The Monkees passed away on February 29, 2012 and he took with him to the great beyond my love, respect, and a little bit of my heart.

The Monkees are my favorite band. I make no secret of it and I admit it with pride. I love them. I love their TV show. I love their music. I love them individually and together.

I first became acquainted with The Monkees during their 20th anniversary tour. I was six and it was love at first sight and sound. Davy was my first favorite (over the years, they’ve each been my favorite to the point that now I can’t really pick). He was cute, he was small, he had a tambourine…what more could a six year old ask for?

Mom let me watch the show in the afternoons when everyone else had to be outside playing. I’d stay up extra late on the weekends to watch it, sneaking out of my room while Mom slept (Dad worked nights) to watch it on the TV in the living room (we only had one TV).

Then and Now: Best of the Monkees was the first tape I ever asked for. It was the first of ANYTHING I ever asked for, as I was raised by parents that didn’t abide by children asking for things every time we went to the store. But I saw the cassette among the others in the rack at Wal-Mart and I couldn’t stop myself. I asked my mother for it and instead of getting the negative answer and the lecture, Mom ended up getting it for me.

I still have that tape.

The first story I wrote (okay, maybe not the first, but definitely the first one I remember writing) involved The Monkees. Today it’s commonly known as fanfiction, but at six or seven, I had no idea there was a name for it. It was a “book” I wrote, complete with illustrated cover and big words (albeit misspelled). I was very proud of that story.

I still have it, tucked away with the papers I never want to lose.

Ten years later, I was living with Dad in housing and my parents were going through a rather bitter divorce. The typical challenges of being 16 were compounded by the war zone my parents created. Most kids hated going to school, but it was the only place I got to feel like an actual kid. At home, I was expected to be the adult.

As my luck would have it, The Monkees decided to celebrate their 30th anniversary, reminding me of the happy fun-times of my childhood. I dug that old tape out of the few things I had and it became my life raft in the stormy sea of what had become my life. I submerged myself into rediscovering The Monkees. I constructed a happy place out of their music and the show, filling it with news and stories and CDs and solo work and pictures and memorabilia and fandom.

The summer before my senior year, 1997, I worked for my cousin in her daycare. When I found out that The Monkees would be in Chicago in August, she became my partner in crime so that I could go to the concert.  Not only did she help me get the tickets, but she also took me and paid for the hotel room. The entire Monkees Trip Experience deserves to be retold in another post (and probably will be), but suffice it to say, I had an amazing time at the concert, watching three of the four men that I credited with keeping my head above water perform on stage.

My senior year is forever tied to The Monkees. I listened to Justus so much I’m surprised the CD didn’t wear out. Mom enabled my obsession, getting me a cardboard cutout of the group from a music store. Papa got me a few their CDs. My sister helped me decorate my graduation cap with the Monkees logo. I had all four of their names written on it. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have made it through high school with any sort of sanity intact (though, friends might argue the sanity part, since my graduation cap also featured “Loco 4 Life” written on it and my nickname was Skitz, short for skitzo, but I stand by what I mean).

My Monkees Happy Place was built to last and over the years, I’ve only added to it with more music (not just The Monkees, but their solo stuff as well), shows, and memorabilia. Family and friends see Monkees stuff and they think of me. I had a friend bring me a Monkeemobile model car from Canada because he saw it there and thought of me. I’ve grabbed unique items off of eBay and been able to find the not so easy to find music on Amazon. I visit it often; my iPod is full of Monkees music and on shuffle. I don’t go a day without hearing one of their songs. Bummer of a day? Nothing an episode or two can’t fix. I’m working on a collage of their album art. It’ll be really great addition to the happy place when it’s finished.

But first, I need to fix the happy place.

On Leap Day, the Universe kicked down a wall of my happy place. Davy’s death leaves a pretty big hole, one that I will patch up with memories and music and pictures. It won’t be the same, of course. But even though Davy slipped from the mortal coil and crossed the horizon into the next world, he left behind a lifetime that he shared with the world. His smile, his laugh, his voice have all been preserved. It’s not the same, but it’s not that different, in a way. At least for someone like me, a fan that only got to see the star from a distance. It’s the future that’s been compromised, not the past. He can’t do anything more, but he’s already done so much.

And he did more for me than he can ever know. Except maybe now, he’s in a place that he does. I hope he knows how much I appreciate it all.

Catch you on the flip side, Davy Jones.

What You See Ain’t All There Is

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

What you see is what you get. That’s a good description of me provided that it’s put into the context of me not putting on airs or presenting some false version of myself. In other words, I don’t change myself to fit in with what’s fashionable.

Do I mute some personality attributes while bringing out others to better fit the group of people I’m engaging with? Sure. That’s only good sense in order to better communicate and get along with a group. But that doesn’t mean I completely alter my personality to fit in. I don’t take on new traits or completely obliterate entire bits of myself.

What you see is what you get.

But I’ll be the first person to tell you that I don’t show everything.

I’m a very secretive person. I admit that. There are just some bits of myself that I don’t feel comfortable presenting to the world, some thoughts and ideas and feelings that I think are best kept to myself.

At least I think I keep them to myself. Sometimes I feel completely transparent when these thoughts or feelings bubble too close to my surface. I think everyone can see them. I try not to panic as I try to nonchalantly push them back down, but I feel like I’m just drawing more attention to what I’m trying to hide.

These aren’t big personality flaws I’m hiding. They’re not huge, image changing ideas I’m keeping to myself. They’re just little things I’d rather keep to myself. Little secrets that I don’t think anyone else needs to know. Because while they’re not huge image changing things, they are image changing things. Little tweaks maybe that would make people see me in a slightly different light.

But I’m not comfortable with that. Not yet anyway. It’s more comfortable for me to keep the secret.

I’ve known all of this for a while, but it’s really been brought into sharper focus recently as I’ve been working on a personal essay for a contest. I’m writing about something that I’ve only ever put into words before in the privacy of my journal. I wouldn’t think to discuss it with anyone else. And yet, the prospect of having total strangers read it doesn’t bother me. I suppose that’s because they’d only be judging me on my writing, not on the content of it. And even if they did judge the content, well, they’re strangers, aren’t they? I wouldn’t have to deal with any of the aftermath, wouldn’t have to answer any questions and pretend not to be affected by the funny looks.

It’s funny how I am perfectly willing to open up a vulnerable bit of myself to someone I don’t know in the context of writing for a contest, but I’d never dream of telling my closest friend the same thing. I think it’s the emotional distance involved in the former that I find comforting. That and the only fallout I’m concerned with is whether or not I win the contest in question.

It’s not that I want to keep myself emotionally closed off from my friends and family. I’m just not good with emotions. They’re messy, illogical things (sort of like teenagers, now that I think about it), and I’m just more comfortable keeping some of mine under tight reign and out of sight.

So, I keep bits of me secret.

I guarantee that what you do see is definitely what you get, though. Position yourself just right and who knows? You might end up seeing a little more.

The Addict

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

The same day my Twitter timeline was filled with people rallying around Josh Hamilton falling off the wagon, offering him support and informing anyone that making any joke about it was in beyond poor taste, someone else on my timeline, one of those supporters actually, complained that smoking hadn’t been outlawed in bars in Indianapolis.

And this led me to wonder…why aren’t smokers considered addicts, too?

They’re not, you know. I’m considered a former smoker, not a recovering addict. Why?

Let’s take a look at some of the common thoughts on smokers and smoking that I’ve encountered (sometimes rather loudly).

Smokers are stupid and disgusting. They smell. They’ve got nasty coughs and yellow fingers. They KNOW smoking is bad for them, but they do it anyway. It’s common knowledge. It’s all over EVERYTHING. They poison the air and contaminate other people’s lungs. They affect everyone around them. SMOKERS ARE STUPID.

Alcoholics and drug addicts are viewed like this, though. They’re to be pitied. They have a disease.

Yet they start drinking/ingesting/smoking/shooting up/snorting despite all of the knowledge of how bad it is for you. Alcoholics will reek of booze. Drug addicts will reek of other things, depending on their drug of choice. They all have health problems, some more disgusting than others. Alcoholics drive drunk; drug addicts drive high. They lie to their families. They steal from them. Poor decision making due to drug/booze affected minds leads to fights, rapes, robberies, and terminally offensive/embarrassing behavior.

But they’re not stupid. They have a disease. It’s a shame.

Nicotine doesn’t affect the brain as severely as alcohol and drugs, but it still has an effect. It still affects the chemicals of the brain. It’s still a way to self-medicate, which is what so many alcoholics and drug addicts do.

I smoked to ease stress and anxiety. No kidding. I smoked after I ate, I smoked after sex, I smoked when I drove (which was kind of a bitch because I drive left-handed and I smoked left-handed), I smoked when I wrote, I smoked when I drank, I smoked when I socialized. But I also smoked more when I was stressed. I claimed that the third cigarette on my 15 minute break was to buy me more time, but in reality, I needed the nicotine to mess with my chemicals a little more. Driving somewhere I’ve never been before? Going somewhere I didn’t really want to be? I smoked a couple of extra cigs to “calm my nerves”.

It was no exaggeration. I felt better smoking. The anxiety decreased when I was smoking. During the time that cigarette was burning between my fingers, I was much more capable to deal with life.

In order for alcoholics and drug addicts to achieve and maintain a successful recovery, they have to basically restructure their lives to learn how to live without their drug of choice. They have to learn how to function sober, avoid temptations, and sometimes they end up cutting out people in their lives that are bad influences. It also takes a lot of self-control and willpower.

I had to do the same thing when I quit smoking. I had to learn how to function without a cigarette in my hand or my mouth (I swear my pool game has suffered because of it). I had to learn to cope with stress and anxiety differently. I had to learn how to drive, write, drink, and socialize without my cancer crutch. I had the added hurdle of living with a smoker. I had to pursue my smoke-free life while watching him continue his smoking life, one that I never wanted to give up.

That’s right. If I could have kept on smoking, I would have. I didn’t quit for health reasons. I didn’t quit because I finally gave in to all of the nagging and harassment. I quit because I couldn’t afford it. It was too expensive and I was too out of work at the time.

Like a recovering alcoholic or drug addict, I think of smoking every day. I wish I could go back to it. I don’t because I don’t want to go through the unpleasantness of quitting again. I dream about smoking. If there was an option to smoke without any harmful consequences, I would do it (I’ve considered getting one of those electric cigarettes, but so far, I’ve resisted). I quit smoking about two and a half years ago and I don’t think I’ll ever not miss it.

Now, here’s the thing. I’m not looking to add any more labels to my name or anyone else’s. I’m not going to be going on talk shows talking about my smoke-free life. I’m just wondering why smokers and former smokers aren’t treated with the same kind of consideration as other addicts if we’re all addicts.

Oh, that’s right.

Smokers are stupid.

The Single Life

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

By now it should be common knowledge that I’m single and have been for a while. I don’t consider it to be the worst aspect of my life (right now my dying TV is the worst aspect of my life; I’m materialistic like that), but some might think it is.

See, most of the people my age, the ones I went to school with, all followed the natural progression of getting married and having kids (okay, some had the kids first and some didn’t wait until they were out of high school to do it, but let’s not go splitting hairs). In my neck of the Cornfield, that’s just what you do. And I didn’t. I didn’t do any of it.  So here I am at 32, never been married and without kids, while some people I went to school with are on marriage number 2 and working on half-siblings for their existing kids.

And that bothers people. I guess it’s something to be pitied that I didn’t follow that natural track that they followed. Like there’s something defective about me. After all, there MUST be something WRONG with me, right? Who wants to be single? If you want to be single, you’re weird. If you don’t want to be single, but can’t land a partner, then you’re defective. Either way, there’s something wrong with you. With me.

Maybe it would be different if I dated more. At least then I’d be trying, right? But it’d still be a failure. That’s what being single is to some people. Failure.

While these people still think there’s something wrong with me, they’ve become accustomed to my singlehood. They don’t like it, but it’s what’s now considered normal for me. I am that spinster that everyone knows. And that leads to a different problem.

What would happen if I got into a relationship?

See, I’m not single because it’s the only life for me, which I believe is the common misconception people have. I’ve got this reputation for being strong and independent and being single has bolstered that because look at Christin, she doesn’t NEED a partner.

That’s true. I don’t NEED a partner. I’m happy enough being single, but that doesn’t mean that I couldn’t also be happy enough in a relationship. It doesn’t mean that I don’t WANT a relationship. It doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t one day get married if the right person asked (so far, only the wrong ones have). Being strong and independent doesn’t mean that I want to be alone. It just means I can be.

The truth is, I don’t mind being single. There are a lot of advantages to it that I enjoy. I don’t have to worry about jealousy, clashing schedules, extra laundry, warring over what to watch, or remembering anniversaries. I don’t have to worry about the other family not liking me or being forced to endure them if I don’t like them. There’s no complaining about being ignored or misunderstood, no worries about loyalty or infidelity. I just have to worry about and take care of me, and believe me when I say that sometimes I’m a handful.

That’s not to say that I don’t know that I’m missing out on the good aspects of relationships. I know that I am. And sometimes it bugs me. But not enough to march out and throw myself at the first man I find that’s remotely interested just so I can experience those things (I likely wouldn’t in a situation like that, but you know what I mean).

I’m comfortable being single. I’m okay with it. It’s not a bad thing. And if the right person comes along, then I don’t mind stepping out of that comfort zone to create a new one.

I don’t live and die by my relationship status.

You shouldn’t live and die by my relationship status either.

Food Math

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Being fat most of my life, I’ve been made aware of most diets. I know a few people that have lost their weight by counting calories or through Weight Watchers by counting points and it always made me wonder why anyone would want to turn a meal into math?

Now I find myself doing that exact same thing.

I’m working on trying to lose the forty pounds I gained after I lost it the first time. This, of course, involves exercising, but it also involves me trying to change the way that I eat. Actually, I don’t eat too poorly compared to some people, but I could always make improvements.

In my quest for better health knowledge, I stumbled on a site that calculates how man calories you should consume during a day given your activity level to lose weight. I thought it might be a good guideline for me, not that I wanted to obsessively start counting calories or anything, but if I had a general idea of how much I was consuming, it might help me lose weight.

At first, it was an interesting educational experience, especially when it came to serving sizes (really, how many people use 1/4 cup of syrup on their pancakes?) and just how much you could eat on a certain number of calories a day.

Now understand, I didn’t exactly limit myself. I just adjusted my choices to a point so the math would work out. It all worked out for the most part.

And then the guilt started creeping in.

Guilt attached to going over my “limit”. Guilt attached to still being hungry after I finished my serving. Guilt attached to that second cup of coffee.

I have a good relationship with my food. I’m not much of an emotional eater (though I will eat because I’m bored, but because I’m aware of it, it doesn’t happen very often). The self-esteem issues I have with my weight (which are intricate, complex, and contradictory) are separate from anything that has to do with food. Food tastes good. Food gives me energy. Food nurishes my body. And that’s it. I am on good terms with my food.

Which is why when the guilt started creeping in, I put a quick stop to food math. I’m not going to have a bunch of numbers ruin my relationship with food for the sake of fitting into a smaller pair of pants (or turn me against algebra). Food is not math. Food is food and needs to be treated as such.

I’m still looking at the calories and serving sizes (Really? A 1/4 cup of syrup?) of what I eat, but in a very different way. It’s not just how many calories I’m consuming, but what kind of calories I’m consuming. You know what? Sometimes I want 250 calories from a sandwich. And sometimes I want those same calories from two cookies. Neither choice is wrong and I shouldn’t make myself feel like I failed a pop quiz because of it. Being conscious of the choice and the reasons why I’m making it is more important.

There is nothing wrong with wanting a cookie now and then. There’s nothing wrong with having one.

The numbers can still add up.

No More Bad Words

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

If you’ve been following this blog for a while, then you know that I did several posts focusing on “bad words”, words with negative connotations that had been used by friends and family to describe me.

If you’ve been following this blog for a while, then you might have also noticed that I haven’t done a bad words post in quite a while.

I’ve been thinking about why that is and the best thing I can come up with is that I’m burnt out on talking about the negative aspects of myself. I still have them, they still exist, that’s for sure. But I’m bored with pointing them out and discussing them.

Does that sound egotistical? Well, we can just add that to the bad word list, I suppose.

The point of those posts was that I wanted to show people that I knew of my faults, acknowledge them, and tried to work to improve them. I wanted people to know that I was  working on some of my bad points, even if I hadn’t gotten to them all yet. More importantly, I wanted people, particularly friends and family, to know that I heard what they said, knew what they said, and took those bad words to heart.

When I wrote the first notes on the bad words posts, it was quite cathartic. I knew I had bad points and here they were written down in concrete form and I was going to admit them and share them with the world. But as the posts went on, I didn’t get that cathartic feeling anymore.  It all seemed like attention-seeking. Look at me! See what I horrible person I am! At least I can admit it! See how brave I am!

And that’s not what I wanted.

I wanted it to be an honest admission and discussion, something genuine and real. It started to feel like a reality show and I don’t like reality shows. I got bored. I got tired. Under the spotlight of the blog (what little spotlight this blog has), the emotional release of acknowledging those bad words dried up like a popsicle left in the sun. All I’ve got left is a sticky mess and stick not suitable for any sort of craft construction.

So, I’ve declared a moratorium on bad words. Oh, they still exist and they still apply to me. People are still saying them, to my face and behind my back. I’m still working on changing them to good words.

But, I’m just not saying them right now.