exercise

almost a year ago, i joined the ranks of many of my twenty-something peers and signed up for a gym membership. having graduated college only a few years prior, i was still dealing with the fact that i had a lot more free time than i knew what to do with. i spent much of that extra time preparing and eating delicious food so decided i could probably fit in some exercise to my schedule. at first, my trips to the gym went pretty well. i would go a couple of times a week before work. even if i didn't see many physical results, i felt better about myself knowing that i had spent time making myself healthier.

it wasn't long though, that those trips to the gym fell to only on the weekend, or only one morning per week. the truth of the matter is, i just don't enjoy exercising. don't get me wrong, i don't loathe it, but there is nothing fun about standing on a large piece of metal, repeating the same action over and over again for 30-45 minutes until it makes me physically uncomfortable. sure, listening to music can help with the boredom, as can watching one of the tvs that the gym provides for just this issue. but listening to music is more fun without heavy breathing getting in the way and watching tv is much easier while sitting on the couch.

even though the trips have started to dwindle, i still try to go. even if there is nothing appealing about actually going to the gym, the side effects make it worth it. there are no two ways about it, i feel better about myself after i have gone to the gym. i feel productive, less lazy, and more likely to do things with my day instead of wasting it away.

i've always made it clear that my goal in life is to be happy, and all decisions i make are based on whether i will be happy or not. i've learned, though, that immediate happiness is not the only thing i have to think about. sure, it would be easier to sit on the couch than go to the gym, but in the end, it is worth the momentary discomfort for the longer-lasting feeling of happiness with myself.

windows

I picked up the frame from the windowsill, looked at the picture inside, and sighed. “You had so much potential,” I thought to myself. I stared at the windows the picture had been perched on. They could be seen as somewhat useless since not even a sliver of natural light makes it the 25 feet down the hall from the closest outdoor facing window. The only reason the window can be qualified as “somewhat” useless is because it does allow me to communicate in hand signals with those trying to talk to me while my door is shut and I am on the phone.

What the window lacks in usefulness, it makes up for in personality. One trip around the office told me that. Whether it’s cartoons from a Far Side calendar or pictures of pets, these windows are used as the perfect place to display the wit, warmth and all around good natured-ness of the office occupant. It’s brilliant, really, like a version of social networking for the office environment. I can put out there what I want people to think of me. It doesn’t matter if I’m an incredibly boring homebody, I can make myself anyone I want to be through what I display on the windows.

My first effort at trying to be cool via my window decorating went pretty well. I taped up a picture from a newspaper of David Ortiz as he was being sworn in as a United States citizen. He was focused in the frame, wearing a designer suit with fancy sunglasses and a world series ring, in front of hundreds of other everyday people with blurred out faces. The everyday people were wearing everyday clothes, and definitely no sunglasses. This was perfect. It showed my love for sports, as well as my sense of humor. Anyone walking by my office would know that I was spectacular, just from looking at this picture.

After months of leaving this picture on my window, and having it start many conversations, I started to fret. I was definitely starting to look boring. If I couldn’t find something else that was funny by now, my life was totally stale and bland. People must be walking around talking about how crazy it was that I still had that picture up. I mean, it wasn’t even baseball season any more! It was then that I started looking for something to replace Ortiz, and a few months later, I thought I had it.

After travelling to Washington, D.C. to see my Alma mater win the NCAA College Hockey championship, I returned with one souvenir and it had nothing to do with hockey. While at a mall, I got roped into a tourist trap. I was pulled over to a kiosk surround by a crowd of people. The man running the booth asked me if I would stand in front of a green screen and stick my hand in front of me. Not wanting to seem crazy for objecting, I went along with it. The crowd of people cheered and smiled. Then, they asked me to turn, tilt my head up, and make a kissing face. I peaked out to my friends in the audience and I swear someone gave me a thumbs up, so I did as I was told.

What resulted was one photoshopped image of me shaking Barack Obama’s hand and one of me kissing him, which I could purchase with a frame for what seemed like an un-absurd amount of money. I knew I had to get one, but couldn’t decide which. The shaking hands picture was good, because I might be able to convince people I actually met the president. The kissing picture was a little bit awkward. If people actually believed I met the president and kissed him on the lips, that would be weird. At the same time, though, it was really funny and absurd. I couldn’t imagine anyone would actually think I kissed the president. I bought the kissing picture, with a gold plastic frame that said Washington, D.C. and had monuments etched on the side.

On the trip back to Boston, I realized this was the perfect item to replace Ortiz on my window. It was hilariously over the top and kitchy. It would inspire conversation about how I got the picture and what it would have actually been like if I had met Obama. I returned to the office, moved the Ortiz picture to my bulletin board, and gently placed the frame in the window. It immediately fell off. The first problem with this picture was that it was actually in a frame and needed to be propped up somehow on the uneven, shallow windowsill. After fiddling around with it for a few minutes, I succeeded in the balancing act. I went to sit at my desk and waited.

One person walked by. Then another. And another. I saw one of them look at the picture, cock her head in puzzlement, and continue on by. My heart started to sink. Finally, someone else walked by, stood outside my door for a minute staring at the picture, looked at me and said, “Is that...?” Excitedly, I launched into the conversation about D.C., Obama, and hockey. After what felt like a five minute explosion of conversation from my end she said “Oh, cool,” and left.

Over the next few days, a few more people stopped by to ask me about the picture, and I found it less and less exciting to talk about. “No, I didn’t actually get to meet the president,” I would explain before trying to point out how the picture was funny in spite of that. Other than the handful of people who asked, though, thankfully the masses of people I expected to ask about the picture never turned out. Me and Barack became the big while elephant in the office. “I won’t mention it if you don’t,” I’d secretly plead to anyone who stopped by to chat.

A few months later, while out for drinks with some co-workers, the truth came out. Although I have no idea how the topic came up, I was explaining how the picture was taken at a kiosk in a mall. “Ohhhhhh,” someone said. “That’s Obama? I thought it was your boyfriend. I thought it was weird that you had a picture of you guys kissing on your window.” I was immediately horrified. Here I was, trying to portray myself as fun-loving and quirky, and instead everyone thought I was flaunting a romantic relationship to them!

When I arrived at work the next day, I looked at me and Barack. I didn’t have anything to immediately replace us with, so if I didn’t want us sitting in the window anymore, it would have to empty. At the same time, I still loved that picture. It reminded me of the great time I had on that trip and how hilarious I think I am. I moved the picture to the bookshelf behind my desk and stared at the empty window. It was better to be boring, I decided, than misunderstood.

fake me

routines have always been my friend. while others crave surprise and the unknown, i crave stability and the known. sure, i like being surprised. but i want you to tell me that on a specific day at a specific time, you will be surprising me. the same thing can be said for my non-work life. i like doing different things with different people, but i like knowing that my plans will always revolve around a 9-5 job.

i've been building to this way of living my whole life, really. starting from a young age, the main constant in my life was sleep. no matter what i did that day, where i was, or who i was with, i would end the day by going to bed. my earliest memory of falling asleep was after my mom would come into my room to tuck me in and say goodnight, she would hit play on my primary-colored plastic tape player. at first, i'm sure the tape that was in there rotated, but all i remember is always falling asleep to a tape of the beatles magical mystery tour that my dad had made for me. i needed that routine of having my mom turn that tape on for me so much that if, in the horrible situation that sometimes happened, i got to the end of the first side before falling asleep, i would climb out of my bed, walk out of my room, down the hallway to the top of the stairs and yell "mooooooooom, my tape needs to be turned over." she would dutifully walk up the stairs, turn the tape over, and tuck me back into bed, completing the bedtime routine once more.

as i got older, the time i went to bed changed and i stopped listening to music, but i kept to my new routines. instead of music, i would have a set topic to think about until i fell asleep instead of letting my mind wonder. i had a phase where i would think about what outfit i would wear the next day. was it better to wear the forest green jeans with the cat t-shirt and the flannel over it? or should i go with those acid wash jeans instead? for a solid year, i would actually pray until i fell asleep, but only in the way that a child understands prayer as a means to an end. "please god," i would plead, "let tomorrow be a good day. let us catch the bus to school on time, and have tabitha save me a seat in the back of the bus. and please have school be good and let me be in a group with my friends for math time instead of the people i don't like." i would continue to walk god through my day and all the things that i would like to go well until i fell asleep sometime around catching the bus home from school. if, on the off chance, i got through my whole day and was still awake, i would start the process over, thinking of more and more things that god could do for me.

somewhere in middle school, i discovered the mother load of falling asleep thinking topics: the future. at the same time i was discovering insecurities and popularity in the real world, i was exploring an idea that would carry me through all of those things. even if things weren't going my way at the time, i convinced myself that when i got to my mid to late twenties, things would be much better. in the future, i was very popular and had no insecurities. i was successful, happy and smart. every night, i defined this future version of myself more and more. i would think about what clothes i would be wearing until i fell asleep, or how i would wear my hair. eventually, i developed a version of myself in the future. character traits and looks developed into where i would live. where i would live made me think about what job i would have, who my friends would be and what cooky situations we would get ourselves into. throughout high school, i continued to rely on future me as a crutch both to help me fall asleep and to escape the awkward, sometimes unpleasant present.

i still haven't totally deserted this version of myself, either, even though here i am in my mid to late twenties. sure, i just turned 25 and am on a general path in life, but that doesn't stop me from day dreaming about me as a 26 year old stay at home writer living in minneapolis who volunteers at animal shelter. that's because future me was not actually me in the future, it was a fake version of me that i had created. fake me can still do whatever she wants. the reason fake me is fake, though, is because she doesn't have to deal with the realities of life.

it only rains on fake me when she is on a climactic, extremely emotional run before everything works out in the end. real me doesn't run that well and especially not in the rain. fake me had a dog that only needed to be walked on sunny, warm days. real me wonders what i am supposed to do with a dog when i go away for the weekend or what my neighbors will think if he barks too much. fake me doesn't really have to work to achieve any goals. real me has to deal with failure. if fake me gets into any uncomfortable situations, she has a casual, smooth way out. real me tries too hard and makes awkward small talk.

there is a slight chance that i am going to go crazy for having a fake me, but real me likes to think that is a positive sign to have such an active imagination. real me also recognizes that this is a coping mechanism to deal with the fact that life isn't always fair, good things don't always happen to good people, and plans change. also, fake me is the only reason real me still even attempts to run, so she can't be all bad.

to a man

the start of fall is one of the greatest times of year. in my book, it's second only to christmas. the weather is perfect for my wardrobe decisions. i no longer have to worry about planning for the drastic temperature changes that summer heat and office climate control bring and don't yet have to choose my footwear based on the number of inches of snow on the ground. fall is also my birthday season, so people like to spend this time of year giving me things and making plans to hang out with me. perhaps best of all, though, are the sports. lots and lots of sports. they playoffs have started in baseball, football teams are starting to find their identity, and the puck has dropped on college hockey season.

the main side effect of all these sports is an abundance of television watching. i seem to be always watching sports, watching highlights of sports i missed, or watching sports commentary to hear other people break down the sports i have already watched. as you can imagine, there are certain things that i, an unathletic twenty something woman, get annoyed by in the commentary of middle-aged, former athlete men. they overanalyze the slightest things and comment about how great the teams that i hate the most are, but i am usually happy with hearing another point of view or getting to relive a great moment. there is only one thing, though, that will actually make me change the channel or stop watching, and that is when one of these talking heads uses the phrase "to a man."

growing up as a girl in the nineties means i have an odd relationship to feminism. the word feminist has been demonized due to the radical nature of the movement in the seventies. it is assumed that if you are a feminist you hate men, don't wear a bra, refuse to shave, and are likely a lesbian. discrimination against women was so ingrained in our culture in the sixties, that the movement had to go radical to really affect change. unfortunately, it came with the negative fall out. one of the things the movement did was start to change the collective vernacular. you didn't have a mailman, you had a mail carrier. you didn't have a chairman, you had a chairperson.

i've seen some writers try to apply this logic to the phrase "to a man" and use "to a person." it just does not work in this situation. the phrase is used to emphasize truthfulness. "i talked to the coach," the commentators will say, "and, to a man, he said they might not make the playoffs this year." i understand the point that these coaches or commentators are trying to make, that this was a tough statement to hear, but it is probably true. to make that point, though, we have to assume that the truth is too difficult for a woman to hear, so it can only be told to a man. the same point cannot be made by using "to a person." this somehow implies that the truth is too difficult to tell a non-person. i don't know about you, but i've never wanted to shield my goldfish from knowing the full story.

the reason that i love sports is because it transcends the self. i am a red sox fan, along with millions of others. together, we cheer, complain, hope and resign ourselves to the end of another year. as a fan, we get to be a part of the team. i am never going to win the world series, but i can be a part of a group that does. when a sports commentator or coach says "to a man" it automatically alienates me. i am not a man, so does that mean i don't get to be a part of their world? it reenforces the old boys club world of sports where only the athletes or the male fans are included.

as i have gotten older and shed much of the self-consciousness that comes with adolescence, i have realized that there is nothing wrong with being called a feminist. it just means that i believe that men and women should have equal rights and that our society shouldn't do anything to harm that. i know that there are many women's issues that are way more important than this phrase, but it is one of the easiest ways to see that biases still exist. i know that whenever i hear that phrase, i feel slighted. i am not on the "in" crowd. i am not smart enough, popular enough, cool enough, or man enough to know the truth. sure, you might say that i am overreacting to the issue, but i hope you would tell me that to my face and not just to a man.

the case of the missing hammer

Recently, one of my co-workers sent around an email asking if anyone had seen his hammer. It was a simple question, really. He went to use his hammer and could not find it. As I tried to move on with my work day, I could not stop thinking about the email. There it sat, glaring at me like the rest of the emails I had yet to respond to or thoughtfully place in one of my 172 email folders. I couldn’t decide what was worse: that I had 172 email folders, that I knew I had 172 email folders, or that I was contemplating making a new one for this hammer email. A quick check of my office confirmed I did not have the hammer, even though a quick check of my memory would have proved I hadn’t seen a hammer in at least three years. With this conclusion behind me, I set off to figure out what happened to the hammer.

First, I felt bad for the guy. I imagine the poor soul rummaging through his desk looking for the hammer. No one actually has a tool box at work, right? If I needed to keep a hammer, it would be right there in the top drawer of my desk next to my granola bar stash and the Liberace pocket mirror I have on hand in case I smear pen on my face during the day. When he couldn’t find the hammer in his desk, he probably started checking out his typical office haunts. It could be by the printer. Maybe he took it with him when he went to pick up that sign he just printed to remind everyone that they can save paper by not printing things. Or he could have left it in the kitchen when he went to check on the mystery smell someone had told him about earlier. Finally he must have decided the most logical conclusion was, even though he is the admin guy for an office of 99 women and 15 men, one of us must have taken it.

Then, my mystery-loving brain started churning. I ignored the swarm of emails coming in and shoo-ed away the people who were hovering around my office waiting patiently for me to have time to think about their problems instead of my current dilemma. Was it Colonel Mustard in the library with the pipe? Who could have taken the hammer? And, even better, what could they be doing with it? Immediately, I jumped to the obvious. Janet was still angry with Brianne for neglecting to water her plants when Janet took a three week cruise on the Mediterranean. Of course Janet stole the hammer and was hiding in the bathroom until Brianne walked in unsuspectingly. Those plants years of upkeep that Brianne washed down the drain. Janet wasn’t sure what she would do when her enemy walked in, but she knew a hammer would help. All I knew was that I was waiting until I got home to use the bathroom.

Maybe it wasn’t so sinister. If there is one thing that TLC has taught me, it’s that anyone can build a desk with a little MDF (Is that what it’s called?), wood glue and a hammer. Meghan was always complaining about her metal desk. She must have come in early so as to not offend anyone with her project. If she hadn’t returned the hammer yet, she must still be working on the desk. Now that it was 2 pm, I bet she had a slab of wood with three uneven legs on it and realized building things was harder than Paige Davis made it seem. I had no doubt that by now she had glued her shirt sleeve to the floor so she couldn’t respond to the email. I took a lap around the office to see if she needed any help. Meghan was happily typing away as I walked by her office, though, and when I placed my ear up to the bathroom door (no way was I going in!) to see if Brianne needed any back up, I didn’t hear anything.

I returned to my desk to face reality. The co-workers I had tried to ignore were back and waiting. Even more emails had come in, pushing the hammer one down so far that, horrifyingly, I had to scroll to see it. I realized where I needed to file the email. Instead of spending time trying to solve a problem I had no specific knowledge of, other than my Clue-playing and TLC-watching expertise, I could spend my time helping to fix things in my control. While I couldn’t resolve the case of the missing hammer, I could resolve the issues of those asking for my help. People always tell me “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey,” but you know what? Sometimes it really is as simple needing your hammer. I deleted the email.

friday

i glanced around the living room to look at the remnants of my evening. the white bag with the red and white "tasty burger" sat on the area rug next to the coffee table. thirty minutes ago, that bag was crisp and clean, advertising the new burger place a few blocks away from my apartment. fifteen minutes ago, i was hurrying home with the top of the bag scrunched in my hand. the bag moved with me as i dodged traffic and red sox fans, dug through my tote bag to find my keys, propped open the door to the mail room as i unlocked my mail box and collected my mail, and climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment. five minutes ago, i propped the bag on the floor to conveniently catch the wrapper of my gorgonzola hamburger when i was done.

white napkins littered the dark table in front of me. i only use napkins on rare occasions for especially messy meals. this was a rare occasion. the three-quarters full box of onion rings looked more like gray and red than white and red from the grease that had soaked through the cardboard. next to the onion right box sat a white paper cup with plastic lid and straw. the bright pink i saw through the lid was mocking me. there were just two sips of the strawberry milkshake left. i wasn't sure if i could do it or not.

the tv remote, wii remote and a few books lay scattered behind the food. i had ravenously shoved them aside to make room for my dinner. on the other side of the coffee table, my legs were propped up. it was a good thing i changed into my incredibly ugly, unquestionably comfortable capri elastic waist "university of pink" sweatpants before i started eating. as i leaned forward to grab the tv remote--the DVR was asking me if i wanted to save or delete last night's project runway i just finished watching--i realized there were pieces of fried batter perched on my red sox t-shirt.

as i contemplated whether to eat the batter or not, i thought about how i should have gone to the gym this morning. i thought about how i should have gone to the gym after work. i realized neither was going to happen now, so i might as well accept that. i thought about if this was really my life. friday night, home alone while my boyfriend is out with friends, indulging in dinner and reality television.

i thought about how last night it was me who was out with friends. i wore my sparkly shoes. we drank fancy cocktails at a local restaurant. i had duck. they got me a card for my birthday. we were tipsy on alcohol, laughter and life. i came home to a boyfriend expecting me. we watched the end of the movie up on HBO. i sobbed uncontrollably because the movie was so heartwarming.

i thought about how i was absolutely, inexplicably, absurdly, one-hundred percent as happy tonight as i was last night. i wiped the crumbs from my shirt and finished the milkshake.

57

earlier this week, i found myself on the 57 bus from watertown yard to kenmore square. i rode the bus the entire route and was on it for about 50 minutes. i planned poorly for my bus trip and, after moving closer to the heart of the city last year, i am out of practice on long public transportation trips. i forgot my ipod and i am in between books. i rarely pick up one of the free newspapers because all of my trips are too short to get any good reading done. the bus wasn't crowded and there wasn't much traffic, but it wasn't long before i found myself getting annoyed with the people on the bus.

there was the 50-something man who got on at oak square with his two sons and a random lady. the father was trying to talk to an older asain man about his t-shirt, but the asain man could clearly not speak english. instead of just leaving him be, the father sat next to him and tried to explain in hand gestures what he was trying to say. the teenage son was flirting with the random lady they got on the bus with and the 12 year old son was hanging off of the hand railing.

after that, the stops became more frequent. we picked up the nurse on her way home from work at the hospital who was on her phone; the teenager who smelled of spray paint and carried paint cans; and two best friends--one wearing a tiara and a "twenty-one" sash and the other documenting every moment of it.

the bus started to fill up, especially in the front while i watched from the back of the bus. i was annoyed at the woman on her phone (can't it wait?) and the kid sitting in front of me who smelled like paint (what a punk!) and the girls celebrating a birthday (really? on a wednesday?!)

then, at harvard ave., a new mom, with stroller and child in tow, along with her friend, got on the bus. an older man who was sitting at the front of the bus got out of his seat and folded it up so there was room for the stroller and the mom to sit out of the way. the man then had to stand since he gave up his seat so the stroller could be out of the way. i started to get annoyed at everyone else, too, for not letting the poor guy sit down.

at the same time, though, i started to think how nice it was. this man, who i would place in his late 60s, gave up his seat for a healthy younger woman because she had a baby and his seat was the easiest place for them to be. you don't find many people like that, i thought to myself. and you know why? because everyone is too busy being annoyed with cell phones and punk kids and drunk students.

i realized that all the annoyances of the bus are actually what make it so great. here i am, a 20-something working gal, sharing space with people who i have nothing in common with other than proximity of destination. the annoying woman with the cell phone? she could have saved a life today. the punk kid with the spray paint? i decided he was on his way to art class instead of on his way to deface public property. and the mother? she just had a baby! these were amazing, interesting people. and for a short while, we were all headed on the same journey together.

i probably have very little in common with an elderly man riding the 57, but for 20 minutes, our lives crossed paths. really, it was just a smaller version of what is happening in life all the time. people get on and get off. if we are going to the same place, we might spend more time together, but if the drunk college girls want to go to the bar and i want to go home and go to bed, that is fine. we both move on. i can't control the people getting on and off the bus, all i can control is my attitude toward them. i can turn a crappy bus ride into an interesting and heart-warming one. i can turn a bad situation into a good one.