Working it out

37 weeks left
16 weeks completed
11 weeks left until mid-tour leave
5 pounds lost
20 pounds total
Exactly 14 months until the wedding

When I was eight or nine there used to be ads on tv for a line of Hasbro products called “Get in Shape, Girl!” It was a series of pastel pink and purple workout aides for little girls, to include such spectacular items as weighted workout bracelets, batons, hoops, and my personal favorite, the ribbons (like for rhythmic gymnastic-type routines.) All of these came with a workout cassette, workout poster, and the pièce de résistance, matching pompoms for your shoes!

I remember wanting these things so badly. Each Saturday morning, nestled somewhere between the Smurfs and Bugs Bunny the television ads would run, showing very pretty and *clearly* popular young girls (wearing eye shadow way too young, by the way) in all manner of leotard and legwarmer very happily working out together there in the school gym. I can still hear the jingle in my head. When I begged my mom for some Get In Shape, Girl gear, I remember her suggesting that maybe I just go take a walk outside or ride my bike to the park if I was so suddenly interested in high fitness. Clearly, she did not understand that Get in Shape, Girl came with ribbons and pompoms!!

I am not sure if this is the start of my near-obsession with infomercial purchasing of diet and exercise equipment, but I will admit here today that I do in fact have a problem in this department. I have, in my lifetime, owned the Tony Little Gazelle, the AB Circle PLUS!, the Slim in Six exercise videos, and…well, there’s so much more. I’ll save myself a *little* face by not naming them all, but I think those listed let you glimpse a fairly accurate picture of this particular neuroses.

I usually use these new-fangled machines for a small window of time and lose interest, much like I probably would have done with the ribbons and the pompoms (if truth be told.) And it usually isn’t that they are too hard or too cumbersome, it’s literally that I travel so much and work so much that I’ll get into a routine for a week or so, and then be out of town for a week or two, then home, then travel, then work late every night for a week and come home only to collapse into my bed. And the vicious cycle continues until it’s no longer a piece of exercise equipment, but rather this big thing in the middle of my living room collecting dust that I trip over in the middle of the night. And then into the closet it goes, remaining there until…well, let’s be honest, it doesn’t usually make its way back out of the closet once it goes in.

It’s not that I don’t like exercise. I actually really do. I always feel energized after. And just like all the exercise propaganda (um, ok exercise science actually) will tell you, it does relieve stress and make your body healthier and all that. I have had a gym membership for most of the last ten years, that I actually use consistently. I have also done yoga off and on for a long time, and I love the way I feel when I’m practicing on the regular (P.S. need to borrow some equipment? I have extra bands and bricks and straps and a nice 52” diameter exercise ball to sit on…and about ten DVDs.) Every morning I do my yoga stretches and a quick tour on the ol’ Ab Circle PLUS (I do not know what the plus is for.) And after that, I usually call it a day, feeling like I have done some movement, sweat a little bit, and made good on the promise to myself to exercise. (I dated a personal trainer for awhile. He’s laughing at this definition of “exercise.”)

Today though I was feeling especially lethargic, had been sitting inside watching TV and baking and doing all manner of unhealthy activity (granted, baking isn’t in-and-of-itself, unhealthy…the fact that I taste test at every stage in the process is a bit of an issue…) Anyway, it was such a gorgeous, sunny, perfect summer day outside, that I decided I would take a nice walk in the sunshine.

Make no mistake friends, I may be losing weight at a nice rate, but I am completely out of shape. This was highlighted for me today in my return to cardio. Now, I will give myself the following concessions: it was hotter than I thought and I didn’t bring water with me; the path that I walk is in direct sunlight the whole time; I haven’t done cardio in a long time and I was definitely going at a work-out walking pace, not a stroll; and the path I walk is pretty hilly with a couple steep inclines thrown in for good measure (right at the end of the three plus mile course, naturally.)

Let me tell you what. When I walked in the door this afternoon, I thought I might keel over. I was hot. I was dehydrated. I was sweaty and smelly and just generally gross. The 5k path that at my peek about 5 years ago I was walking in about 42 minutes (which is a nice clip for a hilly walk I might add) took me just over an hour. And I did not feel exhilarated after. I mostly wanted to die.

Suddenly, in my head, all I could see where those damn cute popular girls on the commercial urging me to “Get in Shape, Girl!” My first thought was “see, if mom had let me have the pompoms…” (ok, that was my second thought. My first thought had something to do with maiming the girls in the commercial…or at the least tying them up with their workout ribbons.) But then I had to laugh. Because the machines, the yoga, the special exercise tapes and infomercial highlight reel which is currently occupying 43% of my available storage…those I can handle. Speed walking is gonna be the death of me.

Perhaps I should have listened to my mom when I was little and just gone for a walk already.

And so, I have resolved today to go on more walks: Back on the cardio exercise routine. As I put my tired, achy, sore and defeated body back into bed this evening (with a small fist full of ibuprofen and a LARGE glass of water) I realize that the walking…the cardio…the serious sweat has gotta be a part of the routine. The diet alone isn’t going to get me into the shape I want to be in for the wedding. And especially since J told me yesterday that he was at his weight loss goal for this deployment (granted his was to lose 10-12 pounds) I have decided to step the exercise up a notch. And then maybe all the other stuff (the stress relief, the clearer head, the healthier body, the endorphin release that my crabby-ass needs right now) will come along too. And I need that as much as I need hot wedding photos.

So yeah. It is in fact time to Get in Shape, Girl. Mind, body and all the rest. This time though, pompoms are not included.

Patience

Patience is a virtue. That’s a phrase that’s thrown around with some regularity, mostly by people who are snarkily (it’s a word- look it up) pointing out to you that you yourself don’t have any. The phrase can be traced back to the 14^th Century English writing of Langland. It can also be linked to the Latin phrase “Maxima enim..patientia virtus” (Patience is the greatest virtue) or even the French “Patience est une grant vertu” (Patience is a great value.) I think it’s funnier though to search just for the etymology of the word “patient”…which comes from the root of both the Latin and the Greek words for “suffering.” Ha. That seems about right to me, especially in the context of my last week or so.

So my best friend Meriam-Webster (perhaps you met once in middle school) actually defines patience as “having the quality of being patient: bearing pains or trials calmly or without complaint; manifesting forbearance under provocation or strain; not hasty or impetuous; steadfast despite opposition, difficulty, or adversity.”

I, by the way, was blessed with none of these traits.

I wish I was patient. I try to be patient. I practice at being patient. But then I become impatient in my search for said patience, and well, it’s a bit of a vicious cycle at that point really. Maybe it’s that I’m a mover and a planner—a person of ACTION, always thinking six steps ahead of where I am now. Like that my life is an enormous game of chess…or an old school Choose Your Own Adventure book, where each choice takes you down another road, and then another, and then another, and you carefully plan out what each course looks like dependent on your decision and your move. But there ALWYAYS has to be a decision and a move. You can’t just sit there. Hanging back, calmly doing nothing seems mostly like, well, like that I’m doing nothing. I don’t understand people who can just sit back and watch. I have to DO DO DO!

Or maybe, like the classic line from “When Harry Met Sally” taught us, maybe when I finally know what I want to do with the rest of my life, I want the rest of my life to start as soon as possible (such a great movie…J teases me for liking it. I think the response he musters when I drop that line or any from the movie is merely an “ugh” coupled with an eye roll. ) I guess that, like the immortal words of Colin Hay suggest, I feel like I’m sitting around, waiting for my real life to begin. And I would *really* like my real life to begin as soon as possible. Thank you.

I don’t know for certain where I’m working this fall. I don’t know if I’m moving. I don’t know if my resume has been received or is being looked at or being thrown away even as we speak by the hundreds (yes hundreds) of employers I sent it to. I don’t know what city to look for a job in (since I don’t know where J’s next assignment will land him.) Because of said assignment ambiguity I don’t know if I’m looking for a new job for one year…or two years…or five years, as I don’t know if I will soon after getting said imaginary job have to relocate again. (How do other Army spouses do this? Anyone?)

I’m not totally without direction though, because let me say this: I have always had the utmost faith in things unfolding as they should. I have a path. I know that. I trust that. I follow my heart and my gut and those have never steered me wrong (though quite frankly very few of my life plans as I have imagined them have come to fruition in their initial iteration.) So I get it. The being-flexible-and-waiting-to- see-where- you-land business. But it’s the waiting. I’m really pretty tired of WAITING for them to unfold. Shouldn’t I be DOING something? I’m so ready to find a good job, in a good city. I’m ready to marry J. To settle down. To have a place of our own (hell, to live in the same city even.) To think about our own little brood of impatient children.

And five years from now, all that will probably be mine and this angst will seem silly.

But it still doesn’t answer the immediate question of “what’s next.”

J called me yesterday and I was sort of short with him on the phone. He could tell I was busy and stressed out and freaking out even in the three short minutes we had on the phone. Today when we talked I was better able to articulate my frustrations. He laughed at me.

“Um, dear. What makes you think that all this isn’t going to work out? Some of these jobs you’re really interested in you JUST put your resume in for…like less than a week ago. You realize that, right? That it’s been less than a week?”

Stunned. Stupefied. Silence. Damn it. J talking sense again.

“You’re going to be fine. WE’RE going to be fine. It’s just going to take a little time. And some patience on your part.”

I reminded him I had none of that. He laughed at me and suggested I find some. It made me laugh. He can always make me laugh.

After I hung up with him today, I went for a drive. I had a couple errands to run and was just happy to get out of the house and into the amazing weather. And then incredibly, there as I drove, reiterated in song form in a 1990’s flashback on my car stereo… was what J was trying to say to me all along. A sign so clear for me to pull-it-together-already that it might as well have been written on the marquee for a nudey bar on the Vegas strip, all decked out in flash and glitter and neon lights.

Guns and Roses. Patience.

I never (ever) thought I’d see the day that I admitted that I drew inspiration from a Guns and Roses song, but talk about timing. (God speaks to some through dreams, or burning bushes, or booming voices from the sky. I get Guns and Roses. That seems about right. )

For those of you who missed that day in Junior High music appreciation, I will paste the lyrics to this song below. It was a message I needed to hear today. While J tried to make me hear him this afternoon, this was the how his message finally got through. And so, in the immortal words of Axle Rose:

Shed a tear 'cause I'm missing you, I'm still alright to smile
Girl, I think about you every day now
Was a time when I wasn't sure, but you set my mind at ease
There is no doubt you're in my heart now
Said woman take it slow, it'll work itself out fine
All we need is just a little patience
Said sugar make it slow, and we'll come together fine
All we need is just a little patience
Patience...

Sit here on the stairs, 'cause I'd rather be alone
If I can't have you right now, I'll wait dear
Sometimes, I get so tense, but I can't speed up the time
But you know, love, there's one more thing to consider
Said woman take it slow, things will be just fine
You and I'll just use a little patience
Said sugar take the time, 'cause the lights are shining bright
You and I've got what it takes to make it
(We won't fake it, oh never break it, 'cause I can't take it)

A little patience, yeah, yeah,
Need a little patience, yeah
Just a little patience, yeah, yeah
Some more patience, yeah

It's all relative

38 weeks left
15 weeks down
12 weeks until mid-tour leave (new stat…and new workout/ weight goal to aim for)
15 total pounds lost
15(ish) months until the wedding

(And see friends, this is why we do the average weight over time. I finally stepped on the scale today, hands actually over my eyes, peeking out between ever-so- slightly spread fingers, only to realize that in the last month of eating every.single.thing in sight, and complete dietary meltdown, I really only gained back 7 pounds. I thought it was going to be oh-so-much more. I am encouraged by this because if complete and utter champagne/ wedding food/ birthday food/ vacation food/ no exercise/ umbrella drinks/ BBQ picnics and sweets all day long for entire a month only gains me back 7 pounds…then moderation for the rest of the year should totally do the trick. And I’m finally done traveling for awhile, so I can exercise and get back on the diet wagon and start anew. And look at that…I’m now back on track for 1 pound a week. All is right with the deployment diet: Operation Wedding Dress continues.)

One of the things that I talk about in my courses with my students is relativity. No, not the crazy Einstein kind where letters stand for numbers and I black out about thirty seconds into the conversation because math is hard. We talk about how things are basically all relative to the context in which you are situated: what means one thing to you in your life, may not mean the same thing to other people in theirs…or might mean something completely different to you if you were in an strange setting or an advanced age. (Wanna watch J and I basically get into a mental fist fight? Throw the topic of relative/ situational ethics out there on the table and watch the madness ensue. It’s a lot like two starving hyenas getting thrown a fresh gazelle carcass, each one of us suddenly becoming scrappy and ravenous, losing even the guise of propriety in trying to outfox or out muscle the other one from sole possession of the win. To be quite honest with you, I don’t even remember where I stand on the matter anymore…or where he does either actually. But man do we enjoy fighting about it. I know…we’re *those* kinds of geeks. It’s fine.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about the word “relative” recently, both in the context of the family/ relations definition and in the “it’s-all-contextual-and-interdependent-on-other-stuff” meaning as well.

I have spent the last ten days on the road visiting friends, the first installment of which on the Eastern Shore with former co-workers of mine. While I am not related by blood to any of the people I spent time with, I would say that all of them were my “family”…that we are, in fact, related to one another. They are people with whom I share a bond of some kind…who have become very close to me over the almost ten years of our acquaintance. As my dear Meriam Webster puts it, we are “connected either logically or causally or by shared characteristics.” The characteristics we shared in the beginning were merely a similar passion for education, and a shared office space. But in the time passed, our connection has seen us through firings and retiring and moves and growth; joys and triumphs and celebrations and happiness; cancer and illness and death and recovery. Several tears…and so many laughs. That’s what family is all about. “Related” or not. And that’s how these folks earned the title.

While visiting these friends at their beach house this week, I was introduced to a new set of friends from my former boss’s (aka “Virginia dad’s”) new job. And just like he did at the place where we met, he has established an affinity group of like-minded individuals at his new job as well, people I feel like I have known for years, just by virtue of stories shared. Plus, if Virginia dad likes someone, I’m pretty sure I’m going to like them, too. Because he’s good people. And he attracts the same.

There is one in particular that he has become very close to, someone he calls his “son.” After having spent only about thirty minutes with this new friend, I knew he was “one of us.” But he had to do the math for me. “So let me get this straight. If our lovely host here says I’m like his son, and he says YOU are like his daughter, that would make US brother and sister, yes?”

“I suppose it would.”

And then he punched my arm like we were siblings. For the rest of the weekend, he called me Sister. And somehow, that seemed exactly right, even though we had just met.

After my week at the beach (I’m totally tan, by the way…and very relaxed), I pushed off and went to visit the future in-laws… and brothers’-in-law…and aunts and uncles and counsins’-in-law and, well, J’s whole fam damily (as my sweet mother used to like to say…mostly to watch my dad cringe slightly as his eyes rolled at her subtle wink toward cursing. I loved watching my parents play this back and forth game.)

Though I know I’ve said it before, I think it bears repeating now: I am very fortunate to be marrying into a pretty great family. Since the first day I met them all, they have acted like I was already part of the clan. And let me tell you what, this weekend was the true test. I went to visit them for the annual family reunion BBQ in which my in-laws and about, oh, 200 or so of their closest friends (and mostly relatives) descend upon the block for the big outdoor family throw-down (in its 18^th year this year, remarkably!) This year was my third: Two years ago being only my second “date” with J, in which I was first introduced to the whole family (and I mean the WHOLE family). Talk about getting tossed in the deep end!

While I adore J’s immediate family- mom, dad, and brothers, I was a little nervous going into this BBQ without J at my side (needless to say, I missed him terribly.) This was the first time I was there not as some girl that J was seeing, but instead as the soon-to-be newest member of this family, there this weekend not just on my behalf, but representing the both of us—our little two-man side of the family. (This is something that Army spouses get used to, I’m assuming. I’m still a newbie. It’ll get easier…)

I was at the house less than 15 minutes before mom-to-be gave me lovely gifts and put me to work (just like a real daughter!) Dad-to-be asked the important dad-type questions: how was my father doing, and was my car running ok. Brothers 1 and 2 started in with the playful banter, the teasing like that we were actual siblings, in an evening that ended with us sitting on the front porch, drinking beers and laughing into the wee hours of the morning. It was, as always, an easy and perfect fit. But with J’s immediate fam, it’s always easy. The next day, I would face the masses!

On the day of the actual BBQ, there were times I sorta felt like the guest of honor. And p.s. this had very little to do with me, by the way…they all wanted to hear how J was doing—where he was, what he needed in care packages, and all that. They also admired my gorgeous ring and wanted to hear about wedding plans. (Additionally, they wanted to hear how J proposed to me…which was a story that I told several times…and everyone agrees that after that trainwreck of a day, it IS in fact amazing that J still wants to marry me. The engagement story is outstanding and will be for another time…but well worth the wait.)

Basically, this was the first time I had attended something on his side of the family by myself in which I was there on our behalf—on HIS behalf. I found it pretty incredible how many folks wanted to sit down and just chat, to take considerable time out of their days to just check in on me and him and us. That’s pretty special. Because I hardly know many of them- have barely been on the scene for two years. And honestly, we’re not even related. But you’d never know it. To them, I’m already family.

Mr. Webster’s second definition of “related” makes more sense here; “connected by kinship, common origin, or marriage.” So yes, eventually the latter. But already the former seems to fit. We are in fact connected by a kinship. And our common origin, our shared interest, is J. And I’m so thankful for that.

So now I’m home from ten days on the road spent with random people, in off-beat places, with fairly intense interactions. I suppose that’s not a bad way to spend a vacation, yes? And I guess that what I’ve found at the end of that time is that being related is, well, all relative. Because while technically not related to anyone I spent time with, our kinship, our bond, our shared interests and common characteristics dictate otherwise. It’s reassuring to know that family can be found anywhere there is a group of caring individuals with a shared purpose. And I think that’s pretty amazing.

Alignment

When I was little (like four-year-old little) I had a Dr. Seuss book that asked you all sorts of personal questions (favorite color, best friend, etc.) and you got to write the answers RIGHT THERE in the book (yay! A hardcover book I didn’t get in trouble for coloring all over! This may have been the beginning of my bibliophile tendencies, and for *sure* is the beginning of my love of dog-earring pages, writing in margins, and highlighting everything… and my consequent absolute unwillingness to learn to read things on a computer when a hard copy is available somewhere. As anyone who has ever helped me move can attest to, 1/3 of my earthly possessions is books. Big. Heavy. Hardcover. Books.)

But in that Seuss book, one of the questions it asked was what you wanted to be when you grew up. Do you remember what you wanted to be when you were four?

I do.

In big red crayon, in letters poorly scribbled (looking a lot like “REDRUM” in lipstick on the mirror from “The Shining” now that I think about it…wow, that’s creepy) I wrote “TEACHER.”

And I’ve never looked back.

I’ve never wanted to be anything other than a teacher. I’ve never trained to do anything other than teaching. I’ve never doubted the route of the teacher (though clearly there are much less stressful, much higher paying professions in the world.) I actually had someone once say to me, “but you’re so smart. You can do anything in the world! Why would you choose to be a teacher?” It was probably the most offensive thing that anyone had ever said to me. And crushing.

One of my friends says that he has a visual of me actually coming out with of the womb with a little handheld chalkboard in tote. That image is funny to me. But I love when he says it, because I think it’s probably about right. I’ve always believed that we were each put on this Earth for a particular reason. We’re here to *do* something…to contribute something...to serve a particular purpose. It clearly doesn’t necessarily have to be a career-related contribution, but for me, I think it is. I am a teacher, and I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be a teacher. It’s who I am. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m about. I dig kids. And I want to help.

I tread lightly on the topic that comes next because I neither want my employer to find me ungrateful for the job I have, nor to paint a generalized picture of my colleagues. Because what I’m about to say doesn’t speak to everyone. But it sure does speak to some. And that “some” is not me. And it’s been a frustration of the last year of my life. And so here goes. If you’re reading this, and you say to yourself “hey, I’m not like that!” then this is probably not about you.

When I got a PhD people just assumed that meant I wanted to work at the college/ university level. No one believed that I was just a big geek who wanted to learn more. No one believed it was because one of my mentors in education, a man for whom I would have done just about anything, was the chair of the program and brought me there to work with him. No one believed that I just wanted a terminal degree to prove to myself and the world that I could do it. Obviously, having a PhD is about teaching college!

But let me tell you a dirty little secret friends. Teaching college is only a little bit about teaching (crushing shock to me…the rest of you are probably thinking “duh.”) It’s about how many papers you’ve published. It’s about how many conferences at which you’ve presented your research. It’s about BIG research. It’s about getting grants for the school. It’s about making contacts. It’s about working on committees. It’s about rankings.

And oh…yes. If you get a chance, teach some classes. Maybe do some academic advising if you get around to it. But if not, no big deal.

Now again, let me be clear, I have some friends and colleagues who are really good at finding that balance between research and teaching. But that’s because that’s who THEY are. What THEY value. It is not what the system necessarily values. The “system” isn’t set up to reward (or require) good teaching, nor does it encourage you to spend the bulk of your time doing the planning and prepping that good teaching requires. That’s all on you. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of what your job performance is rated on: the papers, and the committees, and the boards, and the money. And had I really known that that’s what I was signing up for, I would have gracefully bowed right on out, as, for me all that other business is about 48th on my priority list behind teaching, advising, teaching, advocating, teaching, helping, and have I mentioned *teaching*?

I spend my time in my classes telling my students that when they go out into the world, the best way for them to stay happy in their work is to find an institution/ school/ company that aligns with their own personal values. That way, each day when they get up, no matter how hard the actual job is that they have to do, they can at least feel confident and rest assured that they are doing something in which they truly believe.

Um. Do you hear that there in the background? It’s irony calling. And he’s laughing at me.

So, I may be the only professor in the world with a great job at a great institution of higher learning who is *actually* looking forward to finding a job back in an urban public high school somewhere. A place where good teaching is so desperately needed and wanted…where the 60-hour weeks are rewarded with personal satisfaction of doing good work, with making a difference in the life of a child, and with the ability to go to bed exhausted each night, but proud of the what you’re doing. (And no one asks you which editorial board you’re on.)

I’m too much of a nerd to give up research and writing all together. I’ll get back to it. I promise. Because I do like it. I really do. I’ve always had the utmost admiration for those amazing school principals and superintendents who are research-based in their thought process…who publish and continue to learn and grow and advocate. I want that to be me for sure. A teacher-researcher. But for now, I think it’s time I found an organization that aligned with what I hold to be the most important parts of who I am. I am a teacher first and a researcher second, not the other way around.