Here is what I know about self-doubt: it can be debilitating, paralyzing, all-consuming. It can grow out of the most minor of comments, sideways glances and deep sighs. It can stop you mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-free-throw, fumbling into your next move with shaking hands and a furrowed brow.
Here is what I know about me: the tiniest iota of outside disapproval can, on occasion, multiply inside of me exponentially, filling me with big thoughts of all of my shortcomings. That tiny voice in my head (the one that is usually quieted by positive thoughts) gets louder and nastier and suddenly I can't hear myself think. It stops me in my tracks and I become horribly ineffective.
So given this knowledge, it seems to me that the most practical option would be to eliminate self-doubt; to ignore anyone who dares suggest that I am anything less than beautiful, brilliant, charming and talented. Not in a touchy-feely "I'm OK, you're OK" kind of way, but simply because it makes the most sense. Because I know that the moment I start to believe the naysayers, I run the risk of losing my way and, worse, proving them right.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
rescue me
I got locked in my own bedroom last night.
It was 11 PM and I was alone in my apartment. I was nearly ready to go to sleep, but I still needed to brush my teeth. I put on my slippers, reached for the rickety old doorknob on my bedroom door and twisted, as per usual...but nothing happened. I jiggled the doorknob--still nothing. I gave the knob a good solid shake-and-clockwise-twist...and the knob came off in my hand.
There I stood, all alone, knob-in-hand, teeth un-brushed. All I could think was, fuuuuuuck.
Plus, I needed to pee.
After nearly 45 minutes of some very poor wannabe-Macgyver -like (probably more Macgruber-like, actually) attempts to dismantle the hinges of the door using a paperclip and a pair of scissors, I gave up and called my roommate, who was across town at her boyfriend's house. My some miracle, she answered, hopped in a cab and came home to save me.
We tried, together, to open the door. With the door between us, we screwed the knob back in and attempted to unlatch it, with no luck. I was so stuck (and I really needed to pee). So, my roommate did what any good roommate would do. She called the fire department.
Two minutes later, I heard sirens getting closer and closer. Thirty seconds after that, I heard heavy footsteps and deep voices in the hall.
The firefighters tried their best to keep the door intact, but I think we all knew what would have to happen, so after ten-or-so minutes of trying to maneuver the latch, I heard a deep voice instruct me to "clear the door!"
One shove and a loud kick later, I was face-to-face with three uniform-clad firefighters. One of them reached down and picked up the knob and latch that was laying on the floor. "Here you go," he said, gently placing them in my hand. "This is broken. Sorry about that."
I know there's a metaphor in here somewhere. Something about saving myself, needing to be rescued, etc. But for now, I'm just happy to be out of my bedroom, with full access to the bathroom.
Not to mention I got to be rescued by firefighters.
It was 11 PM and I was alone in my apartment. I was nearly ready to go to sleep, but I still needed to brush my teeth. I put on my slippers, reached for the rickety old doorknob on my bedroom door and twisted, as per usual...but nothing happened. I jiggled the doorknob--still nothing. I gave the knob a good solid shake-and-clockwise-twist...and the knob came off in my hand.
There I stood, all alone, knob-in-hand, teeth un-brushed. All I could think was, fuuuuuuck.
Plus, I needed to pee.
After nearly 45 minutes of some very poor wannabe-Macgyver -like (probably more Macgruber-like, actually) attempts to dismantle the hinges of the door using a paperclip and a pair of scissors, I gave up and called my roommate, who was across town at her boyfriend's house. My some miracle, she answered, hopped in a cab and came home to save me.
We tried, together, to open the door. With the door between us, we screwed the knob back in and attempted to unlatch it, with no luck. I was so stuck (and I really needed to pee). So, my roommate did what any good roommate would do. She called the fire department.
Two minutes later, I heard sirens getting closer and closer. Thirty seconds after that, I heard heavy footsteps and deep voices in the hall.
The firefighters tried their best to keep the door intact, but I think we all knew what would have to happen, so after ten-or-so minutes of trying to maneuver the latch, I heard a deep voice instruct me to "clear the door!"
One shove and a loud kick later, I was face-to-face with three uniform-clad firefighters. One of them reached down and picked up the knob and latch that was laying on the floor. "Here you go," he said, gently placing them in my hand. "This is broken. Sorry about that."
I know there's a metaphor in here somewhere. Something about saving myself, needing to be rescued, etc. But for now, I'm just happy to be out of my bedroom, with full access to the bathroom.
Not to mention I got to be rescued by firefighters.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
the emperor of ice cream
The other night, I made ice cream for the first time. Having never made ice cream before, I spent time in the days that preceded researching potential recipes, searching for the absolute best one. I read my ice cream maker's accompanying instruction booklet cover-to-cover. I wanted to be prepared. Finally, I found the one.
But when it came time to actually make the ice cream, I turned into a nervous wreck. I checked and re-checked the amounts listed in the recipe twenty-five times. I worried that I'd miss an ingredient, improperly measure something, drop egg shells in the custard or find some other way to completely ruin things. Me! Kitchen-confident, non-measuring me! Makes-her-living-writing-recipes-for-God's-sake me!
The ice cream, of course, turned out amazingly well (a last-minute addition of crushed Oreos made it even better). It occurred to me, as I pondered my bout of anxiety after the fact, that maybe this little incident is indicative of my innermost feelings about following rules: I am both a people-pleaser and a trail-blazer at once. An over-achiever and a rebel. I strive for success, with one caveat--I want to get there in my own way, on my own time. The ice cream recipe was extremely simple, but somehow, its very existence seemed limiting--as if the words could potentially leap off the page and berate me for doing it wrong.
I suppose I'll have to get over that.
But when it came time to actually make the ice cream, I turned into a nervous wreck. I checked and re-checked the amounts listed in the recipe twenty-five times. I worried that I'd miss an ingredient, improperly measure something, drop egg shells in the custard or find some other way to completely ruin things. Me! Kitchen-confident, non-measuring me! Makes-her-living-writing-recipes-for-God's-sake me!
The ice cream, of course, turned out amazingly well (a last-minute addition of crushed Oreos made it even better). It occurred to me, as I pondered my bout of anxiety after the fact, that maybe this little incident is indicative of my innermost feelings about following rules: I am both a people-pleaser and a trail-blazer at once. An over-achiever and a rebel. I strive for success, with one caveat--I want to get there in my own way, on my own time. The ice cream recipe was extremely simple, but somehow, its very existence seemed limiting--as if the words could potentially leap off the page and berate me for doing it wrong.
I suppose I'll have to get over that.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
pepper spray
On Saturday night I listened to my best friend Katie tell a group of my friends in a bar one of my favorite stories of our teenage years:
We were at a beach party (OK, "beach" is a bit of a stretch. It was a party on the bank of a river.). I was flirting heavily with a cute boy who told me I was "pretty enough to be in Seventeen Magazine." It was cheesy, but it was working.
Katie did not like him.
She shot me looks. She huffed and puffed. I did not notice. I was smitten...and a little bit drunk.
Eventually, said boy invited me to "take a walk." Obviously, I obliged, but as we turned, arm-in-arm to begin our "walk," Katie thrust into my hand, in plain view of the boy, a can of pepper spray.
As she finished the story at the bar, I chimed in, "...and needless to say, I didn't get very far that night," to which she added, "True. But you didn't get hurt either." That's my Katie, in a nutshell.
I've been very lucky thus far. I've never been in a situation in which I would actually need pepper spray, but the metaphor of the pepper spray--defense on the ready--has stuck with me over the years. Often, I've felt as if I've put myself in potentially "dangerous" situations, armed with a can of emotional pepper spray in my purse, constantly prepared to protect myself (ie: my heart).
Lately though, I've been wondering if this is the best course for me. Perhaps, rather than putting myself in harm's way (which may or may not manifest in the grown-up version of a boy who would use a line suggesting that my beauty is magazine-worthy), I should listen to my best friend, as well as my conscience. Maybe then I won't need so much pepper spray, proverbial or otherwise.
We were at a beach party (OK, "beach" is a bit of a stretch. It was a party on the bank of a river.). I was flirting heavily with a cute boy who told me I was "pretty enough to be in Seventeen Magazine." It was cheesy, but it was working.
Katie did not like him.
She shot me looks. She huffed and puffed. I did not notice. I was smitten...and a little bit drunk.
Eventually, said boy invited me to "take a walk." Obviously, I obliged, but as we turned, arm-in-arm to begin our "walk," Katie thrust into my hand, in plain view of the boy, a can of pepper spray.
As she finished the story at the bar, I chimed in, "...and needless to say, I didn't get very far that night," to which she added, "True. But you didn't get hurt either." That's my Katie, in a nutshell.
I've been very lucky thus far. I've never been in a situation in which I would actually need pepper spray, but the metaphor of the pepper spray--defense on the ready--has stuck with me over the years. Often, I've felt as if I've put myself in potentially "dangerous" situations, armed with a can of emotional pepper spray in my purse, constantly prepared to protect myself (ie: my heart).
Lately though, I've been wondering if this is the best course for me. Perhaps, rather than putting myself in harm's way (which may or may not manifest in the grown-up version of a boy who would use a line suggesting that my beauty is magazine-worthy), I should listen to my best friend, as well as my conscience. Maybe then I won't need so much pepper spray, proverbial or otherwise.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
feet first
I recently got a pair of Vibram Five Fingers, an athletic shoe that offers the "barefooting alternative." Essentially, they conform to your feet, protecting them from the ground and the elements, while allowing them to move freely, almost as if you aren't wearing shoes. Supposedly, this is a superior way to move.
It took a little work to get them on--you have to wiggle each toe into its enclosure individually. They're kind of silly-looking; as the eight-year-old I spent the weekend babysitting for said, they look "like you stuck your feet in the tar pits and somehow managed to get them out." That said, they're amazingly comfortable--it's easy to forget you have anything on when you're wearing them.
I had yet to wear them on my nightly run. I'd been nervous that the hard concrete of my neighborhood would be too much for them and that I would injure my feet. Still, they weren't doing me any good sitting in the corner of my bedroom. Tonight, I decided, would be my test run...literally.
It was, in a word, amazing. I could feel every inch of pavement as it hit my feet, but it didn't hurt--I just knew it was there. Without an inch-and-a-half of rubber between my feet and the street, as with regular running shoes, I could actually feel my feet hit the road--heel, ball, toe, heel, ball, toe...I've never been so aware of how my feet move. My stride actually changed as my comfort increased--from quick, pounding trudges to light little leaps. The shift changed the way my whole body moved--to the point that my yoga pants went cascading down my hips a few times.
It occurred to me as I sailed down Valencia Street, that the barefooting alternative might be a good way to live--in the bigger picture. Beyond running, the idea of feeling everything, increasing my awareness of my surroundings and how I move, behave, speak and feel, with the goal of getting in touch with how I naturally exist in the world seems like a pretty good one to me.
It took a little work to get them on--you have to wiggle each toe into its enclosure individually. They're kind of silly-looking; as the eight-year-old I spent the weekend babysitting for said, they look "like you stuck your feet in the tar pits and somehow managed to get them out." That said, they're amazingly comfortable--it's easy to forget you have anything on when you're wearing them.
I had yet to wear them on my nightly run. I'd been nervous that the hard concrete of my neighborhood would be too much for them and that I would injure my feet. Still, they weren't doing me any good sitting in the corner of my bedroom. Tonight, I decided, would be my test run...literally.
It was, in a word, amazing. I could feel every inch of pavement as it hit my feet, but it didn't hurt--I just knew it was there. Without an inch-and-a-half of rubber between my feet and the street, as with regular running shoes, I could actually feel my feet hit the road--heel, ball, toe, heel, ball, toe...I've never been so aware of how my feet move. My stride actually changed as my comfort increased--from quick, pounding trudges to light little leaps. The shift changed the way my whole body moved--to the point that my yoga pants went cascading down my hips a few times.
It occurred to me as I sailed down Valencia Street, that the barefooting alternative might be a good way to live--in the bigger picture. Beyond running, the idea of feeling everything, increasing my awareness of my surroundings and how I move, behave, speak and feel, with the goal of getting in touch with how I naturally exist in the world seems like a pretty good one to me.
Monday, March 1, 2010
primal
I've been thinking lately about primal experiences; those moments when you don't think, you just act.
Yesterday morning, my mother and I were returning to my parents' house after a walk around a nearby creek when a huge brown dog came charging at us, barking and snarling. Without a sound, she gripped my right arm, flung me to her other side and dragged me across the street, covering me with her arms. Me, her nearly-twenty-eight-year-old adult daughter. With a look of fearless mama bear rage on her face, she instructed the dog to "GO!" It stared her down for a moment and then trotted away, but there was no doubt in my mind that, had the dog come any closer, my mother, usually an animal lover, would have beaten the crap out of it.
When I attempted to make light of our "near-attack" a few moments later, she simply looked at me, shook her head and said, "Just wait until you have children."
I think that times like this give us a glimpse of what we're made of--our essence. My mom, for example, is warm, kind, empathetic and loving. She is a brilliant psychologist who makes her living helping people.
And she will tear you apart if you try to hurt her baby.
Yesterday morning, my mother and I were returning to my parents' house after a walk around a nearby creek when a huge brown dog came charging at us, barking and snarling. Without a sound, she gripped my right arm, flung me to her other side and dragged me across the street, covering me with her arms. Me, her nearly-twenty-eight-year-old adult daughter. With a look of fearless mama bear rage on her face, she instructed the dog to "GO!" It stared her down for a moment and then trotted away, but there was no doubt in my mind that, had the dog come any closer, my mother, usually an animal lover, would have beaten the crap out of it.
When I attempted to make light of our "near-attack" a few moments later, she simply looked at me, shook her head and said, "Just wait until you have children."
I think that times like this give us a glimpse of what we're made of--our essence. My mom, for example, is warm, kind, empathetic and loving. She is a brilliant psychologist who makes her living helping people.
And she will tear you apart if you try to hurt her baby.
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