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I’m not always good at saying things out loud, but ink is some sort of liquid courage for me & so I send notes instead of speaking words.  I’m not as nice to myself as I wish I was.  I’m not as nice to others as I wish I was sometimes, either, & I’m not proud of that.  I’m not into confrontation & I’m not good at taking criticism.  I’m not a rebel without a cause, but I’m not always going to follow the letter of the law.

I’m not at all concerned with labels, & the idea of owning a Coach purse or a Dior anything doesn’t do a thing for me.  I’m not into skinny jeans or jeans at all, really — I much prefer a dress or skirt, & I’m trying to make my wardrobe reflect that.  I’m not embarrassed that I prefer a good consignment store or Target to the mall.  I’m not into fancy cars or having a ton of money, but I’m not into worrying about where my next meal will come from either & calling myself bohemian.

I’m not as open as I seem, when it comes to what really matters & I’m not sorry about it, because if you wait, you’ll get there and I’m not kidding when I say I think it’s worth it, to really know me.  I’m not opposed to keeping your secrets & listening to your stories.   I’m not ever going to stop missing some people.  I’m not able to stop over-thinking some things, but I’m okay with that, too.

I’m not sure why I haven’t traveled the world yet, when the mere sight of the Eiffel Tower gives me goosebumps; but I’m not sure why I still prefer coming home to my own bed over just about anything else.  I’m not sure why I have such a hard time setting off on adventures, because I always have a fabulous time.  I’m not sure when travel will happen for me, but I’m positive that it will.

I’m not athletic & I’m okay with the fact that I’ll never hear cheers while out on some court or field.  I’m not good at buying presents, but you’ll know I love you if I bake you something just because.  I’m not ashamed of the fact that I’ll listen to the same song on repeat for hours because if I do that, it means that the song is doing something to me & I want to savor it.  I’m not above a good Facebook stalking, or a good reality TV marathon.  I’m not above reading five books at once.  I’m not ever going to stop loving food, or stop loving cooking it.  I’m not the kind of girl who drinks her coffee without cream and sugar.

I’m not as strong or together as I pretend to be sometimes, but I’m not as devastated by things as I used to be.  I’m not as uncomfortable about who I am, & I rarely feel like I want to climb out of my own skin anymore.  I’m not ashamed that the littlest things can bring tears to my eyes, & I’m not embarrassed by my loud laugh.  I’m not always politically correct in my humor, but I’m not mean at heart.  I’m not good at dealing with people who can’t laugh at themselves.

I’m not good at drawing or directions or math.  I’m not into people who cancel plans with me if something better comes along or who need the conversation squarely centered around them.  I’m not into being told what to do, or given unsolicited advice.  I’m not good at handling disappointment well.  I’m not above drinking wine at home, but I’m not party friend who will hold your hair while you get sick in a gutter.  I’m not doing as much yoga as I’d like.

I’m not the smartest girl, I’m not the prettiest girl, I’m not the most-anything girl, but I’d like to be the happiest girl.

I’m not sure exactly what that means or looks like for me, but I’m not done yet.  I’ll know it when I get there.

- – -

{A big thanks to Kyla Roma and Skrinkering Hearts for the inspiration}

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For awhile, I’d been posting my Skinny Titch stuff on a separate site, but then I decided that eh, I was sort of over it because I can barely fit in updating this blog sometimes, so why have a separate one?  Plus, y’all are so nice and friendly and supportive of me anyways, so selfishly, I want that burst of encouragement once a week over here.

Anyways, if there’s anything to completely derail a diet and exercise plan for me, it’s lack of schedule.  Spring break was a perfect excuse to get off track.  You might remember that I kicked it off by spending time in San Fracisco, and at some point during that trip, I did someting truly terrible to my right foot and ankle reigon…meaning that I couldn’t walk well, if at all, really.  I know, go ahead and give me the Medal of Bravery because I totally didn’t complain on here.  I saved that for my offline friends.

With work starting up again yesterday and my ankle finally not dying after short walks, I decided to be all proactive and get back at it.  I went to my gym on Sunday to reserve my spot in spin class, when the girl working behind the desk informed me that SORRY, the gym is closed.  Until April 5.  For renovations like NEW TV! and NEW UPHOLSTERY!

And also to ruin my life.

Thankfully, the awesome people at Brand About Town and Nintendo recently sent me a new Wii and Wii Fit to use at home.  I spent time getting my Wii and my Mii all set up and ready to go, so that my early morning torture workouts can continue on as normal.

My iPhone pic didn't do it justice...thanks, Amazon!

So far, I love the Wii Fit, mostly because I can workout in clothing that is totally ridiculous and NO ONE CAN LAUGH.  Though, I do suppose that my Wii would laugh at me if it had eyes, because already, it makes this ridiculous noise when I stand on it.  Have you experienced this?  You step on the little board, and instead of saying, “You’re light as a feather!” it goes, “OHHH!” like it’s SURPRISED AND HURT.

Though, once I weighed in and did my introductory tests, I realized that I should be saying “OHHH!” too, because holy crap, I’ve got a long way to go.  One of the first things you do with the Wii Fit is a test with shifting your body weight.  I guess I didn’t do so hot, because it’s all, “Do you find yourself tripping when you’re walking?” And I was all, “Only when I’m drinking…or when I’m uhh, OKAY FINE, YES, I TRIP.  YOUR MOM!”

After it analyzes your body composition, the Wii tells you your approximate age.  Mine?  41.  FORTY ONE.  I’m having enough of a hard time with the fact that I’ll be turning twenty-freaking-seven next month, but to be told I’m 41 in Wii years?  I nearly died.  And also wanted to cry because my Wii Mii is too old to have a baby (babii?  Now I feel like I’m sending a bad text!).

Thankfully, the Wii Fit lets you set goals and make plans for yourself along the way, so I can get back to my already-old REAL AGE.  I’m looking forward to watching those numbers go down, down, down as I bond with my Wii every morning.  I’m incredibly grateful to both Nintendo AND Brand About Town for keeping me on track with my goals.

So, yeah, I took a break, but with BlogHer and my brother’s wedding and also the fact that I’m gonna have a ton of free time to be up in the gym just working on my fitness, I feel motivated and excited and ready to take this working out thing to a whole new level.

What are you using for workouts right now?  What keeps you on track?  What goals have you set for yourself, fitness-wise?

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I’ve been blogging through my school years.  If you’re so inclined, you can start here, finish preschool, & join me in kindergarten & then in first, second, third, fourth, fifth, & sixth grades.

Seventh grade marks the start of middle school, & I don’t know if I’ve ever been so nervous.  My dad drove me across town to my middle school, starting a morning routine of him & I having a little bit of alone time in the car every morning, filled with conversation that alternated between hilarious & serious & sometimes is comprised of him turning up his music & me glowering out the window because I am twelve & hate everything.

I kick off middle school by tripping over something, falling face first & doing a somersault because my backpack is so heavy with new textbooks, it propels me forward.  Spoiler alert: I do nearly the same thing my first day of college.  Awesome.  Once I pick myself up off the ground, I head into my homeroom class, my English class.  I sit with some girls I know from All-City Band, & we shyly make small talk before changing classes, which is basically the coolest thing ever in my twelve-year-old mind.

I remember a lot of things from that year in vivid detail: my teachers, for example.  My science teacher could have been no older than 25, & used to rave about seeing the Talking Heads live & wear dark nail polish everyday.  Once, she told me I was witty, & I had to look it up, but I loved her for it once I knew what the word meant.  My math teacher was a grumpy lady who kids tortured, due to her morbid obesity & penchant for wearing monochromatic outfits, leading to nicknames that were completely mean, like School Bus, when she’d wear all yellow.  I remember that I left a card that a friend gave me in her classroom, & she teased me mercilessly for it, asking everyday, “You got everything, Amy?”  I was not amused.  My history teacher was fun & lighthearted, but also had weird habits, like wearing tight jeans on Fridays & writing “Blue Jeans Friday!” or “Twisted Tuesday!” or “Wacky Wednesday!” on the board.

My English teacher was a total jerk.  In a conference, I confessed to him that I a) loved reading, b) loved writing & c) thought I wanted to be an English teacher.  He told me that I was “a shitty writer” & “being an English teacher wasn’t something I should consider.”

A note to you, Michael Kortwright: YOU CAN SUCK IT.

I had a group of friends in seventh grade, a group of girls who were just as silly & strange & lost as me.  My friend Jessica (from previous timelines) & me & many other girls comprised a tight-knit circle.  We were almost all in band & we did silly things like wear giant plastic rings that we joked were full of Prozac because we were all SO HAPPY all the time.  That was our schtick: being HAPPY & PERKY & DRAWING SMILEY FACES on everything.  We also divided ourselves into two camps: people who preferred strawberries & people who preferred peaches.  I was a peach girl.  Over the summer, we made amends by mixing peach & strawberry Jell-O, & were united once again.

Don’t ask me where the strawberry-peach war came from.  No idea; I just know that the unfortunate side effect of being a peach girl was listening to this song wayyy too often.  Seventh graders are weird, okay?

A million tiny moments stand out from that year: meeting my friend Alicia, who to this day remains one of my favorite memories of that time (we’ve since lost touch) because she was such a breath of fresh air from the people I’d grown up with.  She was tiny & confident & silly & universally adored.  Our school was divided into smaller academies that shared teachers,& mine ran the school store, & I remember eating a ridiculous amount of junk food during breaks & lunch, something that the students of today cannot even imagine because candy has been banned.  I remember absolutely dying for a copy of the book 14,000 Things To Be Happy About because we were all so convinced that we were so happy, even though, looking back, I don’t really think any of us were.  At least, I wasn’t.  I remember being up & down & all over the place that year, emotionally & socially, because it seemed that someone was always being estranged from our group, & sometimes that girl was me.  Now that I teach middle school, I see this cycle over & over again in my students, & I remember the absolutely paralyzing sadness that came when I wasn’t considered cool enough to sit at the lunch table.

The summer after seventh grade brought my first boy-girl party, where we listened to No Doubt’s Tragic Kingdom over & over again, & played Spin The Bottle & danced in the heat on my friend Heather’s porch.  I remember feeling ridiculously grown up after that night, seeing myself in the reflection of the car window as my dad drove me home, & I saw my face with traces of makeup & sweat & my freshly-kissed cheeks, & still, when I hear “Spiderwebs” I’m right back there, on Heather’s porch, dancing & swaying with my thirteen-year-old self.

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It’s Saturday, so technically, my two weeks of break are done & over, something that breaks my poor little heart something fierce.  Still, breaks wouldn’t be so sweet if they were forever, so I am coming to terms with the fact that on Monday morning, I’ll don my teacher apparel & launch into a unit on poetry & genres of it & once again be behind an overhead.

Le sigh.

I spent the later part of this morning outside at a coffee shop, writing & dreaming & processing the experience of the past two weeks.  My life really has changed dramatically in just a few short weeks due to a change in job status & it’s only the start of the changes.  I’ve had a chance to absorb & start laying the very basic foundation of what I hope my life to come will look like.

If I had to describe my feeling after this time away, it’d be refreshed.  Not just because I had more sleep than I can shake a stick at, or because I watched a truly alarming amount of awful television, but because I’ve gotten out of my head.  I’ve written volumes in my paper journal, read books, listened to music.  I’ve spent time with my parents & talked through all the big questions of life to come.  I’ve interacted with girls I admire, girls who make me laugh & girls who are completely sweet, girls who inspire me, girls who make me want to live out loud, & girls who are willing to offer me their experiences as I carve out mine.  I’ve had honest conversations & seen possibilities.  I’ve been in the presence of friends where I don’t have to put on the happy face & I can talk honestly about life without being cautious or putting on airs.  Snail mail from across the country has brought a smile to my face, as I read words I know I need to hear.  I’ve gotten out of my tiny city & near the water.

I’ve hit the reset button.

The next few months are going to challenge me.  I know this. It’s going to be a whole mess of packing up my classroom & saying real goodbyes & laying a new path for myself.  The past two weeks have allowed me to think & feel & cry & just be. I’ve already been overwhelmed with love & statements of support & the sheer number of people who believe in me.  Thank you.  This space has been an incredible support already, & I can’t overstate how thankful I am to those of you who’ve reached out.  Thank you for believing in me.

This break has allowed me to learn to start believing in me, too.

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The scene: Me, driving to meet up with a friend.  A woman rudely cuts me off and generally drives like an aggressive little so-and-so, causing me to throw up my hands, say words I’m not comfortable typing and generally air my frustrations audibly.  At the next light, the woman pulls up beside me, and my windows are down.

Hijinks ensue.

WOMAN: WHAT THE **** IS YOUR PROBLEM,  B*TCH?

ME: …

WOMAN: I SHOULDA RAN YOUR ASS OVER! kjlfkjfkdsjf;lskjfsdkljf;dsf! SSFLJAS:DLKJAS:LDKJASKFJ:!  *MIDDLE FINGERS*

ME: I HOPE YOU HAVE A REALLY BAD DAY! *Commences hyperventilating*

I am a badass indeed.

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I don’t ever remember a time in my life where I’ve had that perfect, dreamy porcelain skin.  Also, when I was younger, people used to tell me a despicable lie that went something like this: “Your skin will totally clear up when you’re older!” and “Just wait ’til you turn 20, everyone’s acne clears up in their 20′s!”

AU CONTRAIRE.

Recently, my normally fairly-clear skin has been acting a little cray-cray.  And while I teach middle school, I prefer NOT to have the skin of a middle schooler.  I started kicking around the idea of getting a facial, because I’m not normally into facials (TWSS?).  A friend of mine had told me about an aesthetician she’d seen, and just that day, I saw that another friend had become her fan on Facebook.  I’d like to stop for a second and say that I hate Fan Pages on Facebook, except for this very instance, because it seriously ended up being the best thing ever.

I will be forever grateful to Facebooks stupid fan pages now, because it led me to Jenneane’s on J.

I called Jenneane and she was incredibly vivacious and sweet on the phone.  I made an appointment, and was totally excited to go in the next week.  When I arrived, I was immediately impressed with how clean and cute her studio is.  It’s decorated adorably, and feels completely comfortable.  There are small touches that I paid attention to: the bathroom is stocked with little goodies, there’s chocolate available, and the music is awesome.  After working in massage for awhile, I grew to hate Enya and the like, and totally appreciated the fact that Jenneane plays music that is mellow but fun.

My facial was AMAZING.  In the past, facials have been painful or made my skin burn — nothing like that happened with Jenneane.  My face felt clean and light, and I saw results the next day.  My skin literally glowed.  I saw a steady improvement in my breakouts and after a few days, I could still see and feel such a difference.  Also, her prices are ridiculously reasonable, something that’s rare when working with salons.

Still, I think the thing that stood out above the cute decor and even my skin was Jenneane herself.  She is kind, FUNNY, smart and great at her job.  I walked out feeling like I’d made a new friend.  She laughed and talked and chatted and generally made for a fabulous experience that felt like girl time.

How do you know I *really* loved her?  I’m her Facebook fan.

So, if you’re a Sacramentan looking for a place for a facial, waxing or other service, I give Jenneane my HIGHEST recommendation.  Give her a call at (916) 444-2691.  I promise you won’t regreat it.

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Okay, guys.  So, in case it’s not totally obvious, I’m crazy.  Like, legit crazy.  Neurotic weirdo crazy.  Whenever I make such an assertion, well-meaning souls are all, “OH STOP, YOU’RE SO NOT!”

Until they eat with me.

One of the most obvious outward expressions of my weirdness is my sandwich eating technique.  Above, you see a sandwich.  A Subway Cold Cut Combo, which yeah, I know, kinda gross but I love it and I don’t give a flying rip if you think it’s nasty, because you don’t have to eat it and I have inappropriate feelings about bologna, so JUST SHUT IT ALREADY.

Anyways.  It looks like a sandwich.  Most of you would probably pick this up, eat it and be done with it.  NOT ME.

Allow me to give you a tutorial in Sandwich Eating By Amy:

STEP ONE:

Open the sandwich.

STEP TWO:

Separate the bologna from the “other meat.”

STEP THREE:

Eat the other meat; wrap bologna around the cheese and consume separately.  Because bologna is the best meat, and cheese is the best everything so the combination is amazing and this is maybe the best part of the sandwich.  MAYBE.

STEP FOUR:

Pick out the veggies you want and eat them.  YES, with your fingers.  I never said this was Sexy Sandwich Time.  And you know what, if someone you’re trying to impress is taking you to SUBWAY this early on in the relationship, then, well…I don’t know what to say.  I love Subway, but not on a date where you can’t eat with your fingers.

STEP FIVE:

Now, the REALLY DELICIOUS (yes, more than the bologna!) part: scrape the mayo-lettuce-bread combo out.  The doughy part.  WITH THE MAYO.  AND THE LETTUCE.  Yum, yum, yum.

EL FIN!

So…when are you taking me to lunch?

P.S.  Um, if you think this is bad, you should see pizza.  It’s worse.  I KNOW.  I’m sorry.  Except not really.  Because it tastes awesome.

P.P.S.  If you can tell me what this title is referencing, I love you already.  Put on your thinking caps!

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I mean, I’ve basically accepted the fact that no matter what I do, my mom will always trounce me in the the Awesome department, because she’s a billion times nicer than me, completely hilarious and not to be all anti-feminist or whatever, but she is awesome at laundry.

I keep waiting for something to kick in that will make me be good at laundry, because growing up, my mom was never all stressy about laundry.  She just did it, and I always smelled good, and our house was never a total LAUNDRY BOMB despite four of us living there, but now, I’m a Laundry, Party Of One, and oh my god, I just can’t get a hold on it.  I learned to cook, I can clean house like whoa, but I still suck at laundry.

I tend to hover somewhere between totally clean and totally cluttered.  I love a clean house with every fiber of my being; however, I don’t freak the freak out if there is stuff everywhere.  I firmly believe that there is a difference between being “dirty” and being “messy” — an important distinction.  Basically, in a “dirty” house you’re all, “I don’t think I want to pee in that toilet” and in a messy house you’re all, “Aww, cute, let me move this pile of magazines.”  My house is usually a bit cluttery, but it is never, ever straight up dirty.

Except for laundry.

I will totally let laundry pile up and just dress creatively and sniff the armpits of shirts I’ve worn out a time or two (try and resist me now, boys!) until I have no more underwear (and trust me when I say that I have enough underwear to clothe a small nation) and then laundry basically sends me over the edge of madness because it’s overtaken my bedroom floor and there are a million loads and I don’t even separate it because I just want it clean and I don’t even care how it gets that way.

One time, someone I was dating took all my laundry home and WASHED AND FOLDED AND IRONED and I nearly died.  Another time, in a fit of total stress, I dropped my laundry off at one of those  Wash N Fold places and for a mere $50, this tiny woman washed and folded and starched and ironed and pinned things together and it was in all reality the BEST use of money ever.

Sadly, I’m trying to make it a practice to do my own chores and save money and you know, BE AN ADULT, so I need your advice.  Do you have a laundry system: days, baskets, a separation system, ANYTHING THAT WILL MAYBE HELP ME GET MY RIDICULOUS, DIRTY-CLOTHED SELF TOGETHER?  I mean, how often do you do your laundry?  Do you have a designated day?  Do you separate things before hand?  Do you just throw it in and trust the Laundry Gods and deal with the occasional white shirt turned pink?

Or, better yet: do you want to come over and do it?

MY LAUNDRY.

Leave me your tips in the comments.

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• People who get into the Express Checkout with more than the stated number of items {i.e. 15 items when the sign says “10 Items Or Less”}.  In a perfect world, the register would publicly mock them, something like, “DON’T YA KNOW HOW TO COUNT?” or “CAN’T YOU READ?” or “ARE YOU SO IMPORTANT THAT YOU NEED TO SHAFT THE PEOPLE BEHIND YOU?”  I have strong feelings about this.

• In a similar vein, the fact that when I choose to use Self-Checkout, there is some cashier hanging out who always wants to chat, comes to check something or is needed for the transaction.  If I wanted to engage in awkward small talk, I’d have gone through the normal line.

• Confusing vanity license plates.  I don’t like trying to understand your license plate while I’m driving.  Actually, it’s all vanity plates.  For the love of all things holy, just go with the letter-number combo next time.  Also?  Your weird license plate frames annoy me, too.

• Touching raw meat.

• March Madness.  Or, as I call it, March Sadness.  I had no idea, until this weekend, that there are apparently basketball games being played 24 hours a day.  I keep asking if it’s over, & just when I think it is, yet another screen full of sweaty college men appears and HOORAY it’s another BIG GAME.  I don’t have a bracket, don’t even ask.

• When I make a “that’s what she said” or “your mom” joke and it’s a GOOD ONE and it’s received with a general air of disappointment that you’re in a conversation with someone who has the sense of humor of a 14-year-old boy.  I’M SORRY.

• People who begrudge those of us who have vices.  You know the type: you ask them if they want to grab coffee & they say something like, “Ohhhh, I actually don’t drink coffee.  I mean, it’s…yeah.  I just don’t drink it.”  If you don’t drink coffee, I feel sad for you, but I can accept it.  But don’t judge me for succumbing to the sweet siren song of it’s deliciousness.  This is also interchangeable with any form of alcohol; if you don’t drink, again, I’M SORRY, but just sip on your tonic water without judging me.

• Explaining the fact that no, I didn’t get fired & no, I didn’t lose my job due to performance issues, but simply because I don’t have seniority.  And yes, I get that there are people who show movies everyday & are horrid teachers who have their jobs & I won’t.  Yes I know it sucks, PLEASE STOP RUBBING IT IN, OMG.  No one thinks it sucks more than those of us living the nightmare.

• Tomatoes and onions.

• The following words: bestie, “I heart it!”, hubs, hubby, gal pal, panties, moist, mouthfeel, ma-toor.  It doesn’t mean I’m not a fan of YOU if you use said words.  I just don’t like them.

• People who, upon being asked what music they’re listening to, say, “Ohhhh, you probably haven’t heard of them.”  Uh, maybe not.  THAT’S WHY I’M ASKING.  I am not trying to attack your hipster cred, I just like music.  Don’t worry, I’ll totally tell people you knew about them before they were playing the soundtrack for The Hills.

• MARCH FREAKING MADNESS, OMGGGGGGG.

Thing of which I am a fan: Having you vote on which necklace I should buy.  Or, what necklace someone should get me for my birthday.  EITHER WAY, come vote here.

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“The whole point of being alive is to evolve into the complete person you were intended to be…” — Oprah Winfrey

I’ve been sort of quiet over the past few days, just taking it all in & accepting the fact that in a few months, my life could look very different than it has for the past three years.  The response of those close to me has been nothing short of amazing.  To hear their love & support verbalized, to have offers of help & their verbal votes of confidence has made this whole experience so much easier.

Still, there is intense fear.  There are a million reasons why I am scared, but I think that over the past week, I’ve discerned that what I fear the most is regression.  The last time my life sort of crumbled beneath me {loss of marriage &  job, a new relationship that ended & left me broken, financial struggle and a strained relationship with my family} I had no clue what to do.  I’d never paid bills, never lived alone, never really broken away from my family’s beliefs & expectations, never done anything, really.  It was my first foray into adulthood, & I crashed and burned.  Being a teacher has represented a sense of stability in finances, schedule & lifestyle.  Now that I stand to lose that again, I just don’t know what to make of it.

I just don’t want to be a hot mess again.

I saw my therapist this week {yes, I see a therapist}, a woman who has been seeing me since I was 21.  She reminded me that I’m not the same girl as I was at 21.  That I’ve evolved into a grown-up, a mature person, someone who can take care of herself.  I feel like I’m forever fighting the feeling of being a little girl, of being incapable of making something of my life.  I’m holding to that: trusting that I’ve grown up, that I’ve got skills & six more years of life experience under my belt.  This is hardly the same thing.

Usually, when faced with a crisis or a change, I look outward.  I read books & seek advice & talk to as many people as possible.  Instead, this time, I’ve been writing.  Pages & pages, handwritten & typed.  I’ve listened to music that moves me & spent time with people who make me laugh & think & grow.  I’ve spent my week & will continue to spend my weeks figuring out exactly what I hope to evolve into.  There have always been these little whispered hopes in my heart & mind: to write, to edit, to travel, to work with social media, to do something I haven’t even dreamed of yet. Instead of reading books & absorbing information, I’m trying to look inside, to see what it is I really, really want.

There is a small part of me that is starting to be really, really excited.  To see this as freeing instead of restricting, to see it as an opportunity and not a setback.  I’m trying to let that little voice speak more, until it drowns out all the other little voices that are absolutely petrified.  I am well-aware that the next few months could suck, that there will be tears & adjustments & change.  But I am also well-aware that in the end, it’s gonna be okay.

I think this is what they call growth, kids.

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