Let's talk business. And weddings.

Today I'm going on my first business trip for this job, and my second business trip ever. My last job was in international public health, so I had hoped to get to travel abroad, but it didn't happen. And now that I work domestically, the only business trips I can hope to take are to meetings with clients in other US cities, which is where I'm headed today.

It's only one brief meeting tomorrow morning (and frankly, we're lucky we get to fly down the night before instead of getting up before dawn the day of to take the first flight out of here), but it will be the first night that Torsten and I have spent apart since I went to France without him, back in April. It will definitely be weird, probably more so for him, since he'll be in our apartment and our bed without me. But hopefully he'll look on the bright side and eat a delicious, cream-laden dinner, since I won't be there to cook a nice, healthy Weight Watchers meal. I mean, you have to find the silver lining in every situation, right?

Anyway, I'm actually excited about this meeting because it will be the first time I've met these clients in person after I've spent hours on the phone with them and many, many weeks writing a website for them. It will be really interesting to get to go over the whole thing in person with them and then create Round 2 of the website based on the feedback. Plus, supposedly we're going for sushi after the meeting. This is the type of client I like.

So I won't be posting tomorrow, which means that the wedding stuff I want to talk about is going to be discussed right now instead of waiting a day. I've been browsing wedding dresses online again, because I love wedding dresses and I'm not going down to North Carolina to look at the bridal superstore for several more weeks. I'm extremely impatient about that, because I'm really hoping to find a dress there that I like as much as the one I found a few weeks ago, but for half the price. So, I've been limiting myself to the websites of designers that the bridal superstore actually carries, and trying to find styles that appeal to me.

What's been jumping out to me is a cut that doesn't seem to have a consistent name, but basically strapless with a notched front. It's got a very 1950s feel to it, which I really like, and it feels very me. It's also attractive without being trampy (I hope), and a bit of a change from most strapless dresses. I found a dress with this style that I like a lot, except that it has a bow on it, which I would most likely want to have removed:


So what do you all think of this style, with the little V-shaped cutout at the neckline? Attractive, slightly retro glam, and a little bit different? Or just plain wrong?

Of bracelets

About ten years ago, my father bought me a bracelet from the Body Shop. It's the Until There's a Cure bracelet, which costs $25 now but was $20 at the time, and the proceeds went to AIDS research. He bought it for me in honour of my uncle Michael, who died of AIDS in 1994, when I was ten. I wore it every day, painting the back in clear nail polish so it wouldn't give me a rash, until it broke in two pieces a few years later. I still have the two pieces, on my dresser.


I was pretty upset when it broke, but pragmatism won out, and I went back to the Body Shop and purchased another bracelet. I wore the second bracelet every single day from the day I got it until a day five or so years later when I was living in Senegal at age 21.

That was when I was dating a Senegalese guy with whom I was in love, Souley. I don't know if I've talked about him on here before--but if so, it was probably brief. Things ended between us only because I returned to the US, but I can see now, and in a way I knew then, that if we hadn't been separated geographically, things would have ended anyway.

Still, I loved him, and in a way I try to protect him by not talking about him on this blog, although I didn't do it in any conscious way until I started writing this post. I guess I feel that since he doesn't have fair access to the internet, and since we haven't talked in over two years, and since he doesn't know that this blog exists, and since he doesn't speak this language, and since he never did anything bad to me, it's unfair to go into the details of our relationship in this public space.

I will say, though, that I really did love him, and that both of us were flawed, as was our relationship, but that we were, for the most part, stable together. That relationship had a huge, lasting effect on me, and when I think of him, though I have no idea where he is or what he's doing, I think only positive things, and I hope that he is happy.

One thing I learned when I lived in Senegal is that all Senegalese men wear bracelets. They are given a metal bracelet when they are little, and when they outgrow it, it is melted down and made into a newer, bigger bracelet.

Souley had a bracelet too, though his was not of the type that could be melted down and recreated. He had gotten it while living in Tunisia, several years before, and he wore it every day. You can see it on his arm in this photo:


Though it wasn't his baby bracelet, it was significant to him, as my bracelet was to me. And I don't remember how we decided this, but at some point toward the end of my stay in Senegal, we agreed to exchange our bracelets.

It was hard for me to take off my bracelet and give it to him. I hesitated; I thought about my uncle and what my bracelet meant and whether I was somehow betraying my uncle by giving away his bracelet. I decided that I was not, that giving my bracelet to someone I loved wasn't equivalent to simply throwing it away. That the bracelet I received in return would be meaningful not only as a reminder of Souley, but also as a reminder of the bracelet that it replaced.

I don't know if Souley still wears my bracelet. I don't wear his. But I did, for a long time. And I still have it, in my jewelry case. I don't remember when I decided to stop wearing it. Right now, I don't wear any bracelet.

I thought about it, though. I could ask for a bracelet as a birthday gift. Or I could go back to the Body Shop and get my third Until There's a Cure bracelet. I've considered both options. Sometimes my right wrist feels bare. But I still don't know with what, or if, I want to adorn it.

Choose your own birthday gift

Yesterday, Torsten and I were having lunch at the little Italian place down the street from our apartment when he idly asked me what I'd like for my birthday, which is in March. And I really didn't know what to say.

It was the first time, really, that there just hasn't been much that I need or want. Part of it is that in general if there's something I want, I just get it, like a pair of boots or whatever. And part of it is that I'm gifted out. I have all the jewelry I need, and I don't want jewelry to become the standard gift for Torsten to get me anyway. I have a great camera, an iPod, and a cell phone--what other gadgets do I need? Nothing, really, or at least nothing that's in our price range. Sure, I'd take a Nikon D300 with accompanying macro lens, but the multi-thousand dollar price tag is just a tad more than we want to spend.

Anyway, I mulled over the question for awhile, and then I realized that really, if we're going to be spending money on things we don't need? I'd rather go somewhere fun than get something tangible. I don't have any spare vacation time, but my birthday falls on a Sunday, and I can get that Friday off through my compressed workweek benefit, so we could easily take a three-day weekend somewhere not too far away.

And the best part? I suggested the weekend getaway, and then we both sat there in silence, and then I said, "I'd like to go to Chicago" just as Torsten opened his mouth to say, "Chicago?" Because we're good like that.

So when we got home I went on all the travel deal websites and found us a fantastic package--round trip airfare plus three nights at a nice hotel for an extremely reasonable price. And the flight is even out of a local airport, so we won't have to break that vow I made about not flying out of BWI again.

So! We're going to Chicago for my birthday! And I am REALLY excited. I haven't been to Chicago (debate tournaments at the University of Chicago excluded) for five years. It's one of my favourite American cities, and in fact for years I wanted to live there, until I realized I probably couldn't handle the winters. I loved it so much that I already own guidebooks about it--that I've read cover to cover. Seriously, it's a fabulous city.

What about you? If you were taking a weekend birthday trip, where would you go?

I like cars.

Torsten and I went to the Washington Auto Show yesterday after work. And you know what? Maybe I'm a little bit sexist, because I totally felt like I was being such a good fiancée, accompanying him, and I assumed that the other women there would be feeling the same way.

But actually? I really liked the show. Those cars were beautiful, and I liked getting to sit in all of them and think about what car we might like to buy, when we eventually get a car. And I liked admiring all the cars, even the insane ones that cost $500,000. And all the other women at the show were the exact same way. Cars don't have to be a guy thing. And I feel silly for having assumed that they were.

Also, I now completely covet the Saab 9-3 convertible. Like, really a lot.

I'm still exhausted, though. Even though Monday was a holiday, it's been a long and busy week at work, and I haven't been sleeping that much, and my shoulders are sore from playing volleyball on Wednesday after a two-month hiatus. Torsten has been stressed as well, which hasn't helped.

I'm glad it's Friday, is what I'm saying. And I hope you are too.

P.S. At first I thought that it would be tooting my own horn to mention the accolades that I've received recently, but you know what? My post about being fat is on Indie Bloggers today. And I was nominated for a 20something blog award--Best Little Blog. And I am proud of both of those things, so damn it, I'm going to mention them. And thanks to you all for nominating me for that award, and for being so supportive when I published that really personal post. You guys really mean the world to me.

I did it!

The alarm went off at 7:01 this morning (really 6:57 because my clock is 4 minutes fast and I'm too lazy to reset it), and I actually got out of bed with a minimum of complaining, put on my workout clothes, and went to the gym. I was planning to use the elliptical on Erin's advice, but someone was already using it (disadvantage of having a gym in your apartment building: it's very small), so I wound up on the treadmill. I did a modified Couch to 5K workout where I ran for as long as I could stand, then walked briskly until I was ready to run again.

And it wasn't fun. But it wasn't awful. And I did it, and I'm happy about that. Although I'm still waiting for the alleged endorphins to kick in and make me feel energetic for the rest of the day.

Moving on: you people are crazy with your comments! I practically need a whole separate blog just to respond to you and your questions (or, more accurately, DEMANDS).

First of all, in response to the people who asked to see the china: I don't have it yet, because it's going to be a wedding gift, so my ability to respond here is limited. However, you can see the red version of the pattern on the company website; ours is in lilac, which you can see a little sample of here.

Second, the lovely Maxie has awarded my blog an E for Excellent, because (she says) she loves my writing AND because she wants to know what my blog name means. I have actually posted an explanation of the meaning before (also, re-reading my first-ever post is pretty funny now, since I stated that I couldn't imagine anyone I didn't know personally ever wanting to read my blog). Then a few months later I posted a modification when I learned that my Wolof is not as good as I thought (this is also where the tagline in the masthead came from), but this is not the first time I have gotten this question. I should probably put the explanation in my Blogger profile or something, so that new visitors can see it if they aren't the type to go hunting through my archives for hours to find something that may or may not actually be there.

So for those of you who don't feel like clicking the links, the short story is that when I named the blog, I thought that "du wax loolu" meant "shut up" in Wolof, but I discovered a few months later that I was slightly off, and that it really means "he/she doesn't say that." Not having much of a choice, I decided to embrace the new name. And here we are.

Oh, and by the way? Remember how I said that when we were on the Kiss Cam, I was afraid that we might look totally ridiculous? Well, I got over it by reminding myself that at least we didn't know anyone there. Until yesterday, when a girl in my office stopped me in the hallway yesterday to say, "Hey, I saw you on the Jumbotron!"

Okay, one last thing. I watched American Idol last night. And that girl from the Air Force? I thought she was really good. Now, to be fair I can't sing for shit, but more often than not I agree with the judges, and I can usually tell if someone is decent or not. And I loved her audition, even though she sang Black Velvet, which is a dangerous song for an audition. I was shocked that all three judges voted no. So, those of you who also watched the show last night: Is it just me? Was she actually bad, and I didn't notice?

Myself, assorted.

After a bunch of you mentioned on Monday that you only get two weeks of vacation per year, I thought I'd explain how I wound up with a job that gives me double that. I get four weeks of vacation because I work at a DC nonprofit. I got four weeks of vacation at the last one, too; my sister got five weeks of vacation in her previous job at a DC nonprofit and three weeks at her current job. It's the same reason that I also get occasional Fridays off; my company offers a "compressed workweek" wherein we work an extra hour for eight of the first nine days of the pay period, and then get the tenth day off.

The point here is that pretty much all DC nonprofits, or at least all of the ones that are well-established enough to have more than the bare minimum of employees, offer great vacation packages, flex time, and other good benefits in order to compete with the government for qualified employees. It's the same reason why I almost never have to work more than eight (or nine, if it's a compressed work week) hours in a day, and why I pay very little for my health insurance. DC nonprofits don't offer terribly high salaries, but they attempt to make up for it in benefits. The government is the same way.

Anyway, moving on: I have what is not exactly a resolution, but... well, I've made a decision. I'm going to start getting up early to go to the gym. I've been thinking for awhile that I should just bite the bullet and do it, and then I had to start on this new medication for hypothyroidism that has to be taken first thing in the morning, an hour before I can eat, so I've had to start getting up earlier anyway. So: I'm not going to spend a full hour in the gym, because I can't bring myself to sacrifice a full hour of sleep. But I'm going to start getting up at 7:00 instead of 7:45, and doing a half hour or so on the treadmill or the elliptical. I'm lucky that our apartment building has a gym so that I don't have to get up even earlier to allow for travel time. Because then I just wouldn't do it.

So! Tomorrow is the first day. Hold me to it, okay?

Lastly, both ttcmb and Pessimistic Redhead tagged me for the same meme. I'm supposed to share six unimportant things, habits, or quirks about myself. So, here I go:

1. I never dreamed of my wedding in any way, shape, or form until I got engaged. It's been remarkably easy for us to plan our wedding so far, possibly because of the lack of specific expectations on both of our parts. Or possibly because of good luck that I have now jinxed.
2. I used to be a lot more OCD until I met Torsten. For example, the dishwasher had to be loaded and unloaded in the exact same way. Every dish had its own place, both in the dishwasher and in the cabinets. Then Torsten moved in and the choice was do everything myself or relinquish some control over exactly where each dish goes. I chose the latter.
3. I'm addicted to lip balm. My favourite is French Vanilla Softlips, but I also have some Aveeno stuff that I keep on my dresser and apply before bed. It's thicker and it lasts longer, so I don't wake up with dry lips in the middle of the night.
4. I am extremely stubborn and will not let things go for convenience if I disagree with them on principle. This has cost me many, many hours on hold with various customer service departments, while I attempt to get refunds for trifling overcharges. But I am convinced that cable companies, among others, intentionally overcharge their customers by small amounts, knowing that most of them don't have the time or will to bother with the hassle of trying to get the mistake corrected.
5. I absolutely love polka dots. I just cannot get enough of them. Combine purple and polka dots and I'm in heaven. That's why I'm madly in love with our purple polka dotted wedding china.
6. My father has a hereditary heart condition that is minor because he has it under control. I just went to a cardiologist to be tested for the same condition. My heart is fine, but I was fascinated by the echo cardiogram. It's a sonogram of your heart, and you can see the heart beating and listen to the blood flowing. It was done in a quiet, dark room and it made me think about what it would be like to be having a sonogram because I was pregnant, with Torsten there. I look forward to that.

The ultimate PDA

I know it's Tuesday, but I'm going to skip the Retrospective for this week, unless yesterday can be considered a memory. Which you could definitely argue for, but I'm not going to start meta-blogging about this. We'll be returning to our regularly scheduled programming next Tuesday.

Anyway, yesterday was the day of the Dallas Mavericks vs. Washington Wizards game for which I gave Torsten tickets for his birthday back in November. The Mavs are Torsten's favourite basketball team, and he swears it's not because their star, Dirk Nowitzki, is German. Originally I wanted to take him to Dallas for a game as his birthday present, but then I realized that after the cost of the trip, we'd only be able to afford the nosebleed seats, so I opted to wait until the team came to DC and then get genuinely good seats.

And damn, our seats WERE good. They were behind the basket, five rows away from the court, and the view was just fantastic. You could see everything as the players were getting physical under the basket. It was just RIGHT THERE. I didn't realize how much physical contact was actually allowed in basketball without a foul being called--but those guys are all over each other. Defenders always have their hands on the guy they're defending, and there's lots of pushing and tangling that goes on all the time. Also, watching a 7-foot guy fly through the air to grab a rebound is pretty spectacular.

It kind of sucks to be rooting against the home team, though. The crowd has all this energy and instead of getting swept up in it, you get resentful and also feel compelled to clap louder when your team does something good. As a result, my hands were stinging by the time the game ended--and to no avail, as the Mavs (or as Torsten now calls them, "stupid fucking loser idiots") lost the game.

However, the highlight of the game: we were on the Kiss Cam! We were just sitting there, watching the Jumbotron and seeing other people kiss, and then suddenly there we were on the screen! It was actually a little bit weird, kissing and knowing we were on TV in front of thousands of fans, and not being able to see what they were seeing or know if we looked totally idiotic. However, I could hear the crowd cheering and saying "Aww" while we were kissing, so I can only assume that we didn't look too ridiculous.

Am I the only one who gets excessively excited about such things? I thought being on the Kiss Cam was awesome. And also, I was extremely pleased that the cameraman picked us out of the crowd as a kiss-worthy couple. I think that must say something about our body language. Right?

High-level whining

This weekend Torsten and I looked into buying tickets to Germany in April so that we can be there for his father's 60th birthday party. You know what sucks? April birthdays. International plane tickets cost so much during prime spring break season, and we can't get around it by traveling in the off-season when there's a birthday involved.

Anyway, there's going to be a big party with all of Torsten's extended family in attendance, so it will be the first (and possibly only--since they are all unlikely to make the trip over here for our wedding) time that I'll get to meet them all. Which means that I should probably, um, start back up with those German lessons that I've been neglecting. I can just see Torsten's scowl as he reads this, since he's been bugging me about practicing German for months. (Hi, sweetie!)

The thing is--and I know this is going to sound spoiled and ungrateful--that it's kind of frustrating to have to spend so much time and money going to Germany.

Okay, I'll just give you a minute to peel your eyes out of the back of your head from where they rolled when you saw me complaining about how much my life sucks, because, geez, I have to travel to Europe all the time and oh, WOE IS ME.

Seriously, though. I totally recognize that it's hard for Torsten's parents (though not terribly hard for him) to be so far away. They feel alienated and he's not very good at keeping in touch on a regular basis. And my parents live much closer, so it's much easier for us to just drive down for the weekend to see them. And when we do see them, it's less stressful precisely because we get to see them more often so there isn't as much need there, or a feeling like we have to cram as much visiting as possible into the time that we're together.

But I don't get that much time off at work. Actually, I get a generous four weeks. But when we go to Germany, it's usually a full five or six vacation days, just for that trip. Add in random personal days plus time off at the holidays, and suddenly that's eaten up most of my vacation time for the year. Plus, we went to Germany for 10 days only a couple months after I'd started my new job, so I am basically playing catch-up with my vacation days--and this trip in April is going to set me back to zero. Which means no more vacations from April to November, when we go on our honeymoon.

(I know. I KNOW. The poor dear has to save up all her vacation days at work so she can go on her honeymoon with the love of her life! This post is a real tearjerker.)

But the thing is that while these visits to Germany are necessary, and in many ways enjoyable--they're not really vacations. They aren't time to relax. The last one, at least, was incredibly stressful, and not just because of the unfortunate events that occurred while we were there. Part of it is that I don't speak the language, and part of it is that his family is just very different from mine and so I don't feel relaxed there, and part of it is that his mother is just a very nervous person and visiting her is about meeting her needs more than our own, so the trip isn't a break for us.

And also, plane tickets to Europe are expensive--this trip is going to cost us over $1,000 in plane tickets alone. And yeah, we're lucky that we have an affordable apartment and good jobs and the discretionary income to pay that money, but we aren't exactly rich and there are a lot of things we need to be saving for, like retirement and a down payment and all the rest. And because Germany is so far away, the trips are always long, because otherwise we'd spend more time traveling than we would actually at our destination.

And it makes me a little resentful to be spending so much, both in money and vacation days, to travel so far when we would both much prefer to be somewhere much closer to home and less expensive, just spending time together.

Lest I sound too spoiled, let's focus on the silver lining for a bit: I have an amazing fiancé to whom I can talk about anything, including this. It's not like this post will come as a shock to him, because he already knows that I struggle with these issues. And he's incredibly supportive and understanding about it. And for that, I am extremely lucky.

Everybody loves a long weekend.

So, last night we went to a hockey game, the first I'd ever attended. I'm not a violent person, but I was kind of hoping there would be fights so I could see the legendary blood bouncing on ice. Tragically, that didn't happen, but there was plenty of body slamming and even a couple of fist fights. Hockey is such a violent sport. The game ended in a tie, so there was a shootout that lasted twelve rounds before anyone actually made a goal. I always wondered how hockey players managed to score with such a tiny goal. Apparently, it's as difficult as it looks.

Anyway, today is the start of my four(!)-day-weekend, so this isn't going to be much of a post. Instead, I leave you with the photo of Brooke, Toby, and myself that I wanted to include with this post but did not, at the time, have scanned:


Have a great weekend! What are your plans?

Big questions

I've been thinking a lot about love recently. The for-real, for-serious kind where you agree to get married and spend the rest of your life with a person. It's something I've been thinking about recently, as an engaged person. You take that vow, until death do us part--so the logical question is, when will that happen? How long is the rest of my life?

Statistically, I'm likely to outlive Torsten--I'm younger and female, two points in my favour. But just trying to imagine what my life would be like if he died makes me shrivel up on the inside. Whether it's an early and unexpected death or a peaceful passing due to old age, the thought of living without him is inexpressibly heinous. It is one of the only thoughts that truly hurts me, just to think.

But this is another thing, and one that I wonder sometimes if I am alone in. When I think about the prospect of Torsten dying young, I am overcome with the urge to have his children. Even though I am not interested in being a single mother, the contemplation of life without him makes me crave having his children on some deep, primal level that is out of my control.

I discussed this with my sister, who rightly pointed out that it might not be the best way to move on with my life, to start raising his children without him. But the idea of not just living without him, but actually moving on from our time together... it's just inconceivable. I can't wrap my head around it the same way I can't wrap my head around the size of the universe. It's there as some vague, abstract concept that I blithely assume I will never really have to face up to.

But eventually, unless we somehow manage to die together, one of us will have to face up to the prospect of a life without the other. And that's a horrible, hurtful thought. But it doesn't make me unhappy, because on the other side of that atrocious coin is the beauty of our relationship, our bond, the love that we have for one another. The beauty of love is that it's such a strong emotion; such a deep, whirling high can only feel so deliriously perfect because it stands out sharply against the contrast of a horrible, sinking low.

So that's what happens when you promise to share two lives until one of them ends. You accept the prospect of that low; you know that one day it will arrive and all you can hope is that the day of its arrival is still very far away. But even if it's soon, it's worth it, because I would not and could not give up this high. Loving Torsten for as long as I can, and sharing our lives for as long as we live, is the most beautiful, perfect thing I can imagine. And it's worth any low that we will one day have to face.

One thing, though, that scares me a little bit, is the need I feel to have Torsten's child. As I've mentioned before, we are thinking that we'd like to conceive one child ourselves and then adopt a second one. In theory, we both agree with this , though we haven't thought through all of its practical applications yet, nor do we feel a need to at this point. We don't want to plan our lives to that degree. But it's an idea that we both like.

However, this compulsion to have Torsten's child makes me doubt the adoption thing a little bit, especially given that we would like to have one child biologically as well. I know that I'm capable of loving a child tremendously whether or not it is biologically mine, and Torsten is the same way. But this need to have Torsten's child--well, that's about him, not the kid, per se, but at the same time--if Torsten died and we had only an adopted child? It wouldn't fulfill that need in the same way.

Which makes me wonder. If you have a child who is biologically yours and a child who is adopted, what do you do if your feelings for the two of them differ? And will the feelings differ? Will there always be that vague distinction in our heads between the two kids? And won't the adopted child feel isolated in a family of people who look alike, share medical histories, etc.? I know that as a parent, you aren't expected to love your children exactly the same--differently, immeasurably, but equally is what I often hear. But will that equality truly exist? When I relate the creation of a child back to my love for Torsten, I have to wonder.

What do you think? Am I the only one who feels this all-consuming need to have their significant other's child? And would that need interfere with my ability to love each child for who they are and not what they signify? Do adoptive parents compare their adopted children back to their biological children? Or will parental love for children, whether biological or adopted, really trump all?

Wednesday Five

It's early, but I'm already feeling jumbled today, which means that obviously it's about time for a list. Lists are the best way to sort through jumbles, are they not? So, how about a Wednesday Five for a brief change of pace?

• I know that my post yesterday made it sound like my year abroad in France was wretched, at least from a social perspective. And while it's true that I struggled a lot with making friends while I was there, I ended up extremely close with my host family. It's been six years since I lived there and I'm still in touch with them regularly. My host brother was just here to visit in October and the whole family is planning to come over for the wedding. They helped make my experience great. Although they were also crazy and I had some adjustment issues when I first lived with them, as well. But that's a story for a whole separate post.
  
• Torsten and I watched the season debut of American Idol last night. Well, I should say that I watched it and Torsten watched part of it, until he couldn't take it anymore. I don't like the mean ones. I don't like watching the bad singers. I know they get great ratings on those shows but I don't understand why. I like to see the good singers and try to guess which ones of them are going to get far. And just a couple of righteous, country girls with good voices does not fill that void for me. At all.
• We have found a florist for our wedding. I met with her on Monday and she was so great and her prices so reasonable that I'm going to cancel the meeting I had set up with a second florist. I know it couldn't hurt to look, but that meeting with the first florist? It was exhausting. She literally walked me through every step of the ceremony and reception, and made an extensive list of acceptable flowers. She nailed down details that I hadn't even thought of. And we have a really cool and affordable concept for the centerpieces, and she is going to make me an amazing purple bouquet. The best part is that she totally got my love of purple, and my insistence on the need for it to be pure and not at all pink or blue. She said that she has never met somebody with such a narrow definition of purple before, but I think she's up for the task. And I couldn't believe how low her price was. Including delivery!
• Yesterday was a day of much praise for me at work, from a variety of different sources. The best, for me at least, was that the client was extremely pleased with the first draft of the website that I wrote for them, which was the huge project that was killing me back in December. They're talking about trying to submit it for some web awards once the site goes live. So that is a huge relief and some serious validation.
  
• It's Wednesday, and I have Friday off this week. So that means my week is halfway over! And I am extremely happy about that.

The best and worst class trip.

I've taken a lot of very cool school trips--to France, to Cape Cod, to the Smoky Mountains. But whenever I think of the coolest school trip I ever took, I always think of my French class trip to Poland in 2002. It was my senior year of high school and I was studying abroad, and I thought it was just so awesome that we could drive to Poland. In a bus. Through Germany and the Czech Republic. In fact, I still think it's neat that Europe has so many little countries, like US states, and you can just drive from one to the next.

The weird thing is that when I look back on that trip, it wasn't exactly fun. I mean, it was definitely neat. And it definitely had an impact. But socially, it was extremely frustrating.

I saw incredibly cool things. We spent a night in Nuremberg. We visited Auschwitz. We spent several days in Poland, which is where my grandfather is from. I woke up on my 18th birthday in Prague to find it snowing. It was an eye-opening trip.


But the whole time that I was in France, I struggled with friendships. Several people in my class actually told me that I seemed like a pretty cool person, but they didn't want to bother becoming friends with me because I was just going to leave in a year. I was in a small public school in a village with a bunch of kids who had known each other forever, and the whole time I felt like I was on the fringes, always having to be the one who instigated anything social. I was never invited to parties and I never knew who to eat lunch with.

There were a few girls in my class I was friendly with, and occasionally we did stuff together outside of school, but that was about the extent of it. When we went to Poland, we spent a total of about 72 hours in the bus over 10 days. Everyone had a seatmate, an automatic buddy, and I ended up sitting next to a very nice girl who was part of a trio of friends, which meant that one of them didn't have a seatmate. She was friendly, but very involved with her friends.


Every time we stayed at a different hotel or hostel, it was a struggle for me to figure out who to room with. I always had to wait to see who had an extra spot and shove myself in with them, feeling distinctly unwelcome. One girl in my class invited me to share a room with her and her friends one night, only for me to be told by one of her friends that I shouldn't really be there because they had been looking forward to hanging out with just their group of friends during that trip, and I wasn't a part of that.

It was hard for me because it felt so foreign--I had never had trouble making friends before. And I was abroad and had this feeling like the experience was supposed to be life-altering and I was supposed to make these friends who would last forever. I felt like I should be bonding with these people and that I wasn't making the most out of my year abroad if I didn't. But I couldn't.


There was one day toward the beginning of the trip when I ended up sitting next to a guy who had always been nice to me, Scott, in the bus. It was morning, and my hair was wet from the shower. We were driving a long way and both fell asleep, and at some point I woke up with my head on his arm. Then he got up and went to talk to a friend of his and I went back to my own seat on the bus.

Later, a girl from my class came up to me and said she thought I should know that everyone was saying that I had licked Scott's arm in the bus. She had defended me, she claimed, but everyone believed him.

I ended up confronting him about it, in front of McDonald's in Prague, where we had gone to eat because our teachers didn't know where else to feed us. We went back and forth for awhile, with me asking what the hell he was thinking, and him saying that he woke up with his arm wet and what was he supposed to think, and me saying that maybe my wet hair that was on his arm had been what he had felt and why hadn't he just come to talk to me before spreading a nasty rumour, and him asking me again what he was supposed to think about his arm being wet. We went around in circles like that for awhile before he finally told me to go fuck myself and stormed off.

Incidentally, that guy never talked to me again, and in fact rudely ignored me when I would bump into him with a friend--he would always kiss the friend's cheek and look right through me like I wasn't even there. A year or so after I got back to the US, I heard that he was in jail in France for killing someone during a drug deal, supposedly in self-defense.


That trip was also when I admitted to a boy that I liked him for the first time. Did you know that in French there's no simple way to tell somebody you like them? "I like you" actually means "I love you," and the only word for having a crush on someone is vulgar slang. I actually asked some of my classmates how they would say they had a crush on someone, and they had no idea. "You attract me" and "You please me" were the two suggestions I heard.

So, one day while we were in Poland and the group was walking down the street, I found myself next to the boy I liked and figured that I was already so isolated from everyone that I might as well tell him I had a crush on him, because what harm could it do? So I said to him that he pleased me. He politely said thank you. I pushed the issue. "No, you please me."

"Oh," he said. Then he sped up and walked away from me to catch up with his friends.

The next day, a rumour started that I had asked that boy to have a threesome with me and another boy in the class. It was so ridiculous that I could not understand how it even caught on. When I asked one of my classmates how she could possibly believe it, she said, "Well, you did lick that other guy's arm."

Wedding dress shopping, volume 1

So, this weekend my sister and I went wedding dress shopping, which was the first time I'd done that except for a brief and ill-advised foray into David's Bridal with my friend Jill right after I got engaged.

The reason we went was because I found a beautiful dress online and wanted to see it in person. The salon had it, although not in a size that I could try on, but it fit my sister. It's really convenient for me that I have a sister, because she and I have the exact same body shape except that I'm much bigger. We both have small chests, small natural waists, and big hips and butts. So if something looks good on her, it's likely to look good on me too.

Anyway, she tried it on, and it was pretty, but--I don't know, just not exactly right. Also, I learned something tragic that was confirmed over the course of the day. I had been pretty much set on some sort of very nice off-the-shoulder style. I thought it would nicely show off my shoulders and upper chest area, which are good features of mine, and be a refreshing change from strapless like most people are doing these days.

However? They have a design flaw, which is that it's impossible to lift up your arms while wearing an off-the-shoulder wedding dress. It just can't be done. This was confirmed through the trying on of many, many dresses in that style during the day. Given how many people you'll be hugging on your wedding day, plus the fact that you might want to put your arms around your groom's neck while you're dancing or something... it's just not a good idea. Form does not outweigh function in this case.

So, my sister and I were at this bridal boutique, checking out the dresses, and I was collecting a huge pile of them to try on, many of them just because of a specific element that I liked, like a neckline. Most of them were in her size though a few were in mine. I didn't like any of the ones that I tried on, though, or most of the ones that she modeled--but there was this one that seemed pretty in the dressing room, so once we had tried on and rejected all the others, she put it on again and we went out into the main part of the store to look in the three-way mirror.

There is no picture of this dress online, and I can't figure out why not except that I think it might be a part of Maggie Sottero's Limited collection, which supposedly does not have photographs online. So let me describe it. It's strapless, with a sweetheart neckline but not a rounded one, so it doesn't look too girly. There's some simple, pearly beading at the neckline, and the bodice is ruched to the side. The top part is made out of satin, and it gathers to the side at the waist with a beaded, flower-type thing. Then the satin extends down to the knees over a full, subtly embroidered taffeta skirt that extends into a fairly big, but not overwhelmingly enormous, train. When the train bustles up for dancing, it bustles underneath the satin part, so that it doesn't look bustled--it just looks like a pretty dress without a train. Also, it was ivory. It's similar to this one, but prettier:


Let's briefly review what I was looking for when I came into the store: a white, off-the-shoulder dress that wasn't too big and had little to no train. What's that they say about how you never end up falling for the dress you think you'll like? Definitely true, at least in my case.

Anyway, the dress is gorgeous and totally made for a body like mine--emphasizes a small waist, covers big hips and butt, gathers to the side which makes you look smaller, is gorgeous without being overwhelming, is full but not so full that it makes you look like a cupcake or bigger than you actually are.

However. First of all, it costs more than I had budgeted for a dress, because I was thinking that I could get a dress for cheap at this big bridal discount store near my parents' house in North Carolina. Second, I can't try it on for myself, so even though it's available in my size, if I ordered it I would just have to hope to god that it looked good, because once it's ordered, there's no returning it. And that's an awfully expensive gamble.

But what am I supposed to do that? I know everyone talks about having that moment where you know, you just know that this dress is the one and everyone bursts into tears and so on. But how can I have that moment when the vast majority of sample dresses don't fit me? Can I just assume that because my sister and I have the same body type, if it looks like "the one" for her, it will be for me as well? How am I supposed to know?

It's so frustrating, because assuming Weight Watchers keeps going the way it's going, by the time the wedding is here I will fit into those sample sizes. But you have to order a wedding dress six months in advance, and in my case possibly more because it will probably need extensive alterations by the time it arrives. So I can't wait.

And that's another thing. What the hell size am I supposed to order it in? I've been losing 1-2 pounds a week every week since June. If anything, now that I'm on thyroid hormones, that should increase. I've dropped about two sizes, really two and a half, since I started WW. Which means that I should drop at least three sizes, possibly more, by my wedding. The woman at the bridal salon said that most wedding gowns can be altered up to two sizes down, which means that I can't order it more than two sizes too big. So really I should probably order it two sizes too small, but what if something happens, with my thyroid or something else, that makes me stop losing weight between now and then? Then I'll have a really expensive dress that I love that I don't fit into. And I'll have all this pressure to keep losing weight just so that I can fit into my damn dress.

Wedding dress shopping is supposed to be fun and easy and all about options. And I feel really restricted, because my options are so limited right now, but I have to do something soon because my wedding is only nine and a half months away.

The next step in the process is to go down to that bridal discount store with my sister and mother, try on a bunch of dresses, and see if I find one that I like as much as the one I found this weekend, because if I do, it'll be a lot cheaper. And then I suppose I'll just have to guess at my size, and if I stop losing weight, then... well, I don't know. Find a really good corset and a pair of Spanx, and not be able to breathe on my wedding day because I'm laced so tightly into my dress? Here's hoping it doesn't come to that.

Slightly smudged bill of health

First of all, you guys, you are all amazing. I was so nervous to publish my post yesterday, and then the incredible outpouring of support and love and encouragement that you all gave me, through emails and comments and links from your own blogs, made me feel so much better, and affirmed to me that publishing that post was the right thing to do. And I'm glad that so many of you were able to relate, and that those of you who couldn't relate on a personal level felt that you learned something from it.

Anyway, after such an intensely personal post, I would normally try to lighten it up, but apparently this is the Week of Serious Posts (with the exception of Monday's frivolous post on boots), because I want to talk about the doctor's appointment I had yesterday.

The day before yesterday the doctor's office called to tell me that I needed to come in to meet with the doctor about the result of my blood tests. Knowing this probably meant something was abnormal, I demanded to know if there was a problem. The nurse reluctantly said that there was, then tried to transfer me to the receptionist to make an appointment.

I had to fight with him. FIGHT. Just to get him to tell me which test came back abnormal. I was most worried about cholesterol, but as he told me, it was thyroid. Then he absolutely refused to disclose any further information.

I've never had a doctor refuse to give me my lab results over the phone before. This doctor is not one that I selected carefully, and honestly, I don't like him that much. He's thorough for sure, but he and his staff do not make me feel comfortable, and I never feel like I have full information. He's a GP and an OB-GYN, and the only reason I went to him was because I needed my pill prescription refilled, and I don't much care which doctor does that, so I picked the closest guy in my insurance company's network.

Had I known that it would turn into a whole thing with blood tests and whatnot, I would have done more research and picked a highly-recommended doctor, but I had no clue, so now I'm stuck with this guy whose office policy is not to tell patients about their own lab results without first getting a co-pay out of them. And I am not impressed.

Anyway, they wanted me to come in on January 18, but I informed them in no uncertain terms that I would not be waiting that long to be told what was wrong with me, and wrangled an appointment for the next day. So I went yesterday afternoon after work, and after handing over my stupid co-pay and receiving a lecture from the nurse about how I should not try to push them to give me my lab results over the phone in the future, was informed that I have hypothyroidism.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. First of all, all my other tests came back normal, which means that I don't have diabetes, high cholesterol, or any other health problems that are often associated with being overweight. Also, my blood pressure is a perfect 120/70. And if I'm going to have a health condition, this is a pretty good one to have.

Basically, it means that my thyroid, which controls the metabolism, is underactive. Thus, my metabolism is too slow. It is impressive, therefore, that I have managed to lose over 50 pounds on Weight Watchers with hypothyroidism. The treatment is straightforward, too--a single dose of synthetic thyroid hormone, every day for the rest of my life.

It's not quite that clear-cut--the doctor drew some more blood to check out other hormone levels in my body to get a more complete picture of my thyroid, and I also need to visit an endocrinologist to get fully checked out. This will ensure that my hypothyroidism isn't caused by a more serious condition (which is unlikely). The endocrinologist will also be able to monitor my blood levels to establish exactly what dose of synthetic hormone I need.

Also, because the synthetic hormone replaces a hormone that your body is supposed to produce naturally, there shouldn't be any side effects of taking it. It's not like birth control where you intentionally alter your body's hormone levels in order to stop ovulation--instead, you're just restoring equilibrium.

So the short version of this drawn-out story? I have a medical condition that slows my metabolism down. Which means that the treatment that I'm about to start will increase my metabolism. Which means that Weight Watchers should become more effective than ever. And in every other way, I'm healthy.

Not wholly bad news, huh?

What it's like to be fat

The first thing is that I couldn't even think about writing this post until I'd lost 50 pounds. Because you feel that everyone's judging you, for being lazy, eating too much, not taking care of yourself, not trying hard enough. You feel your voice doesn't count. You feel you can't talk about what it's like to be fat until you've proven yourself, shown that you're taking steps not to be fat anymore.

And now, I'm still overweight so it's not easy to talk about it now. But I don't want to be one of those people who only talks about what it's like to be fat from the vantage point of a nice, safe size 6, where how horrible it was is only a vague, awful memory.

I want to talk about while I'm still in it because for once I want to give power to my words from within my own situation. I don't want to write some chirpy "after" post once I've reached my goal weight about how much it sucked to be fat. I want to write it while I'm living it and while it's real.

So what does it mean? Well, let's see.

You don't fit into chairs. When you go to a restaurant and someone suggests eating outside, you do a subtle scan of the chairs to see if they're sturdy, if the arms are narrow, if you'll be uncomfortably spilling over the sides of the seat during the meal. When somebody asks if you want to go to a baseball game, you hope they have tickets for the expensive, roomy seats. Nobody wants to sit next to you in the Metro or on the bus. You see every seat fill up around you while the one next to you remains resolutely empty. You try to pretend you don't notice, try to pretend you're just being polite when you give up your seat so that two people will sit down and one less person will have to stand.

Shopping sucks. You see all the gorgeous, pretty clothes in the normal departments as you bypass them on your way to the plus size department, where the clothes have gotten trendier every year but are still not fabulous, and the same pieces cost more. Most of them are designed for women with huge chests, which I don't have, and they fit all wrong. Looking at yourself in the dressing room mirror is depressing. Looking at yourself in any mirror is depressing. You don't want to go wedding dress shopping, because even though most dresses come in large sizes these days, the samples at the stores don't, and how are you supposed to pick out the most important dress of your life if you can't even try it on? Even with the zipper down?

You never think anyone wants to date you. When a guy starts talking to you, you assume he only wants to be friends. You have no confidence to make the first move, to even believe it when somebody makes a move on you. You assume you're misinterpreting. You hook up with guys because you think you need experience, because you think that if you were thin you'd already have that experience. It doesn't matter that much if you really like the guy.

But it's not just about dating. You never think pretty girls want to be friends with you either. You assume they're embarrassed to be seen with you, or can't understand what it's like to be you, or look down on you. You can never engage in those lighthearted conversations about clothes and shopping and guys and flirting and looking hot. You feel a chasm between you and them and it's impossible to tell if you're imagining it.

Nobody will ever talk about it. You can't make reference to it yourself. It's the elephant in the living room and if you ever mention needing to lose weight, or having to shop in the plus size department, people look awkward and look away. It becomes your job not to make people uncomfortable, not to talk about it, not to push it.

You think about it all the time. You are always aware not just of how you look but of how much space you take up, of whether your chair is sticking out too far from the table so that someone has to squeeze around you, whether you'll fit into the crowded elevator.

When your significant other tells you you're pretty, or beautiful even, you assume he's saying that because he thinks he should and not because he believes it. Not because you're self-deprecating or have low self-esteem or anything else; you can accept all other compliments from him, about being smart or funny or whatever, and you can even smile and say thank you when he says you're pretty, but you don't internalize it the way you do other compliments, you don't really believe it, because how could it be true?

You can't sit on your significant other's lap because you're afraid of crushing him. Sometimes you don't want to try new positions because you're afraid of crushing him.

Your health becomes scary, even if you're currently healthy. Overweight women have a higher chance of infertility, of complications during pregnancy, both with the baby and with themselves. You think about diabetes, high blood pressure, increased risk of certain types of cancer. You look around and notice that there are no fat old people. You think about dying young.

Reading women's magazines is an exercise in jealousy. The designer clothes featured never fit you. When they run a feature on the best clothing for every body type, there's one category for "curvy" or "full-figured" or whatever they're calling it that month. The implication is that if you're overweight, that's your body type. There isn't a category for overweight and pear-shaped, overweight and top-heavy, etc. But you can't look at all the other categories that might match your body type because the clothes featured there aren't available in your size. Tons of stores are entirely off-limits. When your significant other sees a pretty dress in the window of J. Crew and suggests that you look at it, you make some excuse because you don't want to admit that even the biggest size there is probably too small for you.

It hasn't ruined my life, it hasn't killed my self-esteem. I haven't let it destroy other areas of my life, things that make me happy. But it's always there. You can never forget that you're fat. You see your excessive size in every look you get, no matter the context. The reminders come from all around you. But they also come from yourself.

I don't get it.

Watching all the news coverage of the New Hampshire primaries has been driving me crazy over the past week. First of all, I'm pretty sure I can't sustain this level of coverage for the next ten months. I realize once the nominees are selected, it will quiet down for a little while--but not that much, since then there will be that pesky general election to deal with.

Anyway, what's been particularly bothering me recently is all the coverage of Hillary Clinton and the heavy emphasis on the fact that she's a woman. People say she's too serious, she needs to soften up, those tears on Monday were just an attempt to feminize herself, it's good she's started dressing in bright colours, etc.

Okay. First of all, it bothers me that the fact that she's a woman is being harped on so incredibly much, but I can understand it, since every candidate has that--Obama with being black, Romney with being Mormon, etc. Anything that makes you stand out gets discussed. Fine.

But what's pissing me off is the intense discussion of why Hillary wasn't winning the women's vote. On Monday night, CNN had a reporter talking about how young women today don't remember a time before the women's movement, so they don't understand the urgency of electing a woman to office. The reporter went on and on about how a lot of people just don't believe that a woman can be president--and some of those people are women.

Here's the issue. I like Hillary fine. I like Obama a little better. But for me, it isn't a question of the gender of either candidate. Whether the candidate is a man or a woman isn't a voting issue for me. I guess I would say that if there were two candidates who were literally identical in every way except that one is a man and the other is a woman, I would use gender as the deciding factor and vote for the woman. But given that no such scenario exists in real life, I don't care about the gender of the candidates, I care about their stances and their backgrounds and everything else that people normally look at when evaluating presidential candidates.

I don't think I'll be voting for Hillary in the primary, and it's not because I'm a woman who doesn't believe women would make a good president. It's because there are other candidates whose politics I prefer.

My question is, is it just me? Am I just so young and short-sighted that I don't remember what it was like for women not to be considered equals, and therefore I don't place enough importance on the gender of the candidate? After all, my mother says that she likes John Edwards' stances best, but she refuses to vote for a white man. Am I missing the historical understanding that would make me believe that it's important for a woman to vote for a woman on that basis alone? Would you vote for Hillary, or any woman, just because she's a woman?

Non-boyfriend

When I was 15, I spent three weeks at an academic summer program for high school students. The program was really about allowing academically gifted students to socialize together, the idea being that they were probably isolated at their own high schools. I wasn't, but I loved the summer program and attended for four years. Age 15 was my third year, and it was the year I met Jason.

Jason and I met on the first day of camp, when I was wandering around the halls of the dorm, randomly introducing myself to people whose doors were open. I don't know if things are different when you're 15 or what, but I don't really remember a transition period. I remember meeting him, and I remember spending the rest of camp with him, but I don't remember how we got that way.

I do know that everyone at the entire camp thought we were going out. And I remember wondering why the hell we weren't. We were literally together whenever possible. The campus had these huge benches--although the word "bench" really doesn't do them justice. They were more like huge, painted wooden structures, highly elevated with lots of comfortable seats. There was one outside each dorm and they were the main hangout points during all free time. And we spent hours on ours.

We would just sit, for a long time, talking and poking each other and chatting with other people. Jason played the guitar and often he'd have it with him, just messing around, and sometimes other people would show up with their guitars and they would jam together. I had no musical talent but I loved to sit and listen.

There were dances every Saturday, and Jason and I spent them together, but not dancing. We usually spent them on that bench. One week during a dance I got up the courage to ask him who he thought the three prettiest girls at the camp were. He named two girls, both friends of ours, and then he paused.

I still remember the sideways glance he gave me, and the tight anticipation I felt while I waited for him to say something. And then he said, "And you," and for one of the very rare moments in my early teens, I felt exactly how I wanted to feel because I had heard exactly what I wanted to hear from the exactly right person.

There were other signs too, other moments where pleasant silences turned into awkward moments of maybe we should be kissing. But those were moments where that tense waiting didn't release into that euphoria of feeling exactly how we wanted to feel, because we were both too awkward, too shy or uncomfortable or something, to push through the awkwardness and just do it.

Really, I would have done it because I wasn't shy, really at all, not by then. Except that despite not being shy, I was massively insecure, and even though from this charmingly grownup, distanced perspective I now have, it is so, so obvious that he liked me as much as I liked him... well, at the time I wasn't sure.

I thought I had given him so many opportunities that if he liked me, he would have taken me up on them. I thought about all the times that someone had asked us if we were going out and he had vehemently denied it. Even though I was equally vehement in my denials, when it was him doing the denying, I thought it was proof of the one-sidedness of my feelings.

But when we were outside and it was cold, he gave me his soft flannel shirt to wear. He played Brown Eyed Girl to me on his guitar while we were sitting in the hallway of the dorm. He hugged me, touched me all the time. He told me I was the prettiest girl in the whole camp.

At the time, at 15, when I desperately wanted experience and desperately needed affirmation that somebody could like me, those things weren't enough. But now, looking back, they are.

So many boots

About a month ago, I ordered a gorgeous pair of brown suede boots from the same place where I got my black boots, because boots are the perfect thing to wear to work in the winter, and having them only in black meant that I could never wear boots with brown clothes. I like this place because they do custom calf sizes, which is great for me because my calves never fit into normal boots.

When I placed the order, I was informed that they were out of stock in my size, but they expected to have them in again soon. But four weeks went by and I didn't hear anything, so I went on the site to check and discovered that a) the boots were on sale, and b) they had the next calf size down from mine in stock. Duh, I should have thought of that earlier, since boots are stretchy and I'm in the process of losing weight.

In fact, I whipped out my trusty tape measure and measured my calves, and you know what? The size I ordered? Is now too big. The next size down is actually the right size! Even though my black boots still fit, they've definitely gotten looser, and I always thought it was because leather stretches, and maybe that's part of it. But really? My calves are just smaller, and that is so exciting.

So I wrote to the people and canceled my other (full-price, too-big) order, and then placed the order for the cheaper, correctly-fitting boots, and they shipped the NEXT DAY. After I waited FOUR WEEKS for the first pair. I would be mad, except that by waiting that long, I got them on sale, and everyone likes a good sale. So by doing this, I got the boots for cheaper, in the right size, sooner. It's not just a win-win situation; it's a WIN-WIN-WIN situation. In short, I WIN.

And also? The weather today is too warm for boots. In January. How awesome is that? And how perfect is the timing, because if I already had my boots, I'd be impatient for the right weather so I could wear them.

On another note, all these people in my office are only just back to work today after the holidays, so they're all saying Happy New Year when they see me, and it feels very weird. Next time somebody says that to me, I may feel compelled to tell them to get with the program. I've been back in the office for two weeks. Happy New Year is so last week.

Insert alliterative title here.

Now, unlike some people, I do not normally do a Friday Five. However, today is Friday, and there are five things I want to talk about. So, by default, my first Friday Five:

1. I don't often wear makeup for my skin, but my interest was piqued by Sundry's review of Bare Escentuals makeup a few months back. The nail in the coffin was when Alice raved about them too. So I finally ordered them, and they showed up last night.

At first, I wasn't incredibly impressed. This might be because I have never worn foundation in my life (normally I stick with tinted moisturizer), so I didn't know what to expect. Yeah, it went on and blended in perfectly, and yeah, my skin looked pretty smooth afterward (but to be fair, it looked pretty smooth beforehand too). But it didn't look AMAZING and damn it, that's what I wanted.

In sum, after I put the makeup on, I went into the living room and Torsten exclaimed enthusiastically, "It's great! You look so different!" in a way that was code for, "I see no change whatsoever but I know that I'm supposed to."

However, the stuff has grown on me. I'm wearing it today and my skin does look a little better. I look overall better-rested and more alert, I think, and the makeup is helping. But I think that this might be the kind of product that is more exciting to people who have tried other foundations, or who have problem skin in some way.

2. I think those of you who suggested that my necklace may have gotten caught in my sweater and twisted are right. There's just no other explanation. Torsten definitely did not switch the chain--it had the same clasp, and where would he even have found a stiff, 25" chain to switch it with? Also, he allowed me to proceed with exchanging it without 'fessing up. Anyway, I got my new chain yesterday, and so far all is well. Knock on wood.

3. Speaking of the necklace, yesterday I wore the pendant on one of my normal sterling silver chains, just for one day, ONE DAY. And yet, thanks to my obnoxious nickel allergy, I now have the beginnings of a rash around my neck. Oh, I am grumpy about that.

4. So, who watched the caucuses last night? I have to say that I was not expecting the Huckabee win or the Obama win, but I think I'm glad about both. Torsten loves Obama, and while my feelings are not nearly as strong, I do think he would be a pretty good president. Huckabee, on the other hand, does not seem like a terribly strong candidate for president. So, given that I want a Democrat to win the presidency, I should be rooting for the Republican party to nominate their weakest candidate. Which might be Huckabee.

HOWEVER. I'm no political analyst, and I have no idea if Huckabee is really that weak or if it's just me thinking that in my own head. So what if I root for him to get the Republican nomination, and then he turns around and wins the general election? President Huckabee? Even though I KNOW that who I'm rooting for matters not at all, particularly for the Republican party where I will not be casting a vote, I would be pretty upset with myself if things turned out that way.

5. I'm glad you all agree with me that Pilates are hard. I am especially intrigued by Ana's suggestion that I try out some dance videos, since I had the same thought while I was doing the same old aerobics routine that I've been doing for years. I'm going to keep working on this Pilates thing, but there's no reason not to add some variety. So now is when I need your help, yet again. I want something bouncy, fun, interesting, and challenging but not impossible that gets me dancing and my heart rate elevated. What's a good dance video for me to try? Or at least, what are styles or elements I should look for when trying to pick a dance video?

Weakling

So, last night I managed to leave work at five, and Torsten was cooking dinner, so I had a window of time to finally try out the Pilates DVD that I got from Netflix I don't even want to remember how long ago, on Swistle's recommendation. I got a different one from the same series that Swistle used--a cardio/Pilates blend. It was 25 minutes of what was basically an at-home aerobics class, followed by 15 minutes of Pilates, which I had never done before.

The cardio I was okay with, and will definitely get better at with time, and it was definitely a good workout--I was flushed and sweating at the end of the 25 minutes, and my heart rate had definitely increased. That's why I was relieved when the Pilates part started--I thought it would be more relaxing, sort of like the cool-down period in the step aerobics class I used to do.

Ha. I was wrong. It turns out? That Pilates is all about the "powerhouse"--basically, your abs. And what little musculature I have? Is in my legs. Who knew? Let's just say I DIDN'T.

Which is not to say that the video sucked. It was good. I definitely could not do all of the exercises, but like Swistle, I suspect that I'll be able to if I keep using the video regularly. The instructor was nice and not annoying, and it was only a little bit depressing to see all the toned women in bikini tops following along with her.

Know what position I suck at? The Plank. Remarkably, I don't suck at the Reverse Plank (minus the strap you see at the link). When she first did it on the screen, I actually thought that I would never even get myself into that position. But I did, and I HELD IT. It was amazing.

Know what else sucks? Trying to follow along to an exercise video that you're watching on a projector. You have to make the screen tiny and aim it to one side, and then make sure to stand on the other side, because otherwise you'll block the screen. Definitely an argument for owning a normal TV.

Anyway, I'm not going to make rash promises about sticking with this DVD on a regular basis, but I don't think I'll send it back to Netflix just yet. Maybe I'll even manage to get myself to do it again later this week. Once my muscles stop aching, that is.

The Great Necklace Mystery of 2008

As I mentioned, Torsten gave me a gorgeous necklace for Christmas, completely with a 20" white gold chain that he purchased separately. He bought the chain online. It was perfect--a 5mm light box chain that fell to the perfect point, supple and liquidy and delicate. When I took the necklace off and laid it on a table, the chain puddled perfectly onto the surface.

I've worn the necklace every day since Christmas, taking it off before I go to sleep at night and putting it back on after my shower in the morning. Every day, it's been perfect.

Until today. This morning, I put the necklace on as I was headed out the door and didn't notice anything strange about it. Later, I noticed that it felt very stiff and not at all supple and delicate like it had felt before. It seemed like it was twisted, and it looks like it's twisted. But I can't untwist it.

Also, I noticed that suddenly it seemed to be falling much lower on my chest than it did when I first got it. At first I thought I was hallucinating, but after looking in the mirror I decided that it definitely looked longer, and not in a good way. So I measured it with a ruler. And my chain that was 20" when I got it? Is now 25.25" a mere week later.

I called a jewelry store to see if they could explain it or fix it, and the woman there said that she had never heard of such a thing. So, I am totally lost for an explanation of what the hell could have happened. Which is why I'm turning to you. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Or can you think of a reason why it would happen?

A visit to the doctor

This morning I started the new year off right with a visit to the doctor to follow up on that blood pressure question from my last visit. Nothing like starting the new year with a clean bill of health. Which I almost got. My blood pressure is back down to normal, but my pulse was a bit high, so he did an EKG, which was normal. Then he drew blood to check cholesterol, blood count, kidneys and liver, and thyroid. So my bill of health, clean or dirty, should be back in a couple of days.

I used to be scared of the doctor. Well, not exactly scared--more like too private to want to go. I never wanted to have anything wrong with me because I felt like any health problem would be my own fault, for not taking better care of myself or for being overweight, and I didn't want to hear about it or have the doctor judge me.

But I don't feel like that anymore. I'm still overweight and even though I've lost over 50 pounds (yay for meeting my first Weight Watchers goal of losing 50 pounds in 2007), I still have more to lose. But I've taken control of my own health by eating right and trying to move around more. I feel healthy and I want the doctor's agreement on that count.

And if I'm not healthy, I want to know. If there's something wrong with me, it won't feel shameful. It will feel like a problem that needs to be resolved, whether the resolution would come through continued healthy habits or some sort of medical intervention, and that I am ready and willing to resolve.

I hope I don't have any medical problems. So far, knock on wood, it seems that I don't. But if I do, I will face them and I will deal with them and I will not be embarrassed or ashamed of them. How's that for a quasi New Year's resolution?