Judgement at its Finest

In what strand of our DNA are we programmed to judge others? What is the root cause of the reason we criticize anything? We are all guilty. Some of us try to repress our judgement to appear more politically correct, others not so much. Aside from each individual's level of containment, we all have one thing in common; we are judgmental.

On my walk back to work from being on break this afternoon, I walked passed a lesbian couple holding hands and admiring a wedding dress in the window of a store. They were young, happy and obviously completely in love with each other. They were standing close together, holding hands - a big puddle of lesbian love, really. It melted my heart. The scene made me forget all about the sudden urge to throw frozen poultry and made me smile all in the same three seconds. Still smiling like an idiot, I continued walking. I was still so wrapped up in the scene I just witnessed that I nearly missed another bundle of cuteness. A young couple with a baby - dressed up for Halloween and probably no older than about 6 months old - walked passed me. I was caught off guard when I saw the mom's head flip around Exorcist-style when she noticed the canoodling couple. As her head resumed normal placement on her neck, please explain to me the reason why her eyebrows were knitted together and why her face looked like she just came from a bloody emergency room scene. What in the hell did it matter to her? Were the lesbians bothering her?

So this brings me back to my initial inquiry: why on earth are we so judgmental? Who are we to say that same-sex relationships are unacceptable? Who's to say that one day heterosexual relationships won't be of the minority? How can people be close-minded enough to reject an entire lifestyle? 

In the spirit of honest blogging, I will say this - I was born and raised in the Christian church, knowing nothing else but what I learned in Sunday school. We learned that premarital sex and homosexuality and adultery are all sins. I accepted this as gospel (pun absolutely intended), and didn't give it so much as an afterthought. That is pretty irresponsible if you ask me. I understood that as a Christian, I was supposed to harbor these beliefs as my own, but my comprehension stopped there. I walked around with my nose up at people that were gay or lesbian, believing that their lifestyle was completely wrong and that they were bad people for not trying to be "un-gay". I understand now that those viewpoints are narrow-minded, wrong and irresponsible.

I still call myself a Christian. I believe and accept as truth that these things are sins, that God made Adam and Eve as a representation of how a relationship is intended to be. But I also believe in free will. Each one of us were given the right to love whomever we choose, regardless of ethnicity or gender. Love sees no bounds, and it is our choice to live as we will. I'm glad I've come to this realization, but it's hard to accept more narrow-minded thinking now. That was my case. I judged because of something I unconditionally bought into. There are millions of other reasons. Jealousy. Arrogance. Ignorance.

All that to say it makes me so sad that people can't just accept that there are circumstances different than their own. This is no different from the racial equality issues from the 1960's. The overt suppression the African American population suffered during the Civil Rights Era was crushing. The oppression that gays are facing today can be likened to that of the 1960's. And their fight is certainly not over. Look at how long it took for the majority of our nation to accept that black people are not a lesser people. Sure, gays have had wins sporadically since the '50's:

1951: The first national gay rights organization is formed by Harry Hay, considered today to be the founder of the gay rights movement.

1973: The American Psychiatric Association takes homosexuality off of the list of mental disorders.

1993: "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" was instituted for the US military, banning homosexual activity from the military, but still allowing gays to serve.

2000: Vermont is officially the first state to recognize civil unions - entitling gay couples to everything straight, married couples are entitled to, short of the title. (Kind of a slap in the face, no?)

2007: House of Representatives institute a law keeping employers from discriminating against gays in the workplace.

2008: Supreme Court of California decides that gay couples have the right to marry (May). 

2010: California judge repeals the ban on Prop 8, and reinstates the rights for gay couples to marry.

These are all wonderful things, but with each advance in the movement for equality for gays and lesbians comes with its setbacks as well. After the passing of most of the pieces of legislation came strong political and social upheaval. President Clinton attempted to overturn the prohibition of gays in the military after the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" legislation was implemented. This attempt was met with strong opposition, and was compromised by discharge of thousands of openly gay men and women. In May 2008, the Supreme Court of California ruled that same-sex couples had a constitutional right to marry. Six short months and 18,000 married couples later, voters approved a ban on Proposition 8, forbidding any further marriages of same-sex couples. Jerry Brown, the Attorney General, asked the Supreme Court of California to reconsider the constitutionality of the ban. Luckily, the new marriages were honored, but the ban was upheld.

Unfortunately, laws can only do so much. They can't stop people from thinking or feeling a certain way. That will always be the case, regardless of the issue. Close-mindedness and ignorance are diseases. Isn't it so easy to judge? Why is it so much harder to reject brash judgement and accept things that are different? I guess that's the ugly truth though, isn't it? Kind of a beautiful disaster. We all bring to the collective table diversity and wholeness, but with diversity comes its ugly cousin adversity. It doesn't have to, but I think that's the reality of things. 

So rock on, wedding dress gazers. And screw you, stupid woman with the baby. Wipe that nasty look off your face, and stop being jealous of the two chicks in love. Hopefully one day you'll remember what that feels like. Oh also, go ahead and drive home in that BMW SUV you've got, find your calendar, flip it closed and let me know what year it reads on the front. If it doesn't say 2010, it is beyond time to clean your house. But if it does, my baby-toting friend, realize that you own a laminated book of pictures and dates that is infinitely more wise than you.

My Two Cents

I am going to be bold and assert that most people, at one time or another in their lives, have had issues with body image. Comparing ourselves to others and the images society portrays as "perfection" can be wearing. Airbrushed models on the covers of magazines, on billboards and commercials bombard us with pictures of  beautiful men and women equipped with bodies to envy. The average measurements for a model are 34-24-34 (bust-waist-hips), with a height range of 5'9"-5'11". Very rarely is this body found on the "average" person, so why are we so inclined to compare ourselves with this standard? And what exactly is "average" anyway? What is healthy?

Since we're talking measurements, I'll throw mine out there; I am just under 6'0", with measurements at 35-30-36 with a weight of 160. I am healthily proportioned, and for the first time in my life, proud and happy with how my body looks and feels. It's not always been that way though. Like I said in a previous post, I never hated myself for how I looked, but was never thrilled either. I wanted to be pretty like one of those unattainably beautiful models. It took me a very long time to understand that the girls I saw in magazines are built much differently than I am, and their bodies will never be mine. A rough realization, yes, but a necessary and healthy one anyway. No matter how upset I was about how my body looked, the truth remained that I longed after an untrue image of perfection. How many people out there take that one step further? We so desire acceptance - both outward and inward - some of us will stop at nothing to achieve such results.  Eating disorders are developed. Positive body image and self-esteem are destroyed. 

Puberty is a critical time in a person's life. A teenager's body is going through unequivocal amounts of change, and during this time, they are desperately sleuthing for acceptance. Some of us grew three inches over one summer, some kept the baby fat until after graduation. Girls may want to be thinner or have bigger boobs, some dudes think their muscles need to be bigger. Our bodies change at such different rates, so it's unfair to compare one to another. But it happens as we become cognizant of how we look, and how we want to look in comparison. Luckily, some of us take this comparison with a grain of salt and grow out of the "I Want to Look Like That Stage", some are not so lucky. 

I knew girls that I was on sports teams with that had eating disorders. It was incredibly sad to watch. I would watch "just five pounds" turn into fifteen with a benign comment from a coach about how their performance had improved. Or how they would get noticed by more boys as they dropped more weight. Sometimes they would eat hardly anything at all, sometimes they would vomit their meals up so it was harder for others to catch on. In other cases still, "skinny" and "thin" would never be enough. They would still see impossible amounts of fat on their bodies and be desperate for it to vanish. How sad for these beautiful girls.

For those that aren't aware, there are several types of eating disorders. Anorexia and bulimia are the two major ones. Anorexia is the primary eating disorder associated with food restriction and self-starvation. It is characterized by an intense fear of gaining weight or becoming overweight and refusal to maintain body weight at or above a minimally normal weight for age and height. Bulimia is an eating disorder where the sufferer will binge eat, then forcibly vomit in order to not absorb the calories ingested. It is characterized by eating a large amount of food in a short amount of time, typically in times of emotional distress or depression. 

On the opposite end of the spectrum, I think it is equally as maddening to see the acceptance of obesity in this country. How is it any more acceptable for people to be walking around fifty pounds overweight, than a woman starving herself to feel accepted, or for a guy to be taking steroids to look more muscular? I'm all for acceptance, and loving who you are in your own skin, but how is society so skewed in what we view to be healthy? How did we get this way? 

Society is so fast these days - it is acceptable to eat fast food multiple times throughout the course of a week. We hardly get any exercise. As a society, we are pushed to work sometimes more than forty hours in a week to make ends meet for ourselves and our families. We are tired, so a sedentary lifestyle takes precedence over an active one. But how, pray-tell, is this accepted as an excuse? How is it okay that reports from The CDC (Centers for Disease Control) read that more than 60% of adults are overweight, with one in three people being obese? Child obesity is a growing epidemic. Over the last 20 years, statistics have shown that the number of obese children has tripled in the last 20 years. These children are more susceptible to Type-II diabetes. Heart disease, bone and joint deterioration, sleep apnea, and depression are just a few side effects of obesity. Wouldn't it be much easier to take care of oneself before it resulted in one of those things? Instead of having to undergo a triple bypass operation because of a couple clogged tubes, can't we take 30 minutes and walk? Or run? Or hoola-hoop? I guess priorities will always reign, but let's examine ours. 

A personal interjection: 

The 35 pounds that I have dropped has raised questions of concern for people closest to me. I understand why. I look a lot different than I did before my weight-loss venture. I have definition in my cheeks, I have a definitive jawline, my waist is more visible, I have way more visible muscle tone than I ever have. While I appreciate the concern for my health, I have been assuring and reassuring that I am doing nothing to cheat my body of health. No part of me wants to deal with those repercussions. I think it is unfortunate that we automatically jump to conclusions that drastic weight loss must be associated with something negative like weight-loss pills or illness or imbalanced eating habits/unhealthy mindset. It absolutely does not have to be this way, but that's the direction society has chosen to take us. Down the easy road, isn't that right? Whatever the quickest fix is, let me at it. 

My hope is this for the people in my life: that they'll care enough about themselves now to stick around for later. Let's not allow the busyness of our lives be an excuse for an unhealthy today. Let's also understand the importance of the need for balance in our lives, and not allowing society to make any sort of decisions for us, but making mindful decisions for ourselves. Have the motivation enough to put down that remote and bag of chips and make smart and healthy decisions. Regain control of your life, let no one tell you, subliminally or outright, what is healthy. Preserve your body, it's the only one you have!

Dear Girlfriend

Dear civilian girlfriend/fiancé/wife,
I mean no disrespect by this letter, I'm just having a hard day and want to bitch. I'm jealous and bitter at the fact that you get to spend every minute with your man if you want to. I hate looking over and seeing you two in the grocery store arguing over getting boneless or bone-in chicken for dinner. I also hate seeing you two cuddling in the movie theater. Don't even get me started on you complaining that it's "been two days since I've seen him". Do you know how long it's been since I've even been in the same country as my boyfriend? I'll oblige you by telling you the truth. It's been nine months. Almost a year since I've kissed him. Seen his eyes. Held his hand. Smelled his stinky morning breath. Gotten cranky over mundane household duties. Seeing you two in the grocery store arguing over poultry makes me want to throw it at you two. Get a room.

I recognize my free-will in the choices that I make in all aspects of my life. I have chosen to enter into a relationship with someone in the military, and that requires of me some different things than you are accustomed to in your relationship. I have chosen to stay with my boyfriend even though he has been forthright in telling me that he will be overseas for three years. I was not tricked into this long-term, long-distance relationship. I know exactly what I have gotten myself into, and also what is expected of me. I don't think any of these expectations are unrealistic, as this is the "norm" I have chosen to accept as a military girlfriend. With this as my new standard of "normal", I have also come to terms with the sacrifices that need to be made, and equipped with the knowledge that even though there are thousands upon thousands of miles between us, we are never separate. And I also realize that it's hard to understand and empathize with how I'm feeling today, because you don't know what this situation is like.

But please, do me a favor, and make the absolute most out of everything when you're with him. Appreciate the mundane. The bickering over chicken. I miss that. I miss stinky morning breath. Tell him you love him like you won't see him tomorrow. Make him sweets and lasagna and steak and pie for no reason. And boys, buy her flowers and a card because you think she's cute when she's in her sweats. Even when you fight, take a minute to think about all the reasons you love that person, and tell them. Savor those smooches. Count and name all their smiles - you know, the one where they know you think you're being funny, but that joke you told was really stupid. And the one where you burned dinner and you're all upset, but it's okay because you can order pizza. I miss driving with him, hearing him sing in silly voices. Feeling rushed because I know I'm making us late by changing my outfit 34 times, knowing that we're just going to the movies. Take note of these things and put into perspective how important the small things are.

We'll get our time to be the annoying grocery store couple. It's a long way off, but we'll be deserving of it. But take this letter not in offense, but as a porthole into my life. I am indeed a military girlfriend, and a proud wearer of that title. It's the hardest job I've ever had, but by far the most rewarding. And when I write you angry letters like this or throw frozen food at you and your dude, know that under that awesomely strong pitch is a girl that misses her man, who longs for you to understand the importance of appreciating your significant other.

Get off the computer and go hug, text, smooch, or snuggle your honey. And think of me. Well, maybe not. That's a smidge creepy. But think about what I said at least, and whisper a little encouragement and love to us military gals. At one point or another, we're all gunna need it. :)

You rock for putting up with my grumpiness, and thanks for reading.

Love,
Jen
Your Local (or not so much) Military GF

I love me!

My day consisted of a cardio workout, homemade jalapeño turkey burgers and zucchini, and an epic trip to Barnes & Noble. Epic only because I was there for three hours. Who does that? I do, and proudly, bitches. This post is going to consist of me tooting my own horn, largely because I deserve it. I've done a lot of growing up in the last 8 months, and I am going to publicly pat myself on the back. If that's obnoxious to you, I'm sure you know how to close the browser. And maybe after doing so, you can figure out how important it is to recognize yourself in your accomplishments. Self-recognition in moderation is not synonymous with arrogance, mind you. But if you can appreciate my need to publicly praise my fantastic and motivated self, then read on, fearless readers, read on.

Let's start with July of 2009 for some back-story. My wonderful boyfriend had just come home from a six month deployment. It was a rough one - we weren't together for the majority of it because I was with someone else, but still "talking" to him. I lied, I was selfish, and I put him through the ringer, to make a long and hurtful story short. But we wound up together and that's what counts. For the first time in the 2 years we had been friends, we finally finally got to be together. It was absolute bliss. Our love was unrequited for as long as we knew each other, but finally, we were allowed to publicly be Jen and Brian. A few weeks into our fabulous coupledom, he informed me that he'd be leaving again soon. I thought, "Sure! Okay, another six months? No problem!" Laughable, really. When he told me how long he'd be gone, I was crushed. He was obviously terrified to tell me, afraid I'd leave. But I was helplessly in love with him. His mere physical absence was more the lesser of the two evils - my other option was cutting him out of my life completely. Too quickly, dates materialized. It was getting real now.

With January 6th quickly approaching, I had to prep myself for one of the hardest days I had to ever face. My boyfriend/best friend was set to leave for school to train for his new job in the Marines. I had accepted that he was going to be gone for a total of three years - the majority of which we would not be together. Again, I loved him too much to let this God-forsaken separation come between us. How do you get ready to kiss them for the last time? How do you tell yourself that this your new "normal"? Well, January 6th came. I cried. It was messy. But you know? I'm alive. Our relationship is stronger than I ever thought it had the capacity to be. We've got 2 1/2 years left of this thing, but we're doing well, and I have faith in our bond.

Here's where I start tooting my horn. I really thought I was going to be an inconsolable mess for weeks after he left. There were a couple horrible days following his leaving, and those still pop up every once in a while. But guess what! I'm a normal, functioning, non-blubbering woman for the majority of the time. It was hard as hell though to not turn into this horribly bitter hag once he left, however. That's not to say that I haven't had those hag-days too. But I've harnessed this inner hag, thank you very kindly. She's tucked away, satiated with the knowledge that three years isn't forever, and that even though the distance that separates Brian and I is very real, it can be cultivated into something strong and wonderful. Suck it, miles.

So what to do with all this spare time? Not sit at home, that's for DAMN sure. Idleness breeds negativity. No thank you, I need no help with that. What better activity to become obsessed with than going to the gym? I had no preconceived intentions of going to the gym or loosing weight, but I went one day right after he left and I was hooked like a bass on a weighted and baited line. I quickly lost 10 pounds, which upped my motivation levels. Altogether, I've lost 35 pounds. I eat better, I feel better, I look better. It's a great time suck, too; working out keeps me busy, and it's productive. 

Then there are the small personal victories that I never thought about wanting to change. I started saving money for the first time in my 24 years of existence. This actually is not a small feat. I have never had the willpower or drive enough to do it. But now I do, and I was able to save enough to go halfies for my plane fare to visit Brian in Switzerland.

I also stopped biting my nails. Gross habit that I've had my whole life. But I wanted my nails to look good for my visit. Now they all have white tips and make that cool "tink tink" noise when I type or tap my fingers against the table. Pretty nails, for the win!

Yeah, being away from the love of my life is hard. But you know, while the love I have for that boy is unyielding, I'm finding that I love myself too, and that is of utmost importance. I was never one of those self-loathing youths, but I never put self-care at the top of my priority list either. It is now. I realize now, too, that no one is going to have to the know-how to love you like you need to be loved like you. Read that impossible sentence again if necessary, friend. It was a poorly constructed one, but it's late and I have not the patience to restructure it. Anyway, suffice it to say that if I love me, I can better love him.

I've never been so proud of myself for accomplishing as much as I have. I'm a strong woman, and I am not merely surviving and trudging through what I have to in order to get what I want in the long term, but I'm actually thriving. I'm lucky that I know what it is that I want, and that I have the goals and the drive and also a wonderfully supportive partner to help me achieve them. No proverbial earthquake or tidal wave or hurricane can shake this broad. My foundation is becoming solid, and I'm proud as hell of myself for withstanding and prevailing over the things I have thus far. 

Thank you for listening to my shameless and prideful rant. I am now finished, and thoroughly exhausted. Horn-tooting is serious business, and wears one thin. I must refuel. Goodnight, rant-readers.

Band Geekery

From the time I was in fifth grade until the time I graduated high school, I played the clarinet. I had wanted to play the flute originally because that's what all sensible and cute 10-year-old girls wanted to play, but there was an overflow of cuteness, so I got demoted to clarinet. Whatever, I had the foresight enough to see the jokes that would forever plague flute players after the debut of American Pie. I digress.

Many, many fond memories, and even more memorable friendships stemmed from my tenure in band. Fifth grade was the first year band was offered as an elective. Most kids stuck with it at least their first year into middle school, some even into their seventh grade year. I committed my seventh and eighth grade years to band because, duh, the annual Concert in the Parks festival was held at Disneyland and who the heck was I to miss that?! Then freshman year came rolling around, and I decided that I was now too cool for band. Especially since "band" in high school meant having the word "marching" sewn to it. Hell to the no, Cool Jen thought. But then I found myself missing it and missing all the people I knew from middle school because their schedules were all filled with cool stuff like trips to Canada and New York and San Diego. You're not so cool now, Jen, are ya?

So sophomore year comes rolling around. I jump at the chance to join. I was one of about 20 clarinet players, and 100 other band members. Talk about intimidating. I quickly knew what Dorothy meant in the Wizard of Oz when she muttered to ToTo, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore". What a far cry high school marching band was to the days of middle school concert band. In middle school, all we were held accountable for was preparing for "playing tests", held once a quarter, required to show the teacher that we were capable of having a single sheet of music well-enough practiced to perform in front of the class. Oh yeah, and to show up to concerts twice a year. Up the intensity about twenty-fold and throw in a bunch of other uncoordinated teenagers marching around the field, honking their instruments and that's what high school marching band was like.

To be fair, that's not entirely true. Sure, band camp started in the beginning of August, when the remainder of the population of the school was relishing in the fact that they still had nothing to do with school for another three weeks almost. We had to have memorized four pieces of music by the time band camp started so that we could concentrate on learning drill (our respective points on the field which changed literally 15 times in the course of each 3 minute song). There were times where our instructors (music and drill and our primary teacher alike) were so frustrated with us, I'd be surprised to know if they didn't want to throw their shoes at our heads. Or where we wanted to quit on the spot. But just like anything, there were tons of memorable moments that made all of the hard stuff worth it.

There was something about the competitions that got everyone amped up. You could almost taste the excitement in the air as we changed into our awesome purple and gold sequenced uniforms. Or was that the Aqua-Net that the band moms shellacked the girls' hair with? I'll never know. But getting ready to march onto that field, after all of the work we put into our music and our marching technique, was something to savor.

I remember the last show of my senior year like it was yesterday. Our band director (Mr. Grantham) was phenomenal. We had gone through four directors in the four years I was in high school, but Mr. G really was fantastic. He was young, hip and funny and we all loved him. Most importantly, we respected him. We were in San Diego for championships, and Mr. G pulled aside all the seniors the night before the show. He wanted to tell us how much we meant to him as the first class to graduate in his first year at Amador, and we all echoed his sentiments. He pulled us together, and helped us set an example for the underclassmen. We all had him to thank.

As we took the field, my stomach was in knots. I thought I was going to be sick or cry. Or maybe both. The stands were packed with family members of students from every school in attendance, all donning their band kids' school colors. I don't remember much about the show itself, other than the transition coming into the very last drill movement. In 16 quick counts, we had to march and play our music across approximately 20 yards of field, and end in a perfect arch, right on the home-side sideline. When we got there, we had this move where we had to raise our instruments up to the announcer's box and hold for four counts or something. This is not a move very accurately executed. And when it was well and accurately executed, it certainly was not often. But guess what? That night we nailed it. All I remember is the look on Mr. G's face as he leapt out of his seat, absolutely beaming with pride for us kids. Tears rose to blur my vision, and a smile so consumed my face that my ability to play my clarinet was completely withdrawn. And he wasn't the only one. Kids from other schools' bands were on their feet cheering for us too, having attended competitions at various stages in the marching season and also having seen the progress we'd made. Our parents were on their feet. Instructors. It was a flipping proud moment.

All this to say that I heard my band practicing tonight. It made me proud to continue to admit that I am a band geek. In about ten-seconds' time, seven years of wonderful (yet proudly geeked-out) band kid memories came back to me. I just hope I served these memories well. They really are worth their weight in sequined purple and gold.

Emotional Stretchy Pants

The tone of this blog is going to be drastically different, and I'm scared to be this public about the change. It's easy to publicly announce positivity, right, because it's nice to report nice, good and happy things. But life isn't always nice, good or happy. There are going to be times of sadness, hurt and frustration. And this is sort of what this blog is going to be about.

I'm not going to apologize for how I feel. I was going to - I literally had "I am sorry for the change of pace" typed. Then I felt like an idiot for offering up such condolences. Wasn't I the one a couple blogs ago saying how great it is that we have an entire section of our brains dedicated to processing emotion? Know it. Feel it. Appreciate it. Alright, so I'm not sorry for being sad or showing it by crying. There, it's out there in the universe. 

I watched a chick flick and it made me sad. The interactions between the guy and girl characters very much reminded me of how my Swiss and I are together. The looks, touches, kisses, hand-holding, the playful verbal teasing. Everything. It made very real the fact that on a day-to-day basis, we don't get that. It's safe to say that I was wildly jealous (yes, of the freaking movie couple), which sent me into a lovely spiral of missing my man. And not just a twinge of the "I miss him" blues, but we are talking full-blown pouty lip and inward brooding. Not cute. And let's get this straight, people. This is not the first time that I've watched a chick flick since he's been gone. It's my favorite movie genre. I love sappy love-confessions. Normally, I can handle all of this. Normally, being the operative.

The movie ended happily (the assholes). I went to my room, still sulking and pouting. Talking to my friend Anna, I could not quite pinpoint the reason I was having such difficulty keeping it together, besides writing it off as me just missing Swiss. I told Anna that I felt like breaking down and crying, but that I didn't want to. Note: I absolutely hate, abhor, detest (etc, etc) crying. It makes me feel weak. People, this is not to be mistaken for me generally saying that crying makes you weak. It makes me, as an individual, feel weak. For the most part, I don't do it unless I have to. Perplexed, I wondered why I felt so strongly against letting my guard down and just allowing myself to cry. 

Allowing myself to cry is like admitting to myself that he really is gone. Have I really allowed myself to feel his absence?

I mean, yes, it's clearly obvious that he isn't physically here. I realize this. I was with his mom and sister the day we took he and his brother to the airport in January. Then I said goodbye to him again in February after my surprise visit out to Virginia to see him. There is evidence abound to show that he is far away, besides the obvious fact that I just plain don't see him everyday. I hope it's not just me being crazy, but many a time in my life has there been an occasion where in my head I know something, but my heart isn't on the same page. 

My heart realized tonight that its other half is across the Atlantic Ocean, and that made me cry. Hard. It made me feel impossibly alone. I felt insanely weak, and even admitting that to the universe makes me cringe. I want to feel nothing but happiness and productivity and pride for myself being able to get through the time apart. Crying to me, I realized, was something of an admission. If I cried, I would admit to myself that he really is gone, that I really am alone and vulnerable. Press the fast forward button if you like, and you'll find me still shedding tears. It continued for a while, I'm going to be honest. It really, deeply hurts missing someone you love. It's honestly as simple as that; what else is there to say about it? 

I think I need to start following my own advice. If I'm sad, I need to buck up and just feel it. So what if I am sad? He's gone. Cry, then let the sadness pass and move on. Tears are not scary. What's scary is the fact that in the last eight months we have been apart, these feelings have been suppressed and untapped. 

And also, this just popped into my head: a million times I have seen the quote "Treat yourself as well as you would your best friends". Do I do that? Hell no. I am far more understanding, empathetic and patient listening to their black clouds than I am my own. Now is the time that I learn how to treat myself like my own best friend. I need to put on my emotional stretchy pants and get ready for things other than happy, sunny and pretty. 

Worrisome Woman?

I just got off the phone with the director of the esthetician school I'm going to be attending. We were talking about financial aid options and all of that grown-up nonsense, and it looks like I will be able to take out a Stafford Loan for $6,300. That is fantastic, but that leaves a balance of $1,100. Aw, shit.

How am I going to come up with that kind of money? Also, they determine your need for federal grants by looking at last year's income. Too bad I made way more money last year than ever before. This means that I do not qualify at all for federal aid of any kind.

I have my heart set on esthetician school. Skin care is my gig. Well, really, it's my dream. Growing up, I never had any sort of relationship with makeup or skincare unless my face was an absolute teenage disaster (which was often). If my face was set on wreaking havoc on my overly-sensitive ego, I'd wash my face with Irish Spring until it squeaked, or used copious amounts of my mom's liquid foundation to try and hide said disaster. But really, it was a complete "accident" that I got into the beauty industry in the first place. I was 21, living in San Diego and desperately looking for a job. Near my apartment, there was a newly-opened beauty boutique that had a "Now Hiring" sign out front. I went inside and asked if the position(s) had been filled. Fast forward to a couple weeks later. I interviewed, and a week after that, I was offered a part-time position selling and educating customers on everything beauty. I was terrified. But I'm a quick learner, and I did really well. I found myself taking home literature on everything I could get my hands on, especially skincare. Also, there was an esthetician who offered facial and waxing services at the boutique. I would pick her brain about ingredients and products, makeup application technique, all that. I was fascinated. Totally and completely hooked. It's been three years, and even though it is a hard industry to stomach sometimes (the bureaucracy, most specifically), it is totally rewarding.

I was promoted quickly to assistant manager of the store. It was a great experience, but being family owned, it didn't pay much. I think I got a quarter for my promotion. Anyway, one of the girls I had worked with at the  boutique had worked for Nordstrom and loved it, so she suggested I find out if I might find work there too. I applied, interviewed and got the job. I was there for a year and a half before moving back home. I absolutely LOVED the counter I was assigned to. I worked with medical grade skin care, learned to operate this machine that takes pictures of the lower levels of your skin to detect sun damage. I got to meet so many different people, some from the industry, some clients. But this job gave me the opportunity to listen to customer's concerns (skin and otherwise), and help them fix whatever they needed help with fixing. I worked with many, many talented makeup artists, and learned tons about color.

My passion for skincare and the cosmetics industry is unyielding. I am certain this is what I want to do with my life, professionally. I'm just nervous that something like not being able to afford tuition is going to get in my way. But I can't let worry stop me from my dream, can I? Worrying does nothing except for instill fear into your brain. I don't really want that to happen, I just want to start doing facials and waxing cooches and eyebrows.

I found something to bring me down from my worry cloud, however. Every morning, I get a daily quote emailed to me. This one was delivered to my inbox a couple months ago, and I thought it applicable to my life enough to save it. It just so happens that it popped into my head after I got off the phone with the school's director.

"Worry is a spiritual short sight. Its cure is intelligent faith."

Having "intelligent faith" isn't about believing or following any certain deity or religion. It's about having the knowledge and faith enough in life, love and yourself to know that if it's supposed to, things will work out. If you do your part to achieve your dreams, there is no use to worry about what tomorrow might bring. That's out of your control. Live up to the potential you were given, and the rest, leave up to fate. Or destiny. Or God. Or whatever. I don't find it easy at all, this having faith thing. But I know that it does take practice, so practice I shall.

I'm sitting in the most comfortable russet-colored leather chair. The television is turned on, but at an inaudible volume. I couldn't even tell you what is on. It is so quiet, the only sounds I hear is the clock on the wall ticking, my fingers fluttering over the keyboard, and the occasional house noise. I'm aware of my comfortable, relaxed breathing. And each time I inhale, I am reminded that there is a fresh mug of spiced orange tea sitting within arm's reach. When I take a sip, I can feel the warmth of the tea-heated ceramic on my lips. I'm unfamiliar with this type of solitude, but I welcome it. 

This is a place where I'm practicing the art of painful honesty, right? So hear this: my whole life, I have actually been pretty afraid of being alone. Up until very recently, I've considered my craving constant company just part of my personality. And it can be healthy in moderation. It is one thing to enjoy the presence of people while you're out, but another thing entirely to be sad and upset and lonely when there is an absence of such company. I love to people watch. To absorb energies of others. To observe body language. I realize now, this was something of an escape, an activity where I do not have to think about anything if I don't want to. Somewhere I can put on a happy face and be independent of stressors. But since my new-found affinity for my hippy-drippy reading material, I am beginning to learn to appreciate this noisy type of quiet.

After years of developing and perfecting my people-watching skills, my self-watching skills have very much started to resemble a prune. I never took the time to notice my breathing before. Or the way my second toe crosses over onto my big toe when I set cross-legged. How hot tea feels as its making its way down my esophagus.

What a perfect time to get to know myself on this level though. I'm away from the person I love more desperately than I ever knew I was capable, which is hard, yes. It makes me feel weaker than I ever care to admit publicly, but it gives me time, as a 24 year-old-woman to get to know myself as an individual. I want to bring to the table as much vibrancy, love, and je ne sais quois to the lives of the people that matter to me as I can. But how am I to bring any of that if I don't know what that looks like in me? It's time figure the answer to that question out. It's going to take time, patience and a whole lot of willingness to get to know myself. 

Bottom line: I'm excited to get to know me. I hardcore dislike being without my other half..but really, I'm gaining another other half. And that other half is pretty important.

WWWDWFB?

Yes, I am resorting to long-winded acronyms for the title of my blog. But I will pay you if you can figure out what it stands for. Well, that's actually a lie. But I am willing to dole out more than my share of cool points, replacing the awesomeness of any monetary gain. Pinky promise.


So tonight, my fine Interweb specimen, hear this. I am about to write a blog connecting the worlds of internet networking and meditation. No need to reread, my lovelies, you read right the first time. Tonight, meditation and Facebook are joined in coupledom. At least on the Swiss Cheese Channel.


Friday evening, I found myself wandering the myriad rows of books at Barnes & Noble. Again. I swear those people get sick of seeing me. If not now, very, very soon. Anyhow, I love reading the titles, seeing the colors on the spines of the books. I even like to feel a cover or two of a nicely textured binding. I know, I know. Don't judge me. Keeping  focus now..I stop in the Self-Improvement section, perusing titles, half-paying attention. Then I read the spine of this one. Nothing about it was dazzling; the typeface was vanilla. Nothing about the colors were exciting. But for whatever reason I read the title, and that's what made me slide the book out of its designated resting spot. It was called "Wherever You Go There You Are". Interesting concept if you think about it, no? So I opened the cover and read a few lines of the jacket. The more I read, the more I liked. "You, my little paperbacked friend, are coming home with me" I thought. And so it did.


(Don't fret, I will extinguish any hunger for the book's contents momentarily.)


During my Facebook travels this evening, I stumbled across a friend's status that read:

"there is a dull pain in my heart tonight....and its ok that its there. I'm just being with it."

My new paperbacked friend and I aren't very well acquainted yet, but the chapter I did read was on this topic exactly. My proverbial jaw dropped. After I cleaned up the "slobber" that was created by said jaw drop, I thought about the connection between what I read and my friend's status. In the intro of the book, the author (I feel very relaxed reading his writing, so I'm going to call him Jon) talks about themes of the book, the most prevalent being "mindfulness".


I'm a word nerd, so I took an immediate liking to this one. It just sounds peaceful. Being a major ideal in Buddhism, it would make sense to carry such a connotation. Jon says this about "mindfulness":

"Mindfulness is an ancient Buddhist practice which has profound relevance for our present-day lives. This relevance has nothing to do with Buddhism per se or with becoming a Buddhist, but it has everything to do with waking up and living in harmony with oneself and with the world. It has to do with examining who we are, with questioning our view of the world and our place in it, and with cultivating some appreciation for the fullness of each moment we are alive." 

I had to commend my friend for her recognition and appreciation of the pain she was referring to. Just "being" with that sort of feeling isn't easy. Pain obviously isn't a pleasant thing to chill with; oftentimes we wish time would speed up so we can be healed of whatever is ailing us. Sit with it. Welcome it. Understand it. In doing this, we sit with ourselves. We understand ourselves that much more intimately. Additionally, built into everyone's brain is something called the limbic system. This is the area specifically responsible for emotion. Consider that for a second. A whole blasted section of our brain is dedicated to the decoding and recognition of emotion. Don't waste it. Cultivate it.

I feel challenged. Having read and reflected on all that was just discussed, I have to share the depth of my experience. It truly was eye-opening, friends. Sipping on my chai latte*, sitting cross-legged on my floor in my comfy sweats, listening to nothing by my fingers move across the keyboard and the soft hum of the computer fan, I become aware of my thoughts, my feelings. I'm at peace. I'm powerful. I have the capacity to understand hurt, anger, elation, and everything else in between. Not only do I have the ability to understand these things, but now I know to stop and appreciate them too. Savor them. Carpe diem, bitches.


End hippy-dippy-cheese-wizz. 


Did you figure out the acronym in the title? I'll tell ya. What Would We Do Without Facebook? That's what it stands for. 

As always, thanks for reading. JenP, out. 


*A little bit of refreshing and random knowledge here..my friend Anna is Latvian (a Russian-speaking country), and she taught me this evening that saying "chai tea" is redundant, because in Russian, "chai" means..what's this? Tea. HA! So I will no longer be ordering a "chai tea latte" because who drinks a tea tea latte? Not this chick. I drink chaiiiiiii lattes. Indeed.

I just finished "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert. To be truthful, my awareness of the book's existence was, well, non-exisitent before I saw the movie. But I love me some Julia Roberts, so I decided to make an evening of it. I texted my best friend, Becky and her sis, Meghan, and off we went. 

Julia Roberts, as always, was luminescent. The scenery was fantastic (duh). The acting was so-so, as you can expect from a book-turned-movie. All in all, I thought the movie was good. Good enough, in fact, I had to buy the book. Not to shock you all into heart failure, but I liked it even more than the movie. The movie stayed really true to the book, which was refreshing. Obviously one down-fall of making a movie from the plot of a book, especially out of a memoir, is that you loose complexity from a lot of different areas of said plot. 

*insert segway to plot summary*

Liz Gilbert is a 30-year-old married woman. She has everything an educated, ambitious American woman is supposed to want - a husband, a house, a successful career. But what's this? She's confused. Anxious. Consumed with panic. She doesn't want to be married anymore. She divorces her husband. Liz experiences a crushing depression, another failed love, and the eradication of everything she thought was supposed to be. 

She makes the radical decision to uproot. She says goodbye to aforementioned lover, stores her personals at her sister's, and takes off for a year of soul-searching. Now, now, before you start your full-on eyeball roll, hear me out. She calculates the amount of time spent in relationships. Without counting the time after breakups and before new flames ignite, she can't remember a time in the last fifteen years that she's spent more than two weeks alone. Woah. And she relays honestly that she falls hard and fast and foolishly for men. She gives of herself too freely, she says. So now, it's time to be by herself. 

First stop is Italy. Here, she will study - and indulge - in the art of pleasure. Living in Rome serves her all of the pleasures she could possibly crave. She is immersed in the sexiest culture (arguably) in the world, but ironically decides to remain abstinent for the duration of her soul-searching mission. Anyway, she learns the language, falls in love with the culture and spends her time transversing this drippingly sexy country, exploring every culinary deliciousity she can get her paws on. Bitch. 

Second stop: India. This is where she studied the art of devotion. With the help of a wise (ass) cowboy from Tejas named Richard and a native guru, Liz embarks on a solid four months of spiritual exploration. 

Last stop is Bali. How beautiful this land is. The people, the food, their tragic history. Bali is four months of learning to live in the balances of worldly pleasures and otherworldly transcendence. She became besties with a sixth-generation medicine man who calls her "Liss", and unexpectedly fell in love with a beautiful Brazillian man. 

*end segway*

Seeing the movie, you only get a snap-shot of everything Liz Gilbert. Her intensely articulate verbage invites you into the depths of her dispair and to the peaks of her joy and peace. It (honest to God/Allah/Zeus) feels like you've spent a couple hours catching up with an old friend. That's how easy her writing is to read. 

Writing a memoir on "finding yourself" is a task not taken lightly. The honesty poured into this book is astounding. This book is about taking "destiny" by the reigns and claiming responsibility for your life's contentedness. Not giving in to society's cookie cutter about what life you should be happy with living. I think the book could be represented by a single quote;

"Stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone ought to be." 

There is absolutely no good in spending your days wishing and hoping for a better tomorrow, with opportunity abound. If something is ailing you, do something. The worst thing you can do for yourself is set idly. It's easy though, not doing anything. It takes no effort, but it does take a toll. 

From this book, I've learned proactivity, if such a word exists. My fantastic boyfriend brought this idea up to me about a year ago when I was thinking about (brooding is more than accurate) how much weight I had put on. All he said was, "Then start working out." Ew! What an insensitive jerk, right? I mean, how dare he not understand my need for a magic weight-loss pill? 

Really, Jen?

Stop wishing for magic to happen, when the tools are in your hands. And what do you know. Working out proves effective in 100% of it's participants. And there are less side effects than those pesky oral medications anyway. :) 

Pre-Slumber Bloggage

Hello dear and fellow Interweb users, I have returned. I, for one, am impressed!

Of course, stuff has happened between the time that I posted last and now, but really nothing noteworthy. So I'll spare you of any boring blah-blah blogging. You're welcome. Wait, wait..nothing noteworthy except for one thing. I am the proud owner of a round-trip plane ticket to Geneva, Switzerland! My Swiss-implant of a boyfriend and I went halfies on the purchase of this fine specimen of happiness, for a grand total of $808.01. I'm going to Europe. To be his date for the Marine Corps Birthday Ball. I'm such a spoiled little brat. Just ask me. :)

Aside from that big bundle of excitement (happy dance!), and short of sounding like Zelda, I do want to say that I have been on something of a quest. In the last year and a half, my life has changed dramatically. Prior to the exclusive relationship I enjoy with my Swiss-implanted, long-distance American boyfriend, I was in a poisonous and horrifying relationship for three years. Suffice it to say that I took away many a bad habit from that relationship. Post-breakup, I found myself to be very self-centered, self-pitying and without much self-confidence. This annoyed me; I don't even want to think about how the people I care about felt. It was time to change.

I wanted to change physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Feeling overwhelmed with all these necessary upgrades, I listened to Implant's advice. "If you don't like something, then change it", was his mantra. Psh. Too simple. I was searching for that one-liner that would all but floor me like a 350-pound linebacker. Beauty is simplicity, no? YES. Yes, Jen, it is! I finally HEARD what Implant was mantra-ing! If you can change it, then DO it! Don't make excuses. Just GO. One foot in front of the other style. So I did. I welcomed the loss of 30 pounds. I started saving money. I have started healing from the pain my relationship caused.

This week, I forgave myself for letting myself go for an entire three years.


That one was huge. Now, let's get this straight, loyal readers of mine. I'm not claiming Enlightenment status or anything, but what I am saying is that was point one, in favor of my quest for healing. For change. For self-recognition.

I wish I could share my "7 Steps to Free and Easy" guide with you, but really, that guide is nonexistent. Recognizing that self-loathing and brooding and regret is counterproductive. Great, Jen, you lost 30 pounds. You, for once in your whole life, have more than the obligatory $25 in your savings account. But I was still unhappy. I was always wanting more. Why was it so hard for me to stop and recognize how much progress I HAD made? I wanted perfection immediately. Time to sloooww down, sistah, and see the good that you have created for your life. My sweet little Implant, all the way from Switzerland, called me out on it. He told me to wake up everyday and realize that I'm awesome, otherwise, misery is mine for the claiming. No thanks, someone else can have it, no charge.

He was right. Again. I have done a lot to shake my past off my shoulders. And I needed to stop and see that. There was so much that I wanted to do to rid myself of those hurtful three years, and I wanted it done yesterday. Time healed most, but grace finished the job. All I needed was a little patience and love for myself. And I discovered the need and desire for these things through a fantastic source of truth and wisdom. And he is 6500 miles away. :) Teehee.

I'm happier now than I have ever been, cumulatively. I have a new perspective on happiness that I can relate to and can be summed up in a quote from "Eat, Pray, Love" by the wonderfully talented Elizabeth Gilbert:

"Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it. You must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it." 


There it is. I know that I still have things to work on, goals to work for. But that's nothing to get my cute Victoria's Secret undies in a bunch over. There is always work to be done. And working for those things will bring happiness, just as reaching those goals will bring happiness. So, Jen, have a cup of Sanka and enjoy the sunrise.


For once, in the longest time I can  remember, I feel contentedness. Peace. It's a good place to be. :)

Holy Cheese, Batman!

Meandering the aisles of Barnes & Noble this evening, I found nothing to satiate my standards for the amount of drippy, cheesy, inspirational I was lusting after. I was getting sort of pouty, to be frank, when nothing short of brilliance struck. "Ah-HA", I thought, "why don't you try your hand at writing something drippy and cheesy?" Yes. I think I will.

Please enjoy. And comment. I am doing this purely out of curiosity. And hope that I can commit to a semi-regular posting. I want this to be an exercise for me to be completely and unabashedly open, uncensored and confident about my thoughts and in my writing.

Oh, right. An explanation behind the cheese references. They are two-fold. My adoration of cheese is infinite. Whatever state of molten or solid deliciousness it has taken, I am never far behind. Well, that is partially a lie. I'm on a diet, and cheese, taken in the quantity that I prefer to consume it, is not a positive thing for my waistline. The adoration I have for cheese is only bested by the love I have for my boyfriend, Brian. He lives in Switzerland. Clever, right? :) A shout out to Anna is in order for the creation of the title of my blog, by the way.

I think that suffices for my introduction. My name is Jen, I'm 24 and it's passed my bed time. There, that will be the finishing touch to my first entry. More tomorrow.

Goodnight bloggers.