New Year's Revolution

I have been gaining and losing the same fifteen pounds for the last two years. It's frustrating because I'll do OK for a while and then I balloon back up again. I had hoped to be at my goal weight by the end of this year, but today I weigh just about the same as I did in January 2010

I've had it.

My resolutions for 2013 revolve around getting stronger and increasing stamina. No weight loss goals at all. I won't gain weight, but I'm not going to try to lose any either. Whatever I weigh tomorrow morning is what I weigh and I'm done. I am absolutely changing my focus and I'm not turning back.

I'm tired of being frustrated and slamming my head against a wall all the time. I'm tired of being mad at myself and beating myself up. This year instead of making myself miserable because I don't weigh what I'm "supposed to", I'm setting strength and endurance goals and am working on meeting them.

So, I did some research and worked out some goals for myself for the standard lifts in the gym and I've already been working on my running goal since October, so it's just a continuation. Anyway, here's the list:

My one rep max on the following lifts will be:
Deadlift 100% bodyweight
Squat 100% bodyweight
Bench 33% bodyweight
Overhead press 20% bodyweight

My reps for the following bodyweight exercises will be:
Push-ups (full) 10
Dips (full) 3
Pull-ups (dead hang) 1

I will be able to run for a full 30 minutes without stopping.

I will not gain weight.

I'll test everything during the last two weeks of December 2013. Wish me strength and happiness. Luck doesn't have a damn thing to do with it.

Control

I've heard some writers say they have a hard time controlling their characters. I've heard other writers say that you created them and therefore you are controlling them whether you think you are or not. I think the truth falls somewhere in between.

Yes, they are our creations. Once we create them, they have lives of their own. It would be nice if our creations would behave the way we want them to, just like it would be nice if our children would behave the way we want them to. If you have children, you know this is a crap shoot on the best of days. Taking this a step further, I imagine the gods spend a lot of time throwing up their hands and rolling their eyes at the way we act, too.

I've spent a lot of time on my current draft of my novel trying to make my female protagonist behave. She's a hormonal young adult and is willing to throw herself at the mercy of her male counterparts all too easily. I feel like I've done nothing but snatch her out of someone else's bed time and time again. What she wants to do is not what's best for her or the story, so I keep prodding her. I imagine the gods do the what they can to influence us, but ultimately, they have to allow us to be who we are and we have to let our characters have their heads, too. Like raising children, complete control is a myth. Watching them bump their heads is painful but it nets change that moves them forward or changes their direction completely. Neither one is all good or all bad and it's almost always interesting.

In the end, I usually let my characters have their heads through the first draft. In the second draft I do some pushing and molding. By the third draft, they have generally figured out who they are and so have I and we work together reasonably well, but sometimes I still struggle with letting them just "be".

Sandy Hook and other like tragedies...

I'm only weighing in on this because I feel like I have to. I'm sorry all those children and adults died. I'm more sorry for their families. Losing a family member tears a family apart. Been there, done that, though not in such a violent way.

Before I start and you get your panties in a wad, understand that I am viewing this strictly from my personal perspective and experiences. I am not trying to start an argument, just getting my opinion out there so it can stop tumbling around in my head.

I can only think of two people who I have known personally who have died through violent means. These are people I had talked to or maybe even shook hands with but not people I would have called "friends". One was a kid a year or two younger than me in high school. He was standing in line at a McDonald's when a mental patient came up behind him and sliced his throat open with a knife. The other was an older gentleman who blew his own head off with a shotgun.

We don't need a ban on assault weapons. We don't need a ban on any kind of weapon. What we need is to stop turning our backs on people with mental health problems. We need to stop saying "it's just a phase" or "he'll pull himself together" and start recognizing these things earlier so we can get a handle on them before they turn into something we will all regret.

Tired

I'm tired.

Not just physically, but mentally. The older I get, the more tired I get. Being physically tired is one thing. You can rest or sleep or eat and feel better. You might hurt more or move slower but that's all. Being mentally tired, on the other hand, is a bigger challenge. Not only are you less able to react to life as it explodes in your face, but your filter starts shutting down. When I'm mentally tired, I say the first thing or take the first action that comes to my mind instead of thinking it through. So, if you do something dumb or irritating, you're as likely to meet my middle finger as anything else. If you say something stupid, I'm going to let you know just how stupid you are. When I'm not dragged out, I'll actually take a breath before I speak and choose my words relatively carefully.

I'm not sure what to do to get "un-tired". I don't have children. I'm only working one job. And yet, everyday I feel like I don't have enough time to do all the things I need to do, much less the things I want to. I don't understand how my days suddenly got so short. A month or two ago, I didn't feel like this.

I think it's because I'm tired.

Shh...Don't tell anyone.

I hesitate to write this because every time I get excited about something or brag about it, I get kicked in the teeth. But, I think I've found the key to being able to run consistently: Run only twice a week.

At the beginning of September, I started running like I have every fall for the last five years. And, like every other year, I got injured. I was only running four days a week and following a very conservative run/walk program, but still my knees got pissed and swelled up, making even walking painful. This year, although I was lighter than I had been any previous year, it took me all of two weeks to get there.

So, I laid off completely until the beginning of October. Then I began running again, but only twice a week. It's been eight weeks now and I'm suffering no extended adverse effects.

I walk a half mile or so to warm up. Currently, I'm running 15 seconds and walking 45 but tomorrow I up it to 20/40. The first week of the month, I do it 9 times, increasing it by 3 times each run until I'm doing the run/walk combo 30 times. My total mileage for each run ranges from 2 - 3.5 miles depending on how many times I'm running and where I'm running (meaning the track v/s the neighborhood). If the gods are willing and the creek doesn't rise, in January I'll be running 30 seconds and walking 2 minutes until I've done that combo for a total of thirty minutes.

I would very much like to be running a full 30-45 minutes straight by the end of 2013. I know that's a long time off, but I'm tired of learning my limits the hard way. If I push too hard, my body lets me know and it's not kind about it. The old girl can be a bitch and I'd rather fool her into being strong by easing her along than push her until she pushes back and knocks me on my ass.

Here's to a month of twice a week runs and no setbacks. Wish me luck.

Set that shit down and walk away...

For me, the hardest thing about writing is that I become enamored with my stories. I love going back and reading my old work and this sometimes interferes with getting started on new work. If I went back and read every old story and fragment I've written, I'd lose two weeks of work easily. And I've found that I can get a lot of writing done in two weeks.

Not only do I love reading it, I love playing with it. Tweaking this scene, adjusting that language, adding or deleting parts. There goes another week or more just messing around.

I even love taking my characters and putting them in new places. my current project is actually just another two months in the life of my immortal daemon. I don't remember exactly when I conceived him but it was more than ten years ago. He started out as a short story. Then he was in a second short story which became a 65,000 word novel and now he's in a second novel which promises to be longer still. This is less of a time suck because at least I'm producing new material.

Sometimes I have to take my notebooks and put them away for a while just so I can get on with something new. I wonder if other writers are this pathetic or if it's just me.

Words Are Things.

The list of things that piss me off is long and varied. The situation happened several weeks ago but is still topping my list this week, hence the post.

If you are lucky enough to have a partner who takes care of you, do not whine that they don't bring you flowers. Romance is nice, but it doesn't pay the bills, get the kids off to school or hold your hair out of the way while you pray to the porcelain god.

If romance is higher on your hierarchy of needs than the current support your partner provides, then quit whining and kick them to the curb. Surely you'll be able to find someone who wants to bring you wine and chocolate (or beer and pork rinds--whatever).

I realize that I have the benefit of the long view. Twenty-five years of marriage provides you with a great deal of pretty excellent life-lessons. Gifts are nice, but I'd rather have a man who stands beside me even when I'm sick, drunk, and moody. Especially if he can withstand all three happening at once.

I am lucky. My man likes to surprise me--even if it's just with a chocolate crucifix during PMS week. But even if he didn't, I've got twenty-five years of compassion and tolerance and that means more to me than a love poem ever could.

Case in point. I've had migraines for about twenty years now. Two to four episodes a month lasting one to three days. Do that math. When I'm down for the count, not only does he take care of himself but he watches over me. When the offspring was little, he'd take care of him as well. That in addition to putting up with the shitty, whiny, self-pitying moods that go along with visits from Mme. Migraine. If this was all he did, he'd be worth twice his weight in gold.

I'm not saying he doesn't have his faults. I'm not saying he doesn't make me mad. I'm saying that even when I'm angry, nothing outweighs our relationship. We are more than the sum of our parts and I would be less of a person on my own.

If you're unhappy with your relationship, either work to make it better or end it, but don't whine about it. Especially not publicly. Words are things. If you broadcast that you don't appreciate your partner, you can bet that somebody reading it will be happy to take them off your hands.

Rules for My Funeral

1. NO WAKE. I do not want people "mooning and dripping" over my dead body. (Quote from Ila Reyna. If you see her, thank her for me.)
2. NO FUNERAL. See above. Cremate me and do what you will with my ashes. The toilet seems like a fine place. Or you could put me into a stuffed animal that you carry around a la Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love. Whatever. I'm easy.
3. PARTY. Throw one. Invite all my friends and any of yours that have met me even once.
4. JACK DANIELS. Lay in a pretty good supply. You'll need at least a couple bottles to accomplish the next objective.
5. TESTIFY. As folks walk in the door, hand them the bottle of Jack. If they want, they can take a drink. If not, they can just hold the bottle. Say one bad thing about me or tell a story about a time when I was especially bitchy. I am not an angel nor a goddess and I guarantee I will not become one after I die. Tell it like it is. I will not be deified after death.
6. PLAY MUSIC. Goo Goo Dolls, Collective Soul, Black Veil Brides, Scorpions, All That Remains, Three Days Grace, James Taylor, Barry Manilow, John Petrucci, Apocalyptica, Coheed and Cambria and any new music I like.
7. LAUGH. You'll have enough to cry about while you're still alive, don't cry over me. I won't be crying, I promise you.

Random Thoughts

• For the first time in fifteen years, I am thin enough to wear my wedding ring. I have twenty pounds to go, but this is a victory which I am celebrating.
• Speaking of the End of the World diet: I am plateauing. Bad. I keep losing and gaining the same two pounds. A month ago I went vegetarian again. It has not helped. Or at least it hasn't helped the weight loss. I'm sure I'm slightly healthier than when I was eating meat. So, now I'm limiting my alcohol consumption to two drinks on Sundays (after I've weighed and measured) and I'm going to up my workouts. We'll see what this does for me by the beginning of November. It had better do something if I'm going to be limiting my conversations with Mr. Daniel to once a week.
• My writing friend, Aarin, contacted me after not hearing from him for about four years. If I said I was just excited, it would be a lie. I'm ecstatic. I sent him Novel One to read and he sent me his latest. I'm a lot nervous because he's the first pair of eyes to see it besides mine. So, we'll see...
• I'm thinking about doing a perimenopause post. I read an article recently that said that your migraines and mental illness increase while you're going through it. That explains a lot.
• I am proud of my gray hairs and wrinkles. I've worked hard to get them. Today, however, I noticed three things: I'm getting a couple of wrinkles on my upper lip that are actually making me look old. Instead of having a gray hair here and there, I actually have some locks of hair that contain two gray hairs. I've had some of my gray hairs long enough for them to have multiple split ends.
• Big ole flea market in town for the weekend. We're going this morning, despite the cold and wind. I want to see if I can find a couple more Pyrex loaf pans. I want to make bread today and it would be cool if they were actually shaped like a sandwich loaf instead of a hearth loaf. I may also look for some Tupperware containers. Somehow, I never seem to have enough of them.

Magic Bullets

We all spend a lot of time looking and praying for magic bullets. I know I do. I know you do, too. It's how we're wired. We think if we can just find that one magic bullet, we can lose all the weight we need to lose. If we find it, we'll make all the money we'll ever need. If we get shot with it, our pain will go away. Then we would be happy and live the life of our dreams, right?

Nope. Not even if you found them all and stood in front of a firing line and were riddled with them.

Wanna know why? Because once that magic bullet worked, you'd turn your focus to something else that made you unhappy and be wishing for a magic bullet to fix that for you, too. I know this because my old man called me out on it today. We've had a pretty good month as months go and today I started stewing because my tags are expired on my old car (which isn't running) and I need to either get new tags or get rid of the car and it needs to be cleaned out and I'm tired and I don't want to do it and waa, waa, waa.

You (and I) would be better served by enjoying this moment. Just this one. Because you don't truly know if you'll get another moment. Or the next moment might be hideous. If, in this moment, you are comfortable, just go with it. I'm not saying don't plan and work toward the future, I'm saying stay present so you can be at peace with whatever happens next. So if it's great you can smile along with the Universe and if it sucks, you can pull up your jeans and lean into it until it passes.

But if you find one of those magic bullets, call me. Maybe I can stand behind you while you get shot with it.

Negative Voices in my Head

Part of my implosion seems to have much to do with the way I talk to myself. (Which I do more and more lately--but that's a story for another post.) Anyway, as soon as I get frustrated, the first thing I hear myself say is "I hate everything". Yes, like my brain might be four years old and think that it's the center of the universe. My rational mind knows that chaos rules and that even when it seems like the world is against me, it's just how life is going at that moment and has nothing to do with me. It's that little voice in my head that thinks it's important that's stomping it's little, angry feet.

The other voices I'm hearing more and more lately are those snotty high school girls. You know the ones. The ones who are prettier, smarter, and more creative than you and remind you of it constantly. "Who do you think you are? You can't do that." On the days when I really "can't do that" it just reinforces the building holding my pity party. I'm arrogant by nature, though I try to hide it, and I hate it when the voices in my head are right.

I've been trying to counter Negative Nancy with Grateful Grace.  When Nancy is complaining that she hates everything and is mad because I think I'm better than I am, Grace talks about what she's thankful for at that moment. "No, I can't run today because my knee is hurting (AGAIN!) but I can walk and no one has to push me around in a wheelchair." Or "Yes, I know the scale went up a pound instead of down, but I have food to eat and a solid roof to eat it under." Or "The fact that I even have time to write is a gift." Grace is getting her ass beat, but at least she keeps standing up to give it a go.

Death of a Character

So, I read The Mists of Avalon again. I read it several times when I was in high school and I loved it. When I found out The Forest House was out, I read that, too. I love Marion Zimmer Bradley.

That said, now that I am reading her again (thanks to my husband who has recently gone on Amazon and bought me all of the Avalon novels) I am stunned by the overwhelming sadness of her work. I finished Mists and Forest House. In both novels, several of her characters die. In Forest House, both of her main characters die and it is not a pretty death.

I've done a lot of writing. In all that time, I've only had one character die. And, when I realized that they were going to die, I cried. I then dried my tears and finished writing it. Still, even now, it's hard for me to read. How hard must it have been for Bradley to know that her characters were not going to make it beyond the end of the novel? I wonder if she cried when she wrote it.

Anyway, I'm two novels into the saga. I have several more to go. I'm wondering if I am going to feel this back-breaking sadness in all the rest of her novels. I don't remember feeling this way when I read her the first time. I wonder if it's because I am older and I have been in love and married and given birth that I'm now able to see the desperate sadness that she wove into her tales. I wonder if my writing has changed to reflect how I have changed over the years.

I don't know. I do know that I've finished writing one novel and I finished Draft Two of the second one. I'm letting it sit until November, when I will start working on Draft Three which I intend to be my final draft. I have a short story with one of the same characters and that is actually the story where my only character has died. Maybe when I am done with Novel Two, I will go back and rework that short story into a novel and see where that takes me. Although, I don't know how I will deal with writing Corinna's death all over again. I guess I'll just cry and get over it.

Creating My Bubble

I've started to feel more and more that I need to cut myself off from the rest of humanity in order to retain my sanity. Not from the people I love and care about, but from the rest of the world. Working in the medical community, where I've experienced so much of other people's pain and suffering, has increased my desire for this just about ten-fold.

Aside from my conversations with Mr. Daniel, I've found the easiest way to do this is to move at a different speed from everyone else and make myself deaf and blind, if possible.  For example, when I'm driving, I'm that car that's going ten miles below the speed limit. If you were in the car with me, we wouldn't be talking because the music would be too loud. On the days when I walk/jog my three miles, I've got the iPod in one ear, I'm whispering the lyrics, and my glasses are halfway down my nose, so I have to tilt my head up to see out of them.

Is it safe? Nope. But, let's be honest, if something bad is going to happen to me, seeing it coming isn't likely to stop it. I'm not completely oblivious, but in my head, I'm in my own space and no one can bother me. If I'm too slow for them, they can go around me. If they're too slow for me, I can go around them. If I can't see them look at me, I can pretend that they don't exist.

I need my own space. I need to be able to heal myself when I've spent the day absorbing other folk's misery. I can't always turn to Mr. Daniel because it's not good for me and sometimes it's not even legal to do so. So if cranking my music and traveling at my own pace without the benefit of my glasses gives me that healing, then just pass me if I'm in your way.

It Doesn't Matter How Tired You Are...

...don't skip your workouts.

Aunt Flo and Mme. Migraine ganged up on me last week. So, I backed off my workouts and didn't do any from Thursday through yesterday.

Know what I got for my lack of effort? A torqued neck. It's better today, but my range of motion still sucks.

Lesson learned? Get off your ass and do your workout. You won't feel any more tired afterward than you already do if you ass is dragging and if you don't do it, you're more likely to get hurt doing some little thing that shouldn't hurt anyone.

By the way, NO idea how it happened except that I did way too much sitting during that time. I'm happier and better off when I'm moving.

I Miss Blogging

Since I quit my job as a CNA, I've missed blogging. I kept thinking that I needed to have a cause or a plan or a subject in order to have a blog. But, if you look around out there, there are a LOT of blogs about nothing in particular. So, this blog is about me, which is decidedly nothing in particular.

Stuff I'll be posting about:

• My World's End Diet. Whatever I weigh at the end of this year is what I'm going to weigh. I'm not going to keep trying to lose weight, just maintain wherever I happen to be at. I'm sick of beating myself up because I can't get the numbers on the scale to go down. Of course, until then, I plan on kicking my own ass.
• My Writing Career. I'm working on my second novel which, so far, is taking 6 years less to finish than my last one. 
• My Jaunt Through Perimenopause Land. I'm about two years in, as best I can tell, and it sucks. 
• Shit That Makes Me Happy. Music. My Old Man. My Dogs. Not necessarily in that order.

So why name the blog Tracy Implosion? If you're familiar with Metalocalypse, you know the lead singer's name is Nathan Explosion. One day, my husband had me pull up a band on YouTube (which I cannot remember the name of now) because he thought I'd like it. I told him it was OK, but the screaming wasn't guttural enough. He asked who I was and what I had done with his wife. After I stopped laughing, he said that I had become Tracy Explosion. Well, not really. But I think I might be imploding. So there you go.