Saturday, October 23, 2010

Festive Fall Flouncey Cowl

Finished the fall cowl today.

It's... meh. I bound it off using a stretchy method thinking that'd be good for ease in going over the head, but it turned out like the all American high school girl desperate for popularity. A litle too loose.

Speaking of, did you see the Glee GQ photos? They make me uncomfortable. Dianna is so beautiful I don't know why the photos make her look waxy. And Lea? Oh Lea. You seem like you have yourself together, but these photos make it look like you let your principles be traded for the promise of exposure and a Tootsie pop.

I'll plead Halloween for them. That makes it acceptable ("Halloween is the one night a year where girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.")("The hardcore ones just go for lingerie with some sort of animal ears.").

Anyway. A far less revealing photo, though there is some see through lace work! SCANDAL!

It's off to my future mother-in-law.

Over the past few months of residency when I was two screaming children away from ripping my hair out and walking back to the East Coast a care package from her would arrive. Little things like fun pajamas or Halloween earrings (see bats in above photo); just something to perk my spirits up and remind me that there are people rooting for me.

Hopefully this cowl will do the same for her.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Evidently A Bug's Life came out in 1998

I get ma’am-ed a lot these days. I mean, I kind of get it. I’m a resident, I work eighty hours a week, I’m past the quarter century mark. I don’t look, how shall we say… fresh! pert! remotely well-rested! Which I guess are terms that in many ways translate to youth.

I’ve also sprouted some curves that in reality, I don’t altogether hate, it’s just frustrating when I try to wear an outfit that used to be a go-to and now makes my midsection resemble a penis caught in a zipper, all flesh akimbo and painful to the eye.

I guess this maturation of my body is a give away.

I don’t feel that different than when I was seventeen, back when I’d resent being called, “Miss.”

I guess it’s true that you always want what you don’t have. Back then I’d have gotten a kick out of being a Ma’am; now I practically tip any person who addresses me as Miss.

I suppose that since the bulk of my week is spent responding to “Dr.” it does mean I’m pass the Miss stage… but that’s just so weird. In my mind I’m still a kid. Though there has been sufficient evidence to the contrary of late…

A few weeks ago when I was on the general pediatric wards I had a patient who was suspected to have Stevens-Johnson syndrome. When the dermatologist came to evaluate him and give recommendations she was skeptical. It didn’t look altogether consistent with SJS… She was like, “You know… his eyes don’t look that red… I mean, they’re no worse than yours right now, and you’re post a what, 30 hour call?”

I wasn’t.

I was on hour three of the day.

Then when I went to the Dance Place last week (which, incidentally, I didn’t tell you about because the class I went to was cancelled and my schedule didn’t jive with the remainder of theirs, so… to be continued) to ask how to sign up for classes the guy whipped out a schedule and without even asking pointed me to the Beginner Adult classes.

Just like that! I mean, he assumed correctly, but… still! Oh whine whine whine.

I was also wearing my “Bugs Kick Grass” t-shirt featuring Hopper from Pixar’s A Bug’s Life which caused a cashier earlier in the day to ask, “Holy cow. How old is that shirt!? I haven’t thought about that movie in forever.”

She then proceeded to not card me for the wine I was buying because if I owned a shirt that old I was surely old enough to buy alcohol.

(For the record I was post-work out. I don’t typically wear character t-shirts in a vain attempt to appear younger.)(Yet.)

So, life goes on. I have a medical degree, I’m getting married, I pay rent and own cats... I have blood shot eyes more often than clear, I can pass for over 21 without an ID and I’m physically not a tween anymore.

My valedictory address in high school revolved around Britney Spears’ “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman,” single (because the theme of the speeches that day was "Songs.")(Okay, I guess that still doesn’t excuse it)(I stand by it though, for the record.) wherein I mused about being somewhere in between and how I couldn’t wait to get to the next stage of life and become a full fledged capital double you Woman.

I guess I’m there.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Let's get physical.

People say that exercising makes you happy (“And happy people just don’t shoot their husbands,” - Elle Woods). I on the other hand experience what I’ve come to call endorphin rage. When I exercise you know, those four to five times a year, I get angry. Really angry. I turn mean(er).

It becomes most pronounced while running. I absolutely don’t understand why people view this as a desirable activity nor how on God’s green Earth some people drag themselves through marathons. Pain? Humiliation? Yes, please?

Claiming one’s self a runner is a big ole masochistic flag to me.

Despite this at least once a year I try to become one of those people. (Let’s remember, I went through med school. If that’s not an occult endorsement for a masochist facet of me I don’t know what is.)

My fiance, The Irreverent Reverend, was a jock in high school (I know, what’s he doing with me. He was the jock who would rather talk about the emotional turmoil and social injustice of demonizing his opponents. Aaaand there we go. Back to nerd-dom.). And since I believe our (the collective Our of American twenty-somethings) personalities and way of interacting with the world are solidified in the high school years, he naturally continues to be fairly jock-ish. (Not to be confused with jock itch.)(In case you were reading aloud.)

He runs. I love him, so I try to run too. Five minutes in that love comes into question.

Any passer by catching an earful would swear I just found out he accidentally got my high school nemesis pregnant the way I rail at him, roll my eyes and generally become the worst version of myself. It only gets worse the more distance we log. After we did five miles (… a few months ago) I was fairly sure a preemptive divorce was in the works.

Anyway. My point!

In order to make this new Spark endeavor work I need to find some kind of exercise that doesn’t make me want to die. So, again reaching back to what I enjoyed in high school, I decided to try dancing.

Sure I haven’t touched a ballet barre in a good 12 years, but hey, I can still stand on tiptoe! How else would I reach the sea salt chocolate bars I hide from myself on the top shelf?

I guess I did do a few Broadway Dance Center drop-ins while I was in NYC… but those classes included one armed push-ups and frankly, I don’t think that’s dancing. That’s torture.

At any rate, I’m going to hit up some beginner jazz for teens and adults tonight at the local center. Spirit fingers crossed I don’t use what limited breath I’ll have to curse out the 14 year olds for being “fit” and “healthy.” Jerks.

Monday, October 4, 2010

I need a motivator.

So, I was sitting at my desk this morning minding my own business when I felt a breeze on my thigh. I was (still am actually) wearing pants. Breezes are infrequent.

I looked down and lo, the inner hem down my left leg of these Ann Taylor slacks was splitting in two.

Ann Taylor? Fsshaw, More like ain't tailored.

The first two months of residency I was in scrubs all day every day. It was not only delightful, but mollifying. It convinced me that hey, even though I'm working thirty hour shifts and eating whatever the hell I want because I've convinced myself I deserve it, or have just watched a child die, or have fucked up some sort of something yet again, it wasn't having any effect! Wonderful! I deduced I reached stress levels so high that it didn't matter that I was eating my feelings because raw anxiety was just dicing the calories away.

Imagine my surprise when I had to switch to wearing real clothes again and oh oh, oh oh, I looked like a sausage cased skank in my too tight pants/skirts/tops/you name it. I will say that my socks have remained decent. I haven't let myself entirely go.

I have chosen to ignore this reality (since accommodating my heft with a new wardrobe takes time and money and fashion sense... things I suffer a deficiency of) until today when my pants tried to emancipate itself from my leg (Free at last, free at last!).

Thinking quickly I grabbed a stapler and zipped to the bathroom where I stapled the hem back together, aware that the people peeing in the neighboring stalls would wonder what in the HELL I was doing, and resolved to do something about my life.

I'm getting married in June (oh, right. Surprise! Haven't blogged since April!). I don't want to look at pictures of a swollen face and chin flirting with doubles for the rest of my life. I want to look the best I can for that day because hello, this is supposed to be my prime, and further, I am nothing if not vain. I mean, clearly. I have a blog.

I suppose there's an element of health/wellness/energy that factors into this too, but frankly, I don't want to look like a heifer trapped in beaded saran wrap on my wedding day.

Also, it'd be cool if my pants didn't spontaneously split.

I joined Spark People (snaps to Charlotte for mentioning it previously). I need something to hold me accountable and at least remind me that creamsicles and a box of mac & cheese does not a dinner make.

I hope this move really will ignite something.

Like my metabolism.