Bedtime for Bunny

Once I won a contest for songwriting.

I'm not joking. I was in the 3rd or 4th grade, and my piano teacher offered music composition classes during the summers. To get us out of the way, my mom always signed us up for these.

I remember being in music class at school, sitting 2 to a keyboard, and the teacher asked us to come up with a note or a short tune that sounded like an animal to us. I reached out and quickly hit a black key followed by the white key directly to the right of it, a half-step up. I repeated this a couple of notes higher, then again a little higher. I said it was like a bunny rabbit hopping.

In my summer composition class, I must have remembered my bunny sounds, because they ended up being the basis for the song I worked on. I called it "Bedtime for Bunny" and said it was about a mama bunny trying to calm down her hopping baby at bedtime. (The mama was played with the same type of tune, but going down a half-step instead of up, and in a lower octave.)

My piano teacher had fancy computer technology (for the time) just for these composition classes. We could play something on her keyboard (actually, I believe it was a harpsichord) and the computer picked it up and wrote it out for us. We could fiddle with the notes, the timing, the tempo, and the computer would play it back to us. To me, this was a really cool toy. What it meant, though, was that I finished the class with a composition, written by me, that I'd never actually played all the way through with my own two hands.

My teacher got permission from our mother to enter out compositions in a contest. Before we knew it, my sister and I had both won awards (I'm guessing there weren't many entries in this competition). I thought it was cool that I had won something. Then my mother told me that the winners had to play at a recital.

That's when it hit me. I had to get up in front of a crowd and play my song. A song I had supposedly written. A song I'd never really played.

I know I probably had moments of anxiety earlier in my 8 years of life, but this is the first one that I remember so clearly. I can still feel it the panic and fear. My mother tried to work with me, sitting at the piano to practice my song. The music sat in front of me, with my name printed on it, and I felt like a fraud. You can't have written a song if you can't play it!

My memory of the concert is in flashes. I remember the drive, I remember what the location looked like, I remember the immense relief when it was over. But I don't remember how I played. I know that I did. I even sort of remember the view of the audience from the piano. But I don't know how I played. Did I pull it together and play the song well? Did I flop, destroying my own composition? I truly don't know.

But I know that I didn't cry or scream or run away. I know that I didn't fake sick and skip the whole concert (something Leslie girls have done on an occcasion or seven). I know that I got up in front of the crowd, sat down at the piano, and played something. I guess that's all that mattered.

A Constant Struggle

Thirty seconds. Twenty-eight.

I hate running. I hate this.

You can do it.

Fifteen seconds.

Ugggghhh!!! I'm so tired!! Even my inner voice is capable of whining like a 5-year-old when I'm tired enough.

Ten seconds.

I can hear Amber in my head. "You can do anything for ten seconds!"

Time! I push the down button the treadmill's--what is it? Dashboard? Control panel? I feel the belt slowing and I am walking again. Finally.


Why do I put myself through this?

I say it's all in the name of health, that I want to still be exercising when I'm 90, like my grandmother was. I don't have a body image problem, after all; I'm one of those smart girls who knows how absurd the beauty standards of our culture are. I know it's all but impossible for me to get six-pack abs. I know that, unless I manage to grow another 7 inches, I'll never look like a Victoria's Secret model. And I know that I am a perfectly healthy and average weight.

But there I am on the scale, just about every morning. There I am on Sunday afternoon, feeling grumpy and seeking comfort in food, then feeling guilty about it later.

It's not about intelligence, or being a smart girl, or being aware of the impossible standards. It's not about how many gender studies classes I've taken, how many magazine ads I've looked at and analyzed. It's not about understanding what is or is not a healthy weight for my height.

It's about what I've been told, over and over and over, since I was a little girl. And I've been told, in ways subtle and not, that my body, my appearance, my attractiveness as decided by men is what makes me worthwhile. And then I've been told that I'll never be enough, that I'll always need another product, another diet, a new exercise, in order to be perfect. And that's what I should want, and strive for. To be perfect. Perfectly attractive as defined by someone else.

I'm not saying that I want to stop exercising. I actually enjoy it, most of the time. I do want to be healthy and I like feeling strong. I want to be able to spend a day outdoors, moving and playing, and not be exhausted immediately. I do want to still be exercising when I'm 90. And if nothing else, I want to be able to run away from a murderer, or fight back against one, should I ever need to. I don't believe that exercising is inherently bad, or anti-woman, or anti-feminist, and it doesn't mean that I have an eating disorder.

What I do have is a constant fight. And I think many women these days do. I have to fight with myself and all the inner voices every day. I fight over how much exercise I need to maintain my healthy weight and how much exercise I need to look "hot". One voice tells me I've gained a pound since yesterday, or three since last week, and I need to watch out, while the other one tells me I'm fine and I'm healthy and fuck looking hot, those french fries last night were delicious!

I have to fight to remind myself that it's my life, that I can, that I should, look how I want and spend my time how I want. I have to fight to remember that, no matter what the magazines say, I'm not working out for a bikini body. I'm working out so that I can live a long and healthy life. I'm working out so that sitting at a desk doesn't ruin my body's ability to function. I'm working out so that I can live an active life (hopefully, more active than my current one). I'm working out so I can have time to myself when I can think and not have to talk.

It's a struggle, but ultimately, I'm fighting to define who I am in a world that wants to tell me who I should be. And even when it's hard, or I lose sight of it for a minute, I'm getting there.

Organization = Sanity, Part II

So remember when I wrote about loving organization, and wanting to carry all my things with me always? Well, I've taken this to a new level.

I decided to invest in a good backpack. This is because, as much as I love tote bags and shoulder bags and messenger bags and all their semi-professional looking cuteness, I have started having back, shoulder, and neck pain in the past year. I'm sure this is not solely due to carrying my computer and other things on one shoulder (I also sit at a desk all day, then go home and mostly sit, and I don't think the way I sleep is ideal for my neck) but it can't be helping. Plus, I will be moving to a bigger city soon, and might need to carry my stuff not just to the car and into the office, but walking several blocks to the bus stop or, if I get over my fear of other cars, maybe even while biking.

I'm also kind of sick of carrying a purse, especially when I have to carry a purse along with my computer bag. Feminspire, one of my new favorite sites, has a great article about women, purses, the social pressure to carry a purse, and the lack of legitimate pockets in clothing designed for us. When examining my purse, there's really a small amount of things that I absolutely need all the time (debit card, driver's license, cash, insurance cards, phone, keys, inhaler), a few things I need some of the time (tampons, checkbook) and the other things in my purse are occasional use/no use items (hairbrush, notebook for writing, iPod, sunglasses, etc.). I decided that I can carry a small wallet that also holds my phone, and can be tossed in the backpack or used on its own, and everything else can just live in the backpack.

Plenty of reason to invest in a backpack.

But the real reason I'm super excited about this purchase? The real reason I can't wait for my package to arrive today?

COMPARTMENTS!!

This backpack is the epitome of organization. 

So. 

Many. 

Pockets. 

And. 

Compartments!

It has a specific computer compartment. An iPad compartment. Pockets for cords. Pockets for little notebooks and pens. A key chain. A pocket for your phone. Probably a compartment just for extra pockets.

I'm way too excited about this purchase. I've already gotten my little phone/wallet (it's called a wristlet, which is a weird term) and took it out to dinner last night. And when my backpack comes in, I'll toss it into the specific wristlet pocket (I'm sure this exists) and go! Of course, with my luck, once I move I'll probably work somewhere with a designated work computer and I'll never need to carry things with me again. I hope not.

So, here's to my latest attempt at over-organization!

Watching Through My Fingers

Maybe I should stop watching horror movies.

I used to love them. I still do, I guess, but when I was 13 or 14 or 15, we would see a preview for a horror movie and my dad would say "That's a Genie movie." Actually, he still says this, but he hasn't seen me watch one in a long time.

I have perfected the art of peering at the screen through my fingers (which also means that I'm turning into my mother). I'm not covering the screen (usually) but rather, I'm blocking out my peripheral vision so that I see nothing but the screen. I think this is the visual equivalent of hiding under the covers. If I can't see anything around me, I can't be scared by a movement out of the corner of my eye, or by Aaron trying to make a face and freak me out. I can feel as if I've put myself into a safe little hole. Plus, my fingers are right by my eyes, just in case I do need to cover them completely.

I get more scared watching these movies now than I did when I was 14. What's that all about? When I was younger, I loved the feeling of being scared. Now, as soon as the first scary moment starts to happen, I inevitably say, "Why are we watching this? Why do I do this to myself?"

I know part of my problem is a fear of the unknown. Last night, watching Sinister, I finally said, "I'm ready for the big stuff to happen." Once the little ghost children started appearing, I was somewhat better, more able to watch the movie. The reveal is never as scary as you think it will be. It's the creeping down hallways, the hearing little unknown noises, the shadows in which you can't tell if something is in the corner or not--that's what's horrifying to me.

Honestly, I might still be sort of afraid of the dark. It's not that I'm afraid every time I'm in the dark, or that I leave a light on when I sleep. But there have been times when I've tried to go to sleep and thought, what if? What if I opened my eyes and there were a man with a knife staring back at me? What if I felt pressure on the end of the bed, like someone were sitting there, but I looked and saw nothing? What if someone is creeping down the hallway right now? And no matter what, no matter how many times I make sure the front door was locked before bed, no matter how much I don't believe in ghosts (and I really don't), that little voice plants just a little doubt. I feel like one of those people who doesn't believe in God but decides to pray before they die, just in case. I don't believe in ghosts, I don't believe the dark is going to get me...but shouldn't I be prepared in case I'm wrong?


Just about any horror movie can scare me. It doesn't have to be good. I love psychological thrillers, movies with more suspense than shock, but the ones that get my heart rate up are the cheesy ones, the ones with a demon/ghost, who's been haunting since the medieval times, who appears with a red face. The ones where the demon's face appears in the final seconds before the credits. These are the ones that terrify me. The unexpected image that makes you jump, the person or ghost or event that you weren't expecting suddenly appearing right in front of you--these are the fears that keep me up at night.

Time (You Ain't No Friend of Mine)

I worry about running out of time.

I am an organized person. I have no problem scheduling my day. My alarm is already set for 6:00 a.m. tomorrow, my second alarm for 6:15. The plan is to work out, shower, eat breakfast. I hope I'll have time for writing before work but I'm not positive. After work, I plan to spend about 2 hours on freelance work. Then I want to read my fantasy novel, play Mario Galaxy 2 on the Wii, catch up on my magazines, watch an episode of The Following, eat dinner, blog, and spend time with Aaron. But I'll never accomplish all that tomorrow, even if I wake up exactly on time (I won't) and don't nap after work (I will).

One of the saddest things I ever read was "I'll never be able to read all the books I want to read." When I read this, I felt like I'd been slapped in the face. This had never even occurred to me! Even if I made it through my entire list of books I want to read, by the time I finished, sooo many more books would have been published. And I would want to read them! And that's not even mentioning the magazines, and the blogs, and the newspapers. It's impossible.

But recently, Aaron said something even more terrifying. He said, "My nightmare: waiting until too late in life to start something, like writing a book, and not being able to finish." Aaahhhh! Another thing to worry about!

I want to have time to live my life the way that I want. But what do I want? I want to live somewhere cool, working any job and not caring about a career, just enjoying my place and time in the world. But I want to have a full career doing something I love and that I'm good at. I want to raise children and love them, but I also want to live a long, childless life, full of travel and free from worries about school systems and the effect of technology on developing brains and rocks stuck inside little noses.

Maybe I'm so afraid of running out of time because I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want to live in one place, or have the opportunity to move around. I don't know if I want children. I don't know if I'd prefer to have a long-time career path or not. I don't know what my life should be, and I don't want to miss out on it while I'm trying to decide.

But I do know that I want enough time to read all the books.