I'm going to take a break from nattering about skating classes because, frankly, I've been off the ice for two weeks due to travel. Today was supposed to be my triumphant return to the ice, but I appear to be developing an upper respiratory infection, so instead the plan for today is to take it easy, then go skating for three hours tomorrow.
Moving on! Last night Candice and I decided to watch Ice Castles, a delightful movie from 1978 about a girl overcoming adversity to become awesome at skating. OR SO WE THOUGHT. Warning: there will be spoilers in this post, though I kind of feel like getting angry about spoilers from a movie that is THIRTY-THREE years old is a little silly.
We expected the movie to be bad because it was 1.) about ice skating and 2.) made in the 70's. What we did not expect was the movie to be BALLS TO THE WALL CRAZY. We were tweeting throughout the movie, and here are some examples of our feelings as the movie went from "Wow, everyone in this movie is just here to cash a paycheck" to "Um, the main character appears to now be an attic-lurking zombie wearing her dead mother's clothes. What?"
"So Ice Castles is as schlocky as I hoped but everyone is napping through this movie. Also lololol a full house at Regionals."
"Apparently triples were just crowd pleasing acrobatics back in the 70s. Why would anyone want to do them? #icecastles"
"I'm already tired of watching split jumps holy crap. #icecastles"
If you've seen Showgirls know how hilarious it is when everyone is practically salivating over Nomi Malone's "abilities." That's pretty much what was going on with this movie. At one point this character is so over-awed by the main character's "natural" "talent" that she has like a meltdown... at a Christmas Special. Where apparently the main character qualifies for Regionals? WTF, Ice Castles?
And at first it seems like family fun (well, not that Showgirls was ever family fun, the comparison ends with the amazement over "talent"), and then suddenly the main character is playing with her nipples in front of a mirror. And that, my friends, is where the movie really veers off into insanity. We were tweeting away sarcastically about dated ideas about jumps and hilariously full houses at lame competitions, and then:
"She's had one glass of wine and now she's molesting an ice sculpture. #icecastles"
"Let that be a lesson to you all. Don't skate after drinking champagne. It leads to blurred tantrums about how you CAN'T SEE! #icecastles"
"Oh my god now she's a blind zombie wearing her dead mother's clothes. This movie is 900% more crazier than anticipated. #icecastles"
Yup. SPOILERS: She tries a double axel at a party, falls, hits her head on a table and goes blind. She then spends the next half hour lurking in the attic at her dad's house, wearing her dead mom's clothes and refusing to shower. You should watch this movie for the scene where her ice skating mentor kicks her ass up there, it's totally just like "The Miracle Worker". EVEN EXTRA SPOILERS: The miracle is she learns to skate while quasi-blind and comes back to kick ass at... Sectionals. Not exactly a Rocky Balboa triumph over the best the Soviets has to offer. More like a mild triumph over the the best a portion of America has to offer. But the point is it took pluck, I guess.
They remade this movie in 2010. Oh, yeah, they did. Clearly, Candice and I must watch it to see how they deal with this whole "doing triples is a parlor trick!" issue. And also if the 2010 version is just as crazy, with the attic lurking and the blind ass kicking and the random nipple touching.
So there you have it. If you've ever wondered "Hmmm, should I watch Ice Castles?", the answer is clearly a giant Y-E-S. Just make sure you have strong drinks and a good friend to commentate with, otherwise it's going to be two hours of bafflement. Don't worry. We'll let you know if the 2010 version is just as amazing. We're here for you, my dear four readers. We've got your back.
Showing posts with label our misplaced nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label our misplaced nostalgia. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Candice: I'm Not a Natural But...
I just came across a wonderfully insightful article, The Trouble With Bright Girls at the Huffington Post website. The article is based around a study which revealed the following:
Hello, Candice's reaction to High School, how are you aside from being perfectly summed up?
Psychologist Carol Dweck has discovered the way in which girls are praised have affected their outlook on difficult tasks. "Girls, who develop self-control earlier and are better able to follow instructions, are often praised for their 'goodness.' When we do well in school, we are told that we are 'so smart,' 'so clever,' or 'such a good student.' This kind of praise implies that traits like smartness, cleverness and goodness are qualities you either have or you don't."
Hello, Candice's entire life since birth, how are you aside from being a mind blowing revelation?
A little back story, my dad was a tall, smart, creative, funny and hard working person. This, according to my mother, meant I was also destined to be tall, smart, creative, funny and hard working. To listen to her tell it, I didn't have to try to be any of these things, they were just coded into my DNA. Done and done, all I have to do is sit back and wait for my innate talents to bloom.
With the exception of being tall, obviously that attitude was not exactly true. Through a beneficial confluence of circumstances I did manage to become 5'10", get on a few honor rolls, a Dean's list, etc. My creativity, nascent in the "drawing things with crayons" phase of life, did in fact blossom once I entered the "write well enough to put a story together" part of life. Funny didn't really all come together for me until high school and the internet. That just leaves hard working.
I have to work hard at being a hard worker. If I think something will reflect poorly on me as a person I will diligently work at it until absolutely no one can deny that Candice should not be chastised, and should even be praised. If I think I can get away with it though, oh the corners I will cut.
Which brings me back to high school (and then college), when I could do a paper in the hour before it was due and pull a B+. I could coast through math and get a passing grade. I could do the summary, annotated bibliography, and first draft of a paper and then not turn in the actual final draft of the paper and pass the class. So I did. My intelligence was never really doubted by my teachers, but my ability to get shit done definitely was. I've stated many times that if I could just go back in time and slap myself across the face, and tell myself that doing homework DID have a point and that point was opening doors later in life, I would. In a heartbeat.
I'd also tell myself to get up and move. My basic motto about sports was, "If at first you don't succeed, write it off and never do it again." If running was hard, then why bother running? Not being able to run didn't affect my intelligence, my creativity. All I had to do was show up to PE in order to pass the class, so I cut all other available corners that required effort. And more importantly, required I fail the first few times.
They're talking about schoolwork here, but where I needed to hear it most was physical activity. Kate likes to say she was a natural at skating, a little whiz at the ice from an early age which she later abandoned in pursuit of tween-age ennui. It's an aspect of skating that we simply cannot share with each other. The first few times I was on ice, I was slow, I fell, and I was not a natural. Replace "first few times I was on the ice" with "any sport I ever tried ever and you've got the summary of my ability to instantly pick up a sport.
For me the ice is something I have to "pay attention and try harder" at. All the time. Every time. Working a regular schedule means that I'm able to make a weekly appointment with myself to skate for an hour that I rarely miss. Kate's had interruptions here and there described before in this blog. If I had to say who had practiced the most, it would be me.
And after almost a year of skating there are things Kate can do better than me, and things that I can do better than she can. The results, unique to each of us, are roughly even. Our enjoyment of the sport? Dead even. The result of the experiment is that if I'd put in time, effort, and practice as a child I might well have been a decent player of any sport. A star? A natural? I suppose not, but I can confidently say that doesn't detract from the value, and enjoyment I could have had.
This article was a lesson learned too late in some ways. I can't go back and re-do my years in high school and undergrad. I can't go back and tell myself that volleyball might have been a worthwhile thing to keep trying at. I can use the lesson now, in skating, at my job, and in a lot of other things.
...Bright Girls, when given something to learn that was particularly foreign or complex, were quick to give up; the higher the girls' IQ, the more likely they were to throw in the towel. In fact, the straight-A girls showed the most helpless responses.
Hello, Candice's reaction to High School, how are you aside from being perfectly summed up?
Psychologist Carol Dweck has discovered the way in which girls are praised have affected their outlook on difficult tasks. "Girls, who develop self-control earlier and are better able to follow instructions, are often praised for their 'goodness.' When we do well in school, we are told that we are 'so smart,' 'so clever,' or 'such a good student.' This kind of praise implies that traits like smartness, cleverness and goodness are qualities you either have or you don't."
Hello, Candice's entire life since birth, how are you aside from being a mind blowing revelation?
A little back story, my dad was a tall, smart, creative, funny and hard working person. This, according to my mother, meant I was also destined to be tall, smart, creative, funny and hard working. To listen to her tell it, I didn't have to try to be any of these things, they were just coded into my DNA. Done and done, all I have to do is sit back and wait for my innate talents to bloom.
With the exception of being tall, obviously that attitude was not exactly true. Through a beneficial confluence of circumstances I did manage to become 5'10", get on a few honor rolls, a Dean's list, etc. My creativity, nascent in the "drawing things with crayons" phase of life, did in fact blossom once I entered the "write well enough to put a story together" part of life. Funny didn't really all come together for me until high school and the internet. That just leaves hard working.
I have to work hard at being a hard worker. If I think something will reflect poorly on me as a person I will diligently work at it until absolutely no one can deny that Candice should not be chastised, and should even be praised. If I think I can get away with it though, oh the corners I will cut.
Which brings me back to high school (and then college), when I could do a paper in the hour before it was due and pull a B+. I could coast through math and get a passing grade. I could do the summary, annotated bibliography, and first draft of a paper and then not turn in the actual final draft of the paper and pass the class. So I did. My intelligence was never really doubted by my teachers, but my ability to get shit done definitely was. I've stated many times that if I could just go back in time and slap myself across the face, and tell myself that doing homework DID have a point and that point was opening doors later in life, I would. In a heartbeat.
I'd also tell myself to get up and move. My basic motto about sports was, "If at first you don't succeed, write it off and never do it again." If running was hard, then why bother running? Not being able to run didn't affect my intelligence, my creativity. All I had to do was show up to PE in order to pass the class, so I cut all other available corners that required effort. And more importantly, required I fail the first few times.
Boys, on the other hand, are a handful. Just trying to get boys to sit still and pay attention is a real challenge for any parent or teacher. As a result, boys are given a lot more feedback that emphasizes effort (e.g., "If you would just pay attention you could learn this," "If you would just try a little harder you could get it right.") The net result: When learning something new is truly difficult, girls take it as sign that they aren't "good" and "smart," and boys take it as a sign to pay attention and try harder.
They're talking about schoolwork here, but where I needed to hear it most was physical activity. Kate likes to say she was a natural at skating, a little whiz at the ice from an early age which she later abandoned in pursuit of tween-age ennui. It's an aspect of skating that we simply cannot share with each other. The first few times I was on ice, I was slow, I fell, and I was not a natural. Replace "first few times I was on the ice" with "any sport I ever tried ever and you've got the summary of my ability to instantly pick up a sport.
For me the ice is something I have to "pay attention and try harder" at. All the time. Every time. Working a regular schedule means that I'm able to make a weekly appointment with myself to skate for an hour that I rarely miss. Kate's had interruptions here and there described before in this blog. If I had to say who had practiced the most, it would be me.
And after almost a year of skating there are things Kate can do better than me, and things that I can do better than she can. The results, unique to each of us, are roughly even. Our enjoyment of the sport? Dead even. The result of the experiment is that if I'd put in time, effort, and practice as a child I might well have been a decent player of any sport. A star? A natural? I suppose not, but I can confidently say that doesn't detract from the value, and enjoyment I could have had.
This article was a lesson learned too late in some ways. I can't go back and re-do my years in high school and undergrad. I can't go back and tell myself that volleyball might have been a worthwhile thing to keep trying at. I can use the lesson now, in skating, at my job, and in a lot of other things.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Candice: I see you shiver with antici...pation
When did it start? This problem of me never wanting to do things that are athletic?
When I was young, pre-school aged, I remember being the type of kid that could get very easily lost in my own mind. For example, I had these small, neon-colored dinosaur figurines that I was obsessed with but I didn't run around with them, roaring and trying to get them to bite the other kids. No, I gave them elaborate fantasy lives and moved them around the little patch of rug I occupied and built them houses out of Lego blocks.
Conversely, I did love swimming. My mother deemed me a "water baby" and each summer I would spend as much time as possible in the water. I stayed in pools, rivers, and lakes until my eyes burned with chlorine, or until the pads of my fingers were so wrinkled they actually hurt. I took swimming lessons, dived for pennies, but I was by no means a natural talent. The last time I attempted to learn how to dive I was 19 and I mastered only the "unintentional belly flop of wild embarrassment" technique. So as you can imagine, it was never something people said, "Hey! You should really go somewhere with this!"
I remember elementary school, being taller and heavier than most of the other girls. I remember not being flexible. I remember that damn Presidential Fitness Test and straining futilely to touch my toes, to complete a pull-up. I remember Track & Field day and being good at two things: sailing over hurdles meant for children four inches shorter than me (but still losing the race because I wasn't very fast) and being the anchor for tug of war. I remember I loved school because the answers came so easily, but I started to hate P.E. for constantly showing me what I wasn't good at.
Burgeoning adolescence helped nothing. I became shyer and more terrified of making a fool of myself in front of others. The changes in my body made my limbs traitors to me. I was singled out by gym teachers as needing to work harder, or else ignored as hopeless. I slowly and steadily ticked off the athletic activities I discovered that I hated, baseball, basketball, archery, flag football, soccer, jump rope, running, tennis, and standing around in the heat. Of all the sports they forced us to try I enjoyed only volleyball and badminton. And biking. I had a black and pink mountain bike that I thought was the best thing in the world, and I rode that thing through the neighborhood, through the creeks and forests near my house all through middle school.
But I grew older, heavier, and crankier. I decided at 13 that a mix of punk/goth fashion and attitude would be the only way I could take control of how I felt like the outsider. It goes without saying that wearing black make-up and black mesh did not further encourage an active lifestyle. I thought idly about losing weight, mostly in unhealthy ways, like smoking, or not eating. Now and again I'd think, "I'll start exercising." It never stuck. I never joined a team (see: I was punk, okay?) A life of sedentary grousing and avoiding the sun seemed quite likely.
Oh but then college happened. Suddenly it felt like everybody had an athletic hobby. My roommate biked. My boyfriend jogged. A classmate was on the swim team, the football team, the soccer team. My friends went to the gym regularly. People told me that they like to kayak, or box, or played racquetball. People signed up for intramural sports. I had all these new friends and yet I was completely helpless to join in their reindeer games because I'd spent the past ten years insisting that I was allergic to working up a sweat.
So "I'll start exercising" became a more common refrain. I became familiar with the elliptical machine. Then broke up with it. I bought Tae Bo videos. Then stopped doing them. I took up walking. Then decided I didn't like walking in the neighborhoods I lived in. I took an interest in yoga. Then started finding other things, like drinking, more interesting. I also broke up with boys and ended up with a fierce yearning for confidence and a sense of control.
At 22 I started a real diet, and a real exercise plan. I decided to become a runner. Running is a mystery to the nonathletic. Why would you just... run? How could it be fun? How could burning lungs, abused knees, and tired legs be fun? How could you want to do it for HOURS at a time? Aren't marathons the literal definition of insanity? Of masochism? (It makes a man's nipples BLEED, people!) But runners are also disgustingly healthy. I wanted that look, that lifestyle, that smug sense of being better than non-runners.
I ran for a minute at a time, then two, then five. I ran a mile, then two, then three. I lost weight, I gained stamina, I found that there was joy to be had in running, in beating a time, in going further. It was often satisfying, sometimes soothing, sometimes fun, but it lacked an important factor: Anticipation. I read about it, about how seasoned runners would find themselves cranky if denied an opportunity to run, about how people felt they needed it.
I didn't realize how important it was at the time, but running could only satisfy me AFTER I did it. Though I could be quite giddy after I finished my final lap, standing at the start of my run I never felt any glee, any butterflies, only dread. Before running I often thought about the time commitment, the sweating, the exertion. Before running I tried to find every possible excuse NOT to do it, even if I knew I eventually would go for my 30 min jog. The smallest hiccup in my routine, in my health and boom, why bother running? After moving to Austin, changing my routine, I gave running up for a year and barely thought about it.
I wasn't a runner. I was a pretender. All the diet books told me plainly that if I couldn't view diet and exercise as temporary fixes, that they had to become a lifestyle change or I'd gain back the weight. I was fiercely afraid of that, but felt too apathetic to fight it. I gave up the lifestyle, I gained a little weight. In a panic I joined the gym and tried to get back into the love of running. It didn't take. The old excuses were back.
Enter figure skating. We fall in love. We hold hands and I marvel at how "I've never felt this way about a sport before." Figure skating smiles and says, "We've only just begun." Enter the nefarious villain the car accident who tries to tear us asunder. As usual the gym falls by the wayside; I do not think about running. Not once. However, at one point in the week I was without a car and scrambling to deal with it, I realized that I would be unable to make it to my customary Thursday practice. I genuinely considered going to skate during my lunch break before heartrendingly and hilariously remember that I DO NOT HAVE A CAR.
I was desperate to skate. Not once in the past four years did I ever feel desperate to run. What running should have been, figure skating is.
Somehow of all the sports that I have tried, dismissed, or watched people perform with longing it's figure skating that finally provides me with anticipation. I look forward to it constantly. I miss it fiercely when faced with the possibility of NOT skating. I smile before I enter the ice. I try to bargain more time out every time I go. I trip, fall, discover my legs are shaking and still I want to skate more. This is why I knew I could commit to a year of learning, to a year of skating.
I guess you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince, and I am thrilled that I finally have.
When I was young, pre-school aged, I remember being the type of kid that could get very easily lost in my own mind. For example, I had these small, neon-colored dinosaur figurines that I was obsessed with but I didn't run around with them, roaring and trying to get them to bite the other kids. No, I gave them elaborate fantasy lives and moved them around the little patch of rug I occupied and built them houses out of Lego blocks.
Conversely, I did love swimming. My mother deemed me a "water baby" and each summer I would spend as much time as possible in the water. I stayed in pools, rivers, and lakes until my eyes burned with chlorine, or until the pads of my fingers were so wrinkled they actually hurt. I took swimming lessons, dived for pennies, but I was by no means a natural talent. The last time I attempted to learn how to dive I was 19 and I mastered only the "unintentional belly flop of wild embarrassment" technique. So as you can imagine, it was never something people said, "Hey! You should really go somewhere with this!"
I remember elementary school, being taller and heavier than most of the other girls. I remember not being flexible. I remember that damn Presidential Fitness Test and straining futilely to touch my toes, to complete a pull-up. I remember Track & Field day and being good at two things: sailing over hurdles meant for children four inches shorter than me (but still losing the race because I wasn't very fast) and being the anchor for tug of war. I remember I loved school because the answers came so easily, but I started to hate P.E. for constantly showing me what I wasn't good at.
Burgeoning adolescence helped nothing. I became shyer and more terrified of making a fool of myself in front of others. The changes in my body made my limbs traitors to me. I was singled out by gym teachers as needing to work harder, or else ignored as hopeless. I slowly and steadily ticked off the athletic activities I discovered that I hated, baseball, basketball, archery, flag football, soccer, jump rope, running, tennis, and standing around in the heat. Of all the sports they forced us to try I enjoyed only volleyball and badminton. And biking. I had a black and pink mountain bike that I thought was the best thing in the world, and I rode that thing through the neighborhood, through the creeks and forests near my house all through middle school.
But I grew older, heavier, and crankier. I decided at 13 that a mix of punk/goth fashion and attitude would be the only way I could take control of how I felt like the outsider. It goes without saying that wearing black make-up and black mesh did not further encourage an active lifestyle. I thought idly about losing weight, mostly in unhealthy ways, like smoking, or not eating. Now and again I'd think, "I'll start exercising." It never stuck. I never joined a team (see: I was punk, okay?) A life of sedentary grousing and avoiding the sun seemed quite likely.
Oh but then college happened. Suddenly it felt like everybody had an athletic hobby. My roommate biked. My boyfriend jogged. A classmate was on the swim team, the football team, the soccer team. My friends went to the gym regularly. People told me that they like to kayak, or box, or played racquetball. People signed up for intramural sports. I had all these new friends and yet I was completely helpless to join in their reindeer games because I'd spent the past ten years insisting that I was allergic to working up a sweat.
So "I'll start exercising" became a more common refrain. I became familiar with the elliptical machine. Then broke up with it. I bought Tae Bo videos. Then stopped doing them. I took up walking. Then decided I didn't like walking in the neighborhoods I lived in. I took an interest in yoga. Then started finding other things, like drinking, more interesting. I also broke up with boys and ended up with a fierce yearning for confidence and a sense of control.
At 22 I started a real diet, and a real exercise plan. I decided to become a runner. Running is a mystery to the nonathletic. Why would you just... run? How could it be fun? How could burning lungs, abused knees, and tired legs be fun? How could you want to do it for HOURS at a time? Aren't marathons the literal definition of insanity? Of masochism? (It makes a man's nipples BLEED, people!) But runners are also disgustingly healthy. I wanted that look, that lifestyle, that smug sense of being better than non-runners.
I ran for a minute at a time, then two, then five. I ran a mile, then two, then three. I lost weight, I gained stamina, I found that there was joy to be had in running, in beating a time, in going further. It was often satisfying, sometimes soothing, sometimes fun, but it lacked an important factor: Anticipation. I read about it, about how seasoned runners would find themselves cranky if denied an opportunity to run, about how people felt they needed it.
I didn't realize how important it was at the time, but running could only satisfy me AFTER I did it. Though I could be quite giddy after I finished my final lap, standing at the start of my run I never felt any glee, any butterflies, only dread. Before running I often thought about the time commitment, the sweating, the exertion. Before running I tried to find every possible excuse NOT to do it, even if I knew I eventually would go for my 30 min jog. The smallest hiccup in my routine, in my health and boom, why bother running? After moving to Austin, changing my routine, I gave running up for a year and barely thought about it.
I wasn't a runner. I was a pretender. All the diet books told me plainly that if I couldn't view diet and exercise as temporary fixes, that they had to become a lifestyle change or I'd gain back the weight. I was fiercely afraid of that, but felt too apathetic to fight it. I gave up the lifestyle, I gained a little weight. In a panic I joined the gym and tried to get back into the love of running. It didn't take. The old excuses were back.
Enter figure skating. We fall in love. We hold hands and I marvel at how "I've never felt this way about a sport before." Figure skating smiles and says, "We've only just begun." Enter the nefarious villain the car accident who tries to tear us asunder. As usual the gym falls by the wayside; I do not think about running. Not once. However, at one point in the week I was without a car and scrambling to deal with it, I realized that I would be unable to make it to my customary Thursday practice. I genuinely considered going to skate during my lunch break before heartrendingly and hilariously remember that I DO NOT HAVE A CAR.
I was desperate to skate. Not once in the past four years did I ever feel desperate to run. What running should have been, figure skating is.
Somehow of all the sports that I have tried, dismissed, or watched people perform with longing it's figure skating that finally provides me with anticipation. I look forward to it constantly. I miss it fiercely when faced with the possibility of NOT skating. I smile before I enter the ice. I try to bargain more time out every time I go. I trip, fall, discover my legs are shaking and still I want to skate more. This is why I knew I could commit to a year of learning, to a year of skating.
I guess you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince, and I am thrilled that I finally have.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Kate: Movin' on Up
That is a picture of me ice skating in 1990, age seven. I was going to include a picture of myself skating today, but I can't get the link to work and I want to get this update moving!
Candice and I have been bumped from Adult Basic 1 to Adult Basic 2. We're supposed to get patched for our jackets so we can show off our skills. Whee! I'm excited to move up and learn new things because that's what this whole hobby is about. Stepping outside the comfort zone and trying to be a stronger, more physically fit person.
We had our first Basic 2 class on Saturday and for the first time I really struggled in a skating class. We're learning crossovers, a basic spin, and stroking, all of which are hard. Stroking is very difficult because it involves moving your legs in a way that feels very unnatural, so you have to concentrate and train yourself to do it properly. I practiced it for a long time before I tried crossovers because I want to do things properly. I've always been an impatient person, eager to move ahead and just be good at something already. With skating, I am very willing to work in baby steps. I see what practice does - by the end of class and the half-hour we spent practicing afterwards, I had mastered stroking and could do crossovers with minimal failure. You learn things in bits and pieces in this sport. We learned swizzles, then half swizzles, then stroking, then we combined all of those into crossovers. I was happy with every step. I feel strong and good about myself when I skate. The spin is very difficult because I'm scared of falling, but I'll get it.
Here, also, is a list of what all this blather means for people who aren't figure skaters:
Crossovers: Crossing one foot over the other as a way of gaining speed and turning corners.
Swizzles: A way of moving across the ice on two feet by pushing the feet outwards from a 90 degree angle V and then pulling them together again, forming an oval on the ice. Also known as scissors, fishes, or sculling.
Half Swizzles: Doing swizzles in a circle while keeping one foot steady and using the other to push out.
Stroking: A way of moving across the ice and gaining speed by using the edges of the blades.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Background: Kate
In August of 2008, I packed as much of my stuff as I could into two suitcases and moved my entire life to Japan. I'd been feeling restless after graduating from university and figured that going out to teach in a foreign country and see the world was the way to scratch the itch. At first, I thought it was hands down the worst decision I had ever made in my life, but as I began to make friends and travel and become a better teacher, I slowly fell in love with my life there. The first year was rocky, but the second year got off to a great start - I was doing well at work, I was finally recovered from a broken foot, and I went on a couple of fun trips including a trip to the mountains to go paragliding. My best friend/former roommate/current blog partner Candice came over to see me for my birthday. I was thinking about other places I could travel to, maybe spend a year in South Korea teaching or go to Australia for a working holiday.
On the second day of Candice's visit, I got a call from my dad. My mother had died quite unexpectedly of a heart attack.
Of course, everything came to a screeching halt. We somehow stumbled through the rest of the week, then flew to the US. I decided pretty much immediately that I was going to move home. I returned to Japan two weeks after my mother's funeral and told my boss that I would be leaving the company right before Christmas. I spent the next two months in a fog, waiting until I could be with my family again.
When I came home, I was still pretty shell-shocked. I went to parties where I'd sneak off to cry. I wasn't drinking too much, but it was hard not to try and find some way to drown how sad I was. I live with my father and brother in the house I grew up in. The loss of my mother is tangible here. Her things are still in the closet, her pictures are everywhere. She died here. It was really hard to deal with how suddenly my life had changed - I felt like I didn't belong here anymore, even though Austin is my hometown. For a while, the grief was even worse because I really had to face it. I started trying to move forward step by step though. I spent a few weeks lying around doing nothing, took a trip to Portland and Seattle to see friends, and ended up getting a job as a nanny through a friend of a friend. I joined a gym, my friends invited me out and didn't mind that sometimes I cried in public. I started attending grief counseling.
Then, one night, I went ice skating with some friends. Now, my brother played hockey for ten years, so I grew up around ice rinks. I took lessons as a kid. I've always loved figure skating, but for some reason kept it a secret. Then, when idly talking with Candice, I discovered that Chaparral holds basic skating classes for adults. We signed up, started going skating regularly, and discovered how awesome it is. I love skating - when I get going really fast and just let myself glide with my arms out, it's like flying. So yeah. One year, one Olympic level element. We're gonna do it.
On the second day of Candice's visit, I got a call from my dad. My mother had died quite unexpectedly of a heart attack.
Of course, everything came to a screeching halt. We somehow stumbled through the rest of the week, then flew to the US. I decided pretty much immediately that I was going to move home. I returned to Japan two weeks after my mother's funeral and told my boss that I would be leaving the company right before Christmas. I spent the next two months in a fog, waiting until I could be with my family again.
When I came home, I was still pretty shell-shocked. I went to parties where I'd sneak off to cry. I wasn't drinking too much, but it was hard not to try and find some way to drown how sad I was. I live with my father and brother in the house I grew up in. The loss of my mother is tangible here. Her things are still in the closet, her pictures are everywhere. She died here. It was really hard to deal with how suddenly my life had changed - I felt like I didn't belong here anymore, even though Austin is my hometown. For a while, the grief was even worse because I really had to face it. I started trying to move forward step by step though. I spent a few weeks lying around doing nothing, took a trip to Portland and Seattle to see friends, and ended up getting a job as a nanny through a friend of a friend. I joined a gym, my friends invited me out and didn't mind that sometimes I cried in public. I started attending grief counseling.
Then, one night, I went ice skating with some friends. Now, my brother played hockey for ten years, so I grew up around ice rinks. I took lessons as a kid. I've always loved figure skating, but for some reason kept it a secret. Then, when idly talking with Candice, I discovered that Chaparral holds basic skating classes for adults. We signed up, started going skating regularly, and discovered how awesome it is. I love skating - when I get going really fast and just let myself glide with my arms out, it's like flying. So yeah. One year, one Olympic level element. We're gonna do it.
The Background: Candice
One morning I woke up, opened the fridge and found nothing but half a can of diced tomatoes and some pickles. I was not surprised. I am a single, 26 year old woman living alone in apartment with 2 cats. I had also recently gone on a binge of going out; the past five days I had gone out with friends and bad dates all while working forty hours, exercising, and struggling with an exhuasting cough caused by surprise seasonal allergies. And all while simultaneously not going to the grocery store, not doing the dishes, and refusing to acknowledging that I would eventually find myself facing a Saturday morning alone in a messy apartment with nothing for breakfast.
I dealt with this situation quite practically: I finally went to the grocery store and bought the next week's worth of food. Mostly whole foods, mostly healthy, mostly things I will have to cook myself. And yet while there I bought myself a can of Spaghetti-Os. Shortly before 11am, I sat down with a steaming bowl of carbs and fatty protein. Some people feel guilty about cracking open a can of beer before noon. I feel guilty about refusing to brunch on the fresh fruits and vegetables I bought in a vain attempt to feel like an adult so that I can indulge the same crappy food I ate at 8 years old. The facade of responsibility is undone during a two-minute microwaving of Franco-American bachelorette chow.
Welcome to the life on the twenty-something. Life is a mix of everything you expected, work, happy hours, feeling responsible every time you pay your bills on time, buying elegant and expensive shoes and eating tuna salad on Saltines while standing over the sink in your pajama pants. For every time I feel as though I could be in a TV commercial (happy, successful yuppie girl meets her happy, successful yuppie friends for yoga while talking about their favorite brand of yogurt!) I end up remind myself that, like a commercial, I can only maintain the veneer of perfection for a brief period of time.
In fact, my embracing of the three y's (yuppie-dom, yoga, and yogurt) is itself something of a veneer. I was an unhealthy, unflexible, lower-middle class teenager. Now I set goals for myself (learn more about wine, stay within a calorie count, run a 5k in 35 min.). I no longer have a daily Cheez-it quotient or buy clothes from Wal-Mart, but does that change who I am inside? Am I some sort of classist version of an the term oreo? Yuppie on the outside, white trash on the inside? How thick does the yuppie layer have to be before no one even notices the fact that some members of my family live in tailer parks?
I set my life goals for the day: vacuum, respond to emails, and ice skating. Yes, you read that right. Ice skating. In my entire life I have skated only twice before. Once in Girl Scouts (hated it) and two years ago I went with my best friend and roommate (and now co-blogger) Kate. During the next hour and a half I fell only once (on freshly Zamboni-ed ice) and had a pretty good time. Kate and I were living in San Antonio at the time, suffering through the post-college, post-the dashing of youthful dreams about an easy transition to a fun, successful adulthood. I thought to myself at the time "I should DO this" but of course I didn't. I had important moping to do.
Now because of the recent Winter Olympics and figure skater Johnny Weir's glorious, self-constructed media-blitz I am reminded again of the fun I had back when the only fun I had usually involved drinking and bitterly complaining. Kate and I often get notions (oh do we ever) and we had decided the day before that there was no better way to spend our Saturday night than re-connecting with that old joy. We invited our various hip friends along via Facebook, picked out self-important outfits, and generally thought to ourselves, "Oh this'll be hilarious."
Later that night we approached the ice with hearts filled with irony-ladened amusement. Little did we know where it would end up.
I dealt with this situation quite practically: I finally went to the grocery store and bought the next week's worth of food. Mostly whole foods, mostly healthy, mostly things I will have to cook myself. And yet while there I bought myself a can of Spaghetti-Os. Shortly before 11am, I sat down with a steaming bowl of carbs and fatty protein. Some people feel guilty about cracking open a can of beer before noon. I feel guilty about refusing to brunch on the fresh fruits and vegetables I bought in a vain attempt to feel like an adult so that I can indulge the same crappy food I ate at 8 years old. The facade of responsibility is undone during a two-minute microwaving of Franco-American bachelorette chow.
Welcome to the life on the twenty-something. Life is a mix of everything you expected, work, happy hours, feeling responsible every time you pay your bills on time, buying elegant and expensive shoes and eating tuna salad on Saltines while standing over the sink in your pajama pants. For every time I feel as though I could be in a TV commercial (happy, successful yuppie girl meets her happy, successful yuppie friends for yoga while talking about their favorite brand of yogurt!) I end up remind myself that, like a commercial, I can only maintain the veneer of perfection for a brief period of time.
In fact, my embracing of the three y's (yuppie-dom, yoga, and yogurt) is itself something of a veneer. I was an unhealthy, unflexible, lower-middle class teenager. Now I set goals for myself (learn more about wine, stay within a calorie count, run a 5k in 35 min.). I no longer have a daily Cheez-it quotient or buy clothes from Wal-Mart, but does that change who I am inside? Am I some sort of classist version of an the term oreo? Yuppie on the outside, white trash on the inside? How thick does the yuppie layer have to be before no one even notices the fact that some members of my family live in tailer parks?
I set my life goals for the day: vacuum, respond to emails, and ice skating. Yes, you read that right. Ice skating. In my entire life I have skated only twice before. Once in Girl Scouts (hated it) and two years ago I went with my best friend and roommate (and now co-blogger) Kate. During the next hour and a half I fell only once (on freshly Zamboni-ed ice) and had a pretty good time. Kate and I were living in San Antonio at the time, suffering through the post-college, post-the dashing of youthful dreams about an easy transition to a fun, successful adulthood. I thought to myself at the time "I should DO this" but of course I didn't. I had important moping to do.
Now because of the recent Winter Olympics and figure skater Johnny Weir's glorious, self-constructed media-blitz I am reminded again of the fun I had back when the only fun I had usually involved drinking and bitterly complaining. Kate and I often get notions (oh do we ever) and we had decided the day before that there was no better way to spend our Saturday night than re-connecting with that old joy. We invited our various hip friends along via Facebook, picked out self-important outfits, and generally thought to ourselves, "Oh this'll be hilarious."
Later that night we approached the ice with hearts filled with irony-ladened amusement. Little did we know where it would end up.
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