Abby Rosmarin's Blog, page 22

Day 348 of 365: Jumping Off

Somehow -- somehow -- I've made it to near the end of this project. I'm now 17 or so posts away from being done with this project. What started as a hybrid of the 365 Photography Challenge and a professor's assignment for his students has helped me articulate a lot of ideas and opinions that are usually left swirling in my brain. Before this, I didn't "blog" so much as I attempted to document major shit going on in my LJ (which, to be fair, was more for me than any of the dwindling number of people allowed to see the posts). I definitely didn't write essays before this (and I will repeat myself again in saying that the essays that websites have published are not blogs. Blogs don't need to be approved by editors and have the author fill out W2s). In some ways, this blog was one of the best decisions I ever made when it came to my writing career (even better than taking a fiction-writing workshop in the summer when my application to spend a summer semester in Greece was denied).


But I'm now less than 17 posts away from completion. And -- because I'm neurotic and like things to be even and just so -- I'm leaving this blog alone after 365.25 (because we gotta accommodate that leap day, right? =)). But I know I can't go back to writing about my day in a secured online journal on a dying website and call it a day.


So I've been hard at work (and by "hard at work" I mean, "That thing I do when I don't feel like being properly productive") creating my jumping off point. Something to also help rope in all these other branches I've got going on (like the start of my yoga website, which is a discussion for another time).


The real funny part is that my best friend sent me a free ebook called Writing Prompt Boot Camp. It's a two-week intensive where you -- gee -- write every day for two weeks, answering whatever prompts you've been given. I can't help but chuckle. This must be what marathoners feel when people try to send them 5k training schedules. Like, how adorable.


So I find it somewhat humorous that -- at least for two weeks -- be doing exactly what I was doing on this blog. But I see it as a Nicorette Patch. Going to a new blog -- one where I am not required to write in every day -- and doing a "boot camp" for two weeks is an interesting step down from this project. And we already know I've been feeling overly sentimental about closing out this colossus.


So it looks like I did the math wrong (me? Do math incorrectly? Surely, you jest) and this project will be over before I graduate from yoga teacher training. Well, then, guess that'll mean I'll have to talk about it in my new blog (after boot camp, of course =)).

Day 347 of 365: The Subtle and the Overt

I tend to go mad sociological on the essays I submit to websites. My most recent essay is a polished up version of a blurb I attempted a few times on this blog, about "girl" versus "women" and the power of semantics. While a few of the comments are painfully misogynistic, what really got to me was the reminder of all the times I've made the mistake of reading the comments section in any essay or article. To this day, I remember a guy completely disregarding the notion that our society has a blasé attitude toward sexual assault because, "Bars are filled with men high-fiving each other over their recent rape."


And, again, maybe it's because I have a bit of a background in things like semantics and sociology, but this shit drives me insane. However, I have to recognize it's not mankind's fault: we are influenced by the subtle, but look to the overt when figuring out influences.


Ready for some fun neurological talk? No? Well, shit. You're outta luck.


Why? Because I'm about to talk about the Split Brain Experiments. These experiments were done on people who had their corpus callosum (aka the communicating channels between the left and right hemisphere) removed. The people originally had said corpus callosum removed because they were epileptic and doctors hope essentially breaking up the left and right hemispheres. And, for the most part, it did. But doctors were curious what the side effects would be.


In many of these experiments, they would show something only to the left eye (so that only the right hemisphere would register it). For example, they would show the word "walk" to the left eye. This would cause the person to get up and start walking. The scientists would then ask the person why they were walking. Unfortunately, the left side is in charge of coming up with rationale. And, with the corpus callosum severed, the right hemisphere can't communicate, "hey, I saw the word 'walk' and did what I was told."


So what does the left hemisphere do? Lie. And convincingly.


This happened every single time they would show something to the right side of the brain and then ask the participant why they were doing what they were doing. The left side would craft this incredible story of why they chose what they chose, did what they did, thought what they thought.


And the kicker is that the participants wholeheartedly believed the rationale. To them, they really were getting up to get a soda, or picked up a picture of a chicken because chicken can be a type of food, etc, etc.


This is an extreme example, but all I have to do is bring up the bump/crash experiment again -- or any number of experiments that show how the slightest shift in authority, or peer opinion, or even a change in what pictures are hung up in the room -- to remind everyone that the brain is influenced by the subtle, but we look to the overt for influences.


Why? Because it looks bad if we say, "Yeah, the tiniest change in verbiage is what affected my overall mood." The human brain has evolved to value looking like we're in control of at least our own shit (pretty hard to secure a mate and move up in the tribal social ladder if you look like any little thing can control you). So when it comes to figuring out influences, our brain looks to huge matters -- because what makes you look like you're more in control? A subtle shift in cultural values, or a giant neon sign saying, "DO THIS OR DIE"?


I know the world can't be filled with people who wax philosophical and sociological way more than is healthy (guess what I do while driving my car? Spoiler alert: it's not texting or playing Candy Crush). But, the same way I feel like the world would be a better place if we could all just admit that we're not biologically programed to be nice, the world could stand a better chance of changing if we all admitted that we are influenced greatly by the subtle, but we look to the overt when figuring out said influences. And the real irony here is that we can usually process out the overt, but we internalize the subvert.

Day 346 of 365: Boston Half Marathon

Today I got the email that I have been picked to be part of the Boston Half Marathon this October.


I've been running with my husband as of late. He's trying to train up to a 5k; I'm trying to get used to running after injuring my hamstring tendon. I'm hoping I can actually force myself to see a sports doctor soon so I can get the all-clear to start upping the distance.


To be honest? I just want to finish this particular race. It's not about beating the 2-hour time, or even getting a better time than my previous half marathon. I just want to run without stopping for 13.1 miles.


Like I've mentioned before, I've been having a difficult time letting go of the fact that I'm not doing the Chicago Marathon. Given that the half marathon happens at roughly the same time as the Chicago Marathon, this is a bit of a consolation prize.


That, and -- since the BAA is the one hosting it -- the medal for finishing is almost identical to the medal for the full-out Boston Marathon. So... that's cool.


It's hard not to just lace up my shoes and go at it again. In some weird way, it's fitting that my zombie app has been on the fritz and I have to essentially restart the missions when I do go back to running for more than 15-minute stretches (but more on that later). But I understand that I'm not 20 anymore. I can't twist and sprain my joints and be perfectly fine the next day.


And it's also hard to admit that I should probably see a doctor first. The last time I went for a non-lady-doctor check-up, I ended up footing the bill for an ECG that my insurance company refused to pay for (although -- plus side? -- I don't have to worry about any hidden heart issues). That only makes my doctor-eschewing tendencies more severe. But, again, I'm not 20 anymore. I can't just heal up on my own anymore.


It's a surprisingly short amount of time between now and October. That freaks me out on so many different levels, but, hey, it's all good. Like I said before, I felt like if my number got picked for the BAA Half Marathon, then it was something I was meant to do. And dammit, I am going to do everything in my power to get that done.

Day 345 of 365: When The Idea of Your Novel Sickens You

I mentioned a long while back about the Travis Parker Effect. That's something I made up to bring to light a very common phenomenon with writers and artists alike: we work like a dog, pumping out our little creation to the exclusion of downright everything else, we finish the project, and there's a moment when we've decided it's the worst piece of shit imaginable and we should be ashamed for putting that much effort into it.


I call it the Travis Parker Effect because of 6 Days to Air: The Making of South Park. On Day 6, with the show conceptualized, written, recorded, and animated, Travis Parker slumps at his desk, muttering that the show is the worst show he has ever created. No one really seems to pay him any mind; you quickly get the vibe that this a common situation after a show has been created. The Travis Parker Effect is nothing more than the fallout artists sometimes get when they finally come up for air.


About a month ago, I finished Manuscript #3. It was a bit grueling at times, but somehow I plodded ahead and got the damn thing done. I finished it knowing that there were scenes I would have to add, scenes I would have to rewrite, characters that would have to be consolidated and characters that would need more fleshing out. That's the joy of a first draft: you got your main idea down, but now the real work begins.


I decided to follow the 3 month rule: you are not allowed to even look at your manuscript for three months. This helps you look at the manuscript with a fresh set of eyes, reading what is actually in front of you and not what you were trying to convey. But there's another reason: to avoid the Travis Parker Effect.


I'm already starting to feel it: man, I know this character just pops out of no where, and these characters are interchangeable, and this and that and this and that... which is hilarious, because, plot-wise, this is probably the best novel I have ever written. And let's not even get into the number of rewrites my first manuscript went through.


So, what do you do when the idea of your novel sickens you? When the very idea of editing makes you cringe because you're still feeling the emotional fallout of finishing your novel? You leave it the hell alone.


In fact, you leave all your manuscripts alone. I attempted to work on M#2 (which is still in it's first round of edits), only to find myself getting discouraged by the same attitude: this is the worst thing I've ever written, the number of edits and rewrites I will have to do is disgustingly high, what was I thinking, why did I let myself spend so much time on this...


This is why I have nothing but respect for full-time writers. I've been focusing my energy on the other endeavors in my life, like my yoga training (and preparing to teach yoga at a homeless shelter, but more on that later) and my tai chi classes. I've been focusing on writing out my proposal to martial art studios for a Yoga for Martial Artist class. I've been focusing on this 365 blog, which gets zero editing (I'm lucky if I read through the damn thing after it's done.)


The editing process is an onerous enough task on its own. The last thing you need is to attempt it while still processing the emotional fallout from what you created. So this little confession is my way of letting fellow writers know that it's okay to metaphorically slump at your desk and proclaim that you just made the worst thing ever -- just so long as the rest of you plays the part of the production team, paying no mind to the emotional fallout.

Day 344 of 365: Timing

The schedule for the public classes for us teachers-in-training has been released. For four days -- the 16th to the 19th in August -- me and my fellow trainees will be teaching classes that are open to the public. Some of these classes are scheduled the same time as regular classes at the studio -- those classes are 75 minutes long instead of the standard hour for practicum (since the usual classes are also 75 minutes). I checked the schedule and saw that I (and my class partner) are up first, and in the time slot for the usual Saturday morning class.


That's a little frightening, to go first, and during a class that is usually pretty full. But, in a way, I think it is perfect timing.


Once upon a time I moved to New Hampshire. I had been playing with the idea of yoga for some time, but never could commit myself to going to an actual studio for a class. And then, one day, I decided to buck up and finally try a full-on class at a proper studio. And that class? The Saturday morning class at the studio that has hosted the majority of the teacher training.


In some weird way, this is me coming full circle. I credit that class -- and I credit the incredible savasana and this weird but innate understanding that my body was nothing compared to the dynamic spirit that rested inside of me while resting in savasana -- with consistently coming back again and again, growing on my love for yoga and my love for what my body can do, until I finally realized that I wanted to be a yoga instructor. Granted, originally I was looking at retreats in Costa Rica (all the while sighing that I didn't even have the money for the more local varieties of training), but it just felt right when I heard about the training my studio would be hosting (and it felt wrong to not sign up -- only to have it feel right when I opened the box at Christmas and saw the new student questionnaire).


By the time I teach this class, I will have taught roughly three times at the homeless shelter. I guess I'm not freaking out about the Saturday class because, after working with the homeless, I doubt I'll be scared about a bunch of fellow granolas going through a few sun salutations.


I've noticed that life has perfect timing when you become aware to it. Whether or not that's actually a thing, well, I'll leave it up to you to decide. But of all the scheduled slots to do my class, I couldn't have asked for a better time.

Day 343 of 365: On Good Faith

If there is one topic I have returned to a million times since the start of this blog, it has to be running.


As I've mentioned a time or eight, I have a very unhappy tendon in the back of my left knee. Day-to-day life is completely unaffected. Even after a vigorous workout, nothing much changes. But I attempt to run and I feel it tightening up to the point that I'm positive I would strain, sprain, or even tear it if I kept going (much like what I did to myself sometime in March). I also feel it when the weather turns. I can honestly tell when it's going to rain based on whether or not my hamstring tendon tightens up out of no where.


As luck would have it, I got injured just as the Chicago Marathon lottery opened up. And -- in a fitting turn of events -- I realized I had to drop out of it just as the lottery closed. I also had to downgrade my half-marathon to a five-miler (which worked out for the best because I was *not* used to running that early in the morning, making the run an incredibly daunting experience even without the injured tendon). And -- aside from a few light jogs with my husband around the neighborhood -- I have not been running.


This Wednesday, the Boston Half Marathon opens up for registration. It's a very slim window before it goes to lottery, as they only allow 8,000 runners to compete. I remember getting so pumped at the idea of doing the Boston Half Marathon last year, only to realize that it falls on the same day as the Chicago Marathon (aka Columbus Day). However, with that weekend suddenly freed up, part of me feels like this has to happen, especially since the Chicago Marathon was supposed to be somewhat a "last hurrah" in terms of pushing myself physically before going on to another stage in life.


October is three months away, and I know I still have the muscle strength in me to run a half marathon (given how quickly I started running 10-milers after taking the winter off, I'd say training back up my muscles is the least of my concerns). But the question is that tendon. It is downright impossible to gauge how it is without running distance and potentially injuring it. And I have been avoiding that because, the more it rests, the more likely it is to heal.


So what I'm going to do is take how I feel after my next jog and decide one of two things: either I'm going to dive headfirst and attempt to register during the narrow window of opportunity, or I'm going to sign up for the lottery and let fate decide if I'm going to run this year. Either way, I'm taking it on good faith that I'll be doing whatever it is that I'm supposed to do.


As a competitive person (and as someone who just weirdly loves to run), I have a hard time letting go of the idea that I'm literally out of the running. I would love to do the Boston Half Marathon as a bit of my last hurrah (especially since the Boston Marathon is a bitch to get into, even if under a charity). My last two attempts at a distance race have been failures (I had to pull out of a 16-miler in January and I had to downgrade to a 5-miler for the Boston Run to Remember), but I have faith that putting my name out there one last time is the right things to do.

Day 342 of 365: Being Emotional

Most people who know me personally know how emotional I am. It's honestly to the point that I'll start crying because someone else in the room has started crying. Shit, if a judge on So You Think You Can Dance starts crying, I tear up. In terms of handling emotions, I'm a wreck.


Now, confession time: at every weekend-intensive training session, I've always found myself on the verge of crying at some point. It's just an emotionally-charged time and we were even warned that we might start crying. But somehow I've been able to keep it together. Usually this would result in the most random-ass thing popping up in my mind on the drive back (and me crying big ol' tears for a solid 5 minutes like someone released the fucking Kraken).


Now, to backtrack even further: last week, I met with a director at a homeless shelter in Manchester. He's looking for someone to teach yoga to the homeless once a week. After a few emails, I had a one-on-one interview with the director. He made no bones about it: this wasn't going to be a usual yoga class. These are people who are drug-addled, who have been abused in ways that make them unfit for the regular world, these are people who are down on their luck in the worst way. It scared the piss out of me, but there was still something in me to do it.


So we can now jump up to present day. Today, we had a presenter talk about her time as a yoga instructor at a jail. That hit me right in the heart, especially since I've been dealing with the emotional baggage that being a yoga instructor for the homeless could be. By the end of the day, the instructor leading the training opened the floor for comments.


I was already charged up, because I wanted to say exactly that. And, right before I am to go, a yoga trainee talked about how important training has been, especially in the midst of a very nasty situation (which I have no right to say in a public forum so this is exactly where I'll stop). She starts crying and ... I start crying. And then I cry even more when it's my turn to talk. And then I don't stop crying.


On the way out, I note to one of my friends that I'm honestly surprised it took me this long to cry in class. And she noted that she was honestly surprised that I would ever be so emotional. She always took as me kind of a rock -- the type of person who is emotionally stable and secure. And I guess that wasn't an uncommon sentiment.


Boy, were they proven wrong.


I get it, though. I'm 5'11" (although technically 5'10" because somewhere along the line, I lost an inch). Thanks to yoga and tai chi, I have very defined muscles that can make me look even more intimidating. I'm sarcastic and quick with a snarky comment. Yeah, that person looks like she's never blubbered like a baby when Mufasa died (but I mean how could you not? Simba was pawing at his dad! He wanted him to get up! Oh man someone get me a Kleenex...).


It's just funny how perception is. Because here I am, feeling silly for crying in front of the group, when I was person #3 to do it publically, and person #12 overall to cry. Here I am, feeling like I must've looked like a hysterical mess, when some were just shocked I was capable of crying in the first place.


There's a lot more I want to talk about, especially how that particular person with the current situation and I keep meeting up randomly (which is also how I knew about her story and partly why I latched onto her crying the way that I did), or how I feel like a whole confluence of events are downright conspiring towards something big. But I am completely spent from this weekend. I think it's time for me to just call it a day and be happy I was able to write the way I did, even after crying my eyes out and feeling crazy-silly after.

Day 341 of 365: One-Year Homeownership

This time last year, my husband and I were signing on the dotted line ... only to get a call from our mortgage company about wanting more proof that we could pay the change in our closing costs ... only to get another call from them after we had already come up to the house that they wanted a slightly different way of having the paperwork signed ... only to change their minds again when we make the trek back to the lawyer's place.


This year, I spent the majority of the day in teacher training and meeting with my fellow trainee about our upcoming practicum. A huge difference from last year.


I recognize that I am absurdly lucky to have the house we do -- or to have a house in the first place. So I've decided that, with my remaining energy, I'll tell you three things that I wish someone had told me about buying a house:


1) It will cost way more than you expect it to.
We had a serious chunk of cash squared away for our house. Given that we were first-time home buyers (and we were preapproved for an absurdly high loan), we got the sense that what we had was more than enough for any type of house.

We ended up finding a house that was actually below our budget. We thought about where all our extra money would go -- finished basement, new furniture -- only to find our closing cost fees double. And what didn't get eaten up in fees disappeared after we realized that we had none of the essentials: no ladders, no shovels, nothing. Factor in money for movers and painters, and our huge chunk of cash turned into a sliver.


2) You have no idea how much mortgage companies suck.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, we get it: thanks to the house bubble bursting, mortgage companies are absolutely jackasses now. You expect that now. But you don't expect just how horrible they are going to be. They will pry into your lives and make you explain every transaction you've ever made in the last 5 years -- in a formal letter, dated, signed, and faxed over. And they'll wait until the very last minute to inform you of crucial changes. And they'll pick inopportune times to decide they need more "proof" of something (like proof that we could afford the extra closing costs, even though we had the farkin' cashier's check in our hand).

They're terrible and horrible and your only choice (unless you have a cool $150 - 600k rolling around).


3) Thought picking out things for your wedding was stressful? Try picking a house.
A house is the single most expensive thing most of us will ever invest in. And, sure, it's a lot of fun to make up your dream house on Pinterest. But it's a whole other game when you're being shown houses that have some of what you want, and a whole lot of "almost"s and "not quite"s. Suddenly you have to figure out what is a deal breaker, what is a complete necessity, and what you can do without.

However, when you find the house, you will find "the house". It will probably not have everything on your Pinterest board, but it will just feel right. We swore we needed a four-bedroom house with a same-floor garage and a tile-floored kitchen. We walked into our house -- a three-bedroom house with a basement garage and wooden-floored kitchen -- and knew we were home. And while the process was stressful -- from crappy mortgage brokers to terrible painters -- we'd do it all over again. Because this is home, plain and simple.

Day 340 of 365: Heifers in the Modeling World

It really doesn't matter how long I've been modeling, or how many times I remind myself that I'm a commercial model (not fashion), or how often I talk about "strong is the new skinny" and love my body for exactly what it looks like: when I am put into a casting with a bunch of 21-year-old, industry-standard-sized models, I feel like an old heifer.


I'd say, for the most part, my go-sees are uneventful. Usually because, as a commercial model, they want svelte and pretty, but not necessary crazy-young and crazy-skinny. That means I'm usually in the same room as a 40-something dude, a 30-something lady, and young kids. It's a motley crew, if you will.


But yesterday, even though the casting called for people of all ages, I somehow got there during America's Next Top Model hour. And there are few things as damaging to your self-esteem than sitting next to a girl who is your height, probably half your weight, and so surrealistically beautiful that it makes you want to hide in your makeup bag. Especially when you factor in that they'll probably get the job over you.


I talk a bit about this in my essay collection (which -- have you gotten it yet? Hmm? Hmm? Available where all ebooks are sold, motherfucker). The modeling world is a rough industry and, to be frank, if I didn't enjoy the actual being-in-front-of-the-camera part, I probably would've quit a while back. But it is just hard to accept that these cuties are going to get the job -- the same way it's hard for me to accept that I get injured easier and don't recover as fast and can't do all the fun things that I finally feel comfortable enough in my body to do (which includes running distances, but that's maybe a post for tomorrow). It's a reminder that life continues on and that I'm not the target demographic anymore, for almost anything outside of Pampers Baby Wipes.


Even though I left that particular go-see feeling like the aging cow led out to pasture, I still made sure to enjoy my city on such a beautiful day. And, like clockwork, the walk helped clear my mind and helped me remember that it really doesn't matter how youthful I am in comparison to everyone else. Here I am, with two (relatively) working legs, enjoying the sun on my face and the wind in my hair and the parts of Boston I almost never go down unless I went there specifically for a casting. I still get the opportunity to take in this incredible world and it shouldn't matter that I'm bulkier than a girl who can somehow fit into a size 0 at 5'11".


And -- really? -- I'd hate to be that age again. I'd love to have the impossibly-fast metabolism and quick physical recovery, but you couldn't pay me to have the mindset of a 21-year-old again. You couldn't pay me to be that unsure, unassertive, and insecure again. You couldn't pay me to have the coping strategies and temperament of a 21-year-old. Shit, you couldn't pay me to have the coping strategies of a 25-year-old. And if turning back the clock on aging would result in turning back the clock on my development as a person, I would pass.


And who knows: the last time I felt that low on a go-see, I ended up getting the job (I had a, "I'm Ron Burgundy?" moment and walked away feeling like a huge putz, only to get an email a day later saying I landed the gig with Volvo). I'm not saying I'll get this job, but I am saying that I can't rule myself out just yet.

Day 339 of 365: Forge This Smile

I mentioned a long time ago that I'm not one for jumping blogs. I believe that creating a brand new blog every time you feel like getting back into writing is like buying a bunch of workout clothes every single time you try to get back to the gym. It's to the point that I have to remind myself that this blog should be left alone once we hit 365/366. I also mentioned that I have had the same LJ since 2004. Granted, I update it maybe once or twice a month, and I use it primarily to comment on the gossip site ONTD, but hey, I still have it.


Now, like I said, I got this in 2004. I got this in the midst of the kind of gnarly little heartbreak that is part and parcel of high school life. So, what was my LJ name? Forgethissmile. Aka, "Forget His Smile".


*sigh*


I don't want to abandon an old LJ, and I feel silly for paying money to change the name, so I kept it what it was for over a decade. Then, yesterday, I had someone on ONTD ask me what my LJ name meant.


And, no, the LJ user didn't ask for the background of "Forget His Smile"; they wanted to know if the name was "Forge This Smile" or "Forget His Smile".


In all my time with this name I've never once considered that version of the username.


I saw the typo "forget this smile", and that was about it. I replied back that it was originally the latter, but I was now adopting the first idea.


In some weird way, it's fitting that, over 10 years later, I completely change the meaning without changing a single letter. And it goes from something a little whiney and dependent to something that could downright be the name of a death metal band.


Forge this smile from iron, forge this smile stone, travel through the fire, know you're not alone.


Oh, I could make a killing making crappy song lyrics.