Crawling Back to Normality...

In my defense, everything has just always worked out for me. You immediately hate me right? That person that just doesn’t deserve it, but somehow they come out of it just fine. I’ve always been an eternal optimist. I feel like it’s the chicken and the egg. I don’t know if it’s just that I’m consistently lucky, or if it’s the attitude that gets me through. But I have come to firmly believe that no matter how shitty I may feel, no matter how crappy the day, the best is yet to come.

The worse the situation, the harder I force my happy-ever-after opinion. We could be stranded on the side of the road for 3 days, and my only goal would be making the world’s most ironic joke out of the situation.

-

“You mind if I just change my shoes when we get there? They’re like 2 sizes too big and impossible to walk in.”

We were headed to a little bridge for a fun and quick photo shoot celebrating Montana women.

“Yeah no problem- it’s a little hike in anyways. Why did you get shoes way too big?” A local clothing shop had helped us pick out clothes for the shoot.

“Oh my foot is swollen to all hell, and heels have been my arch nemesis for months now.”

“What’s up with your foot?”

My blessing and my downfall is that I am really terrible liar, and thus I know I have to stick to the truth instead of drawing out an awkward situation.

“Oh I’m the proud recipient of a tumor. Whoo-hoo!” I try my best to laugh really lightheartedly, but no one appears to appreciate the joke.

“Wait. No really? You really have a tumor?”

“Uhmmm… yeah! No biggie.”

“Are you ok? I mean does it hurt?”

Oh man. The questions. This is the part where I spill enough information to satisfy them in a lighthearted enough tone that it plays off the situation like it’s a hangnail.

-

The worst part about being an EMT is that when you have something wrong with you, you profoundly ignore it and tell yourself that if you can’t fix it, it will fix itself.  However, after months of this attitude, realizing that I could barely run (my stress relief passion), not to mention hardly walk, and was consistently exhausted, I finally decided someone with a degree might be of some use.

The podiatrist hung the x-ray up on the light box in the examination room. Gah those rooms all look the same. Some dingy off-white color on the walls, a little sink, that horribly uncomfortable paper over the chair, and some disgusting excuse for encouraging art on the wall. “Inspiration” it says, under some generic waterfall. Truthfully it just makes me have to pee. Or more annoyed that with this ridiculous pain I probably couldn’t even get to the damn waterfall without pausing 18 times.

“Plain as day!” he exclaimed as he switched on the light. Sweet- I think, someone who can come to quick conclusion on the matter. My man.

“See that lump?”

“Uhm yeah.” Slightly rolling my eyes. It’s glowing white in my foot- the thing was easier to spot than a fetus.

“Well that’s your tumor.”

Oh yeah! Totally. Wait…. My what?

“So we’ll need to do surgery in the next couple weeks, but don’t worry you’ll only be out for a week and then you’ll just wear this boot, we’ll try and make it as cosmetic as possible, we know women love their feet, we’ll do a biopsy, and we’ll get you a handicap parking permit….”

I’m nodding, but not absorbing any of it. The word tumor just keeps echoing in my head…

-

A couple times a year I sit down and make myself a list. It’s something I’ve done since high-school- a nice little visual check-in on what I want to accomplish, what I want to get better at, and what I want to learn. These lists are stashed in various notebooks all over my house, typically titled by the month I’m inspired and followed by the profound term “Stuff”.

I run across them on occasion while cleaning. It’s funny to review how your priorities change over time, and how little other passions change.

“Surf for 6 months in Costa Rica- next June?”

“Learn how to cook. Classes in Bozeman?”

“Get under 25 minutes on 5k. See training schedule.”

“Pick up some tunes on the piano that aren’t by an old dead guy.”

Two of those items remain on my list… a little disheartening that they first arrived on the list 4 years ago and have yet to be checked off. One item has been passed to the backburner, but I swear it will happen at some point in my life. After completing a list I look at it happily, expectantly. Tomorrow I begin. Tomorrow I am the person I want to be.

-

“Omg. I am sooo out of shape.”

This phrase has come out of my mouth millions of times during my life, but mostly it’s an excuse. An excuse for why I am particularly sweaty, not as fast as the person next to me, or why the stairs gave me a little extra trouble that day. Truthfully, I have never been truly or terribly out of shape. Until now.

I now realize that I have abused the hell out of that phrase in a ‘that’s-what-she-said’ sort of way. Because, omg. I am SOOO out of shape. Like for real. Like I think I might pass out at the gym. Like ‘oh I dunno about 5 miles today’ isn’t being lazy, but because I really don’t think I can do it. I am beginning to empathize with every health rescue story I can find on the internet.

The funny thing about exercise is that when you are perfectly able, you can make every excuse in the book to not go. And when you suddenly lose the option entirely- all you can think about is going to the damn gym.

I am attempting to crawl out of a hole. And it sucks. It really really sucks. I’ve never ran into that wall that says ‘if I go another step I will drop’. The wall that tells me ‘maybe I can’t do this’. That maybe my health is failing me. That maybe the rest of my life won’t be long enough to obtain my goals. 

-

 “Today we are focusing on side plank.”

It’s my first yoga class in months- I’m so excited I can finally do this again. But side plank? We were frenemies at best when I was going to yoga 3 times a week.

I look at the lean, sleek woman next to me, effortlessly holding an arrow position. I can do this. I can hold it at least as long as her… but I start shaking profusely, and am forced to lay down a knee. Dammit.

I strap on my running shoes, making a mental note that it’s probably time for a new pair, and set out the door with Erik, who is excited beyond belief to see the old leash in my hand.

He promptly squirrels out the door, practically knocking me over, and leaving an entire patch of hair on my black running pants. We set off for an easy 3 miles, Erik running me more than I am running him. 2 miles in and I think I might have to walk. I am so frustrated. This used to be so easy. These pants didn’t used to cut into me like this. I just want to cry.

-

I am an eternal optimist. I firmly believe that what is broken today can be fixed tomorrow. Thankfully, my doctor was too. He told me not to worry, that these things happen, that it doesn’t mean the big “C”, that he doubts cancer will be the result. But it still made me come to a screeching halt.  A tumor at 26 was not in the life plan. Having to suddenly reconsider all your priorities if the worst was to happen isn’t something I wanted to think about it. I just have too much to do, and this is seriously getting in the way.

A surgery, two biopsies, and multiple appointments later I was released free and clear. Free to realize how hard it is to crawl out of the hole of less than perfect health, and cleared to seriously over think everything.  

But as always, I am lucky. I am blessed. And as painful those first few steps in the ‘ol running shoes are, I know that at some point I will get there. To never take your youth, your health, your life for granted. To run freely and know that you can get to the end, no matter the detours that may momentarily derail you.

The running shoes are lying in the corner, beckoning me toward them. I hate them. I love them. I’ll lace them up and remember the words of my favorite yoga instructor, “Today, your body may not be able to accomplish what it could yesterday, but that’s ok. Maybe tomorrow it can do more. Just thank yourself for being here.”

Vegan Part II

Dear Reader:

 

I feel as if I may have left you hanging. My apologizes. By now you must realize that the raccoon and I have much in common. We both struggle to open the dog food container (cussing as we end up ass over face into the flower bed), revel in pretending that we are being sneaky, despite the 50 lb. dog barking at us, and are easily distracted by shiny objects. Earlier in my blog I had professed a switch to a vegan diet, and then never followed up. So here’s what happened:

I lasted exactly 3 days, 7 hours and 14 minutes. What happened? Calder. You see, this boyfriend of mine happens to be a master chef. (Don’t you dare tell him I said that, the man has enough ego as it is, and my arms couldn’t take all the bowing down that would ensue). And by master chef I don’t mean that he has the ability to heat up mac n’ cheese. I’m talking banana pancakes with strawberry garnishes, Gorgonzola stuffed elk burgers, homemade crab cakes with a zest of lemon, apple and walnut salad with homemade vinaigrette, baked brie in a flakey crust with huckleberry sauce… quit drooling ladies. He’s quite taken, and I warn you that I am a master in the art of humiliating sarcasm.

So I wake up-which, let’s for a moment think about waking up… (see? Raccoon-like senses).  Thanks in large part to Hollywood; I grew up imagining that women wake up with perfectly refreshed complexions, long and defined gently batting eyelashes, and hair that is just so perfectly rumpled that it is endearing. I clung to that hope for many years, until I finally realized that not only do I wake up like a mole exposed to sunlight, I am highly prone to being crabby. Throw in a pillow mark on my cheek, hair resembling a Who in a bar fight, and mascara smudged on my eyebrow- and I am lucky anyone says ‘I love you’ prior to 8am. I have finally learned to accept that while some woman are blessed with an early morning glow; I am not one of them until I have married rich.

As I was saying, dear Chef-boy (who is either oblivious to my state, or has learned to not poke the bear- most likely the latter…) wakes me up with a homemade breakfast burrito. A chorizo burrito. An elk chorizo burrito. An elk that he shot himself. I frickin’ love elk chorizo. And not eating the meat that a man painstakingly provided for his woman is surely an insult to manhood. So I ate it. It was delicious. I didn’t even cringe.

“Is that an egg?” Our friend Tad looks at me quizzically, arms loaded with Doritos and PBR. 

“Yup!” I clutch the egg tighter to my chest so I don’t drop it.

“Your buying an egg. At a gas station. To go floating.” He cocks his head to one side, trying to decide if I am serious.

“Yup!” I purchase my egg and wander out to the Bro-stop.

“Is that an egg?” Calder looks at me, just making sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him.

“Yup!” I crawl into the backseat and joyfully begin peeling it.

“That’s gunna stink you know.”

“Yup!” I bite into it. Yum. Hits the spot.

Calder shakes his head and jumps in. Luckily, by now he is used to my eccentricity.

My vegan experiment definitely left me more conscious of my eating habits. Gone are the dinners of cinnamon rolls, and the lunches of pop-tarts. I’m not going to claim that I am super healthy- let’s face it, when Calder is working through the dinner hour I happily cart off a box of frozen mozzarella sticks as a meal. But I have forced myself to be a bit more aware of where my food is coming from. If I couldn’t locate the farm that provided my milk, then I probably won’t buy it. If I don’t know where that burger came from on my plate, then it won’t be as satisfying. Admittedly, it does make me feel better. I don’t know that I will ever make it to the elite realm of veganism, (holy chorizo burrito), but at least things are changing for me. And sometimes, the changes that take the longest are the ones that stick.

And did I mention my man can cook? Oh you lucky lucky girl Ashley…

Greener on the Other Side...

I am lucky. I am spoiled. I am blessed. It sounds ridiculous for a ‘glass-half-full’ kinda girl to have to remind herself of this, but I do when it comes to my home. We have a serious love/hate relationship.

By a bizarre twist of fate I ended up moving back into my childhood home as my parents vacated it. It was the perfect place for an only child with a vivid imagination to grow up. Trees galore, I developed this odd habit of climbing a tree to read a book. (Always the multitasker…) This habit was warned against after I fell out of the Aspen upon reaching a rather disturbing conclusion in an Agatha Christie novel. Mother ran out of the house with flour all over her dress, I was furious that the protagonist could be the murderer, and Dad told me that bruises were rather impressive but this didn’t mean I should search them out. There was a creek I could splash around in, animals I could tend to, swings to be swung, and flowers to pick. It was the kind of yard most parents dream of being able to provide for their children.

Now comes the hate. You just spent a week ripping off 60 years of wallpaper only to find that drywall was not in fact created when this home was built and thus you have scraped clear through to the beams. The toilet bubbles at an alarming rate when you take a shower. The electricity has to be rewired into the dining room- oh and by the way, your home isn’t grounded. There is an inch tall step into the kitchen that threatens you every time you want a snack. I swear this home is the one Dr. Seuss built.  On the bright side, when left to your own resources, one figures shit out. Bob Villa has nothing on me. I can rewire, refinish, re-plum, and redecorate anything you throw at me. The frustrating part though, is when you have a house and four buildings you are trying to keep from falling apart while working a full time job. Would you like some cheese with your wine? I can hear you saying. And yes. Yes I would. Preferably gouda.

Most people have 2 neighbors. I have over a hundred. Thanks to a densely packed subdivision and a developer that decided to have everyone’s back yard open up to mine, I have a consistent audience. I like to think I’m not that entertaining… but there was that one time when Erik got loose, and I was running around in a nightie and slippers. Thanks to one kind couple on their porch I was able to secure him after several yells of “LEFT! LEFT! He went behind the barn! Wait! No right! RIGHT! RIGHT! He’s by the creek!” And I am clumsy; I’ll give them that. More than once a fresh chicken egg has ended up on my shirt after unsuccessfully dodging a duck. I often wonder what they think… oh look at the horrendous condition of that barn, gah why can’t she fix her fence, why has the house been half painted for a year? Those chickens are SOOO annoying.

For someone who isn’t big on grudges, I have developed an immense dislike for that subdivision. Namely because people are idiots. Some guy was cross-country skiing through my back yard last winter. People walk their dogs on the property. Shoot randomly at buildings. Clearly I live on a public park.

So I have begun walking. I realize this seems to be a natural human phenomenon, but for me a walk was always a waste of exercise. I mean, why walk when you can run? Why walk when you can hike? It seemed silly. But the dog needs exercise, and on occasion I just don’t feel up to a run. And I rather like wandering without an aim. So where do I walk? On the 250 acres behind my house? Of course not. I walk in the subdivision, on the sidewalks, for one main reason: I like to creep. Now before you begin envisioning me crawling over backyard fences and letting myself into dining rooms (which frankly, almost sounds like something I would do), I mean the kind of creeping we all engage in. Don’t deny it. It’s the moment when you drive by a house with the lights on and try to peer through the windows. When someone leaves their private fence open and you peek to see what they have back there. My walks are an intense study of humanity. And admittedly, at times a judgment. I swear, if I ever have children that leave 18 neon Fisher-Price pieces of crap in my yard I will have the decency to live in a trailer court.

We usually take a random route that always leads to the back corner where someone is building a monster of a house. I keep thinking, why in the world would someone build that gorgeous house in this crappy neighborhood? Sometimes I fantasize about having a pigpen right on the other side of the fence just to piss them off, and giggle a little to myself. And then we move on and judge the people who failed to weed their flower gardens, whose children are screaming, or have tiny cages in their yards for their huge dogs.

On Monday’s walk we once again we ended at the construction site of the giant house. I stood and considered while Erik sniffed an incredibly interesting clover bush. I mean, why go to all that effort and money to live here? HERE of all places. And then I looked beyond the house. The sun was setting over the fields. My family’s fields. And it stuck me. Maybe they just want what I have. What I look at every day. Where I see a giant financial pit, things falling apart and to-do list, they see paradise. The funny part, the slightly pathetic part, is that I had to literally cross the fence to see how green it is on the other side. My family’s side. 

In this age where the media spotlights all the evil, all the problems, all the horrendous mistakes of society, it can be so easy to think that we have it so bad. To nitpick all the things that are making our lives difficult. When you’re upset, everyone is quick to tell you to get some perspective. And all you want to do is to tell them yours. I believe that perspective is often a physical act. Sometimes all it takes is removing yourself to see what wasn’t visible to you before. After all, it’s hard to see paradise when you’re standing in the middle of it.

Pigs however, would be quite fun.

Epiphanies and Otherwise

You know when you have an epiphany, and you’re simultaneously annoyed that you remember, and can’t believe you forgot about it in the first place? And then you end up both trying to remember more about it, and also attempting to shove it back down where it came from. Much to my chagrin, those memories, faded with age, and grimy from being left in the garage of my brain, have been getting jogged back out to the surface lately.

I was a rather cute child until about age 7, when an unfortunate lack of alignment to my teeth, failing eyesight, perpetually crooked glasses, and my mother’s love of perms landed me square in awkward-ville. And while I liked flouncing around in the poufy little dresses my mother carefully sewed for me, my love of tree climbing resulted in my habitually walking around with mud and leaves stuck to me. I realize everyone claims childhood awkwardness… but I ask you dear reader, to please reference the picture, which thanks to lighting, is one of the better ones.

My childhood was a happy one, filled with lots of daydreaming and adventures, an only child who was quite resourceful when it came to entertaining myself. I had two best friends, my beautiful blonde neighbor Julia, and the endlessly entertaining dark haired Britt. However, school life was a constant battle in which I was forever playing defense. Children are quite perceptive, and tend to use this skill to be horrendously mean to each other. Thus my hair, my teeth, my glasses, my clothes, my habitually late parents, and my love of books were all under attack daily.

When my father began teaching at my school, a man infinitely cooler than myself, I managed to earn a little street cred. But by the 6^th grade, more and more of my recesses were spent alone, splashing around in the little creek at the back of the schoolyard. The creek couldn’t talk back, or call me names; it would just gurgle quietly along and grow pretty dandelions that I could make into necklaces. My friends found infinitely more cool things to do and I faded into the background.

Growing up around adults I tended to be more mature than my age, and teen angst hit me around 11. I begged my parents to let me go to another school. I was sick of being at the bottom of the food chain. No one understood me here. Finally they agreed, enrolled me at Manhattan Christian, since that was where it was determined I would receive the best high school education, and even said I could start going by my middle name.

I took the fresh start eagerly. Got rid of the perm, discovered hair dye, convinced my parents I needed contacts, and switched to a shortened version of my middle name, Nicki. (Sadly it never quite stuck thanks to a stubborn Calvinistic teacher, but I gave it a valiant effort). I shut the door on my old school and friends, vowing to never give the place a second thought. And I didn’t… until recently.  

Now for an update. Since we last met, many things have changed in the life of this Vicky’s girl. Namely, I went out on a limb, and was rewarded with a beautiful change in careers. I gave the world of retail the boot, and jumped headfirst into finance. (I will fill you in more another time… but I promise the segway has a point). Namely, that the world has come full circle, and now, 20 years later, I work with Britt’s mother.

I always admired Britt’s mom. As a kid I knew she worked on a street called Wall, she was some sort of awesome, powerful, well-dressed woman that made her own living- but more importantly, she let us make sheet forts throughout the entire house, took us on trips to the family cabin, had the best sleepovers, and always had most excellent snacks.

I never dreamed I would one day wind up working with this woman. And the experience has been amazing… a small part of me wants to go bounding into her office and beg her to let me and Britt take out the BB gun- until I remember I’m supposed to be a fully functional business-minded adult and Britt is living miles away. She’s been introducing me to her clients as they come in, which has caused several of those dusty memories to resurface. Much sneezing has been involved.

Which brings me to my epiphany.

“Oh Hello Dustin! How have you been? Have you met Ashley? She attended Heritage with Britt.” Betty gestures towards me, while I’m digging through a file cabinet that I could probably crawl into and take a nap, it’s so massive.

I had talked to Dustin briefly when he walked in, but actually focusing on him I saw a tall, lean, younger looking man with an apparent amount of energy- like he was going to dart out of the office and jump on his dirt bike. Dustin refocused on me and I smile up from the mound of paperwork in my hands.

“Really? Heritage huh? When did you attend?”

When people ask me that about high school or college I’m prepared with a range of dates. But elementary school? I shrug my shoulders and grimace, trying to rally some quick age math before he wonders what I’m doing in finance.

Betty laughs, “Yeah it was a long time ago… but I think Dustin’s daughter and you are around the same age? Let’s see- 27?”

Dustin nods in agreement. I continue to look completely blank and slightly baffled this man has a grown up daughter. But what am I saying? This is a common fiasco with my parents too.

“Sasha?” he says, “Sasha Morris?”

Sasha. Sasha. I roll the name around in my brain. Morris. Morris… it just sounds so familiar, it’s in the garage somewhere, I just know it. I squint a little with the effort of recall. Suddenly it hits me like a bad burrito. Manolo Blahniks. Dad’s dime. Kissing cheeks. Skinny tall girl with long hair. Put together. 

Oh of course. That Sasha. The Sasha that I was quite jealous of in elementary school for being popular, well-dressed, and being the only person I ever heard of winning McDonald’s Monopoly.  And here I am twenty years later bitching about her in my blog. Good lord. This world gets any smaller and it’s going to collapse in on me.

Thankfully Dustin was whisked away before he inquired if I still knew Sasha, but I sat at my desk with a bewildered look for the rest of the afternoon, wondering how on earth I could forget such a thing. Then again, I seriously doubt she would have remembered it either. And here we think we’ll never see the people we grew up with again.

The world appears to have come full circle. But this time? I don’t feel like a fresh start. I feel like all my decisions, stupid, misguided, brilliant and otherwise have led me here. And here is a place I quite enjoy.