Dressing Dilemmas

Right. So, I know that I look younger than I am. This is partly because I try to keep myself young by playing and laughing as much as possible. Also, it's because I probably dress "younger" than my age.

This, I promise you, is not my fault.. Entirely. Do you know how hard it is to find appropriately aged clothes for a young 30 Something? Especially when the teens are stuffing their bras and wearing the styles meant for the 30 Somethings, smearing the clothing’s grown-up reputation and rendering it unavailable to the original target demographic? OK, so I too do some padding to be able to "fit” into some of The Man's idea of the "perfect shape" outfit - a dress made of 3 short pieces of dental floss for the "average" 34-24- 32.

Fucking media!

So, all of us normal shaped 30 Somethings are left with rock star t-shirts, bikini fit v. apple vest denim, geriatric fit.

I choose to go a different route and aim for the boho chic look. It's comfortable, loose in a stylish way, and can be worn, eccentrically sometimes depending on the bead strand, to many events. Hell, it can even be sexy when worn right, especially when paired with secret sexy underwear.

Unfortunately, though, it does make one look younger than she is.

So, I'm wearing my Bohemian pants - loose, but stylish - and a t-shirt for my trip across the pond. I realize that I will not be attending any professional workshops or picking up any men on the flight, so who cares anyway? I met my goal of being able to survive an overseas flight comfortably. Period.

It turns out that dress DOES matter. Here's what happened that fateful day:

Notes on Traveling
Lesson 1: Dress

It occurred to me that being dressed in Bohemian garb is perhaps the wrong thing to do on an airplane.

First of all, I'm sitting at the bar at "The Mexican Cantina" where one can order food that is neither Mexican nor Texican as far as I can tell.

(What the hell is gourmet Mexican food? How can you "dress up" beans, tortillas, and cheese? Oh right. Put a Mexican Flag on a toothpick and insert it into the beans. Got it. )

Whatever. I'm there for the "Cantina" part.

An astonishing ID check (thanks Bohemia!) and glass of the cheapest CabSav later, and I have made friends with both the bartender and the nice gentleman next to me and am feeling pretty good about myself and the forthcoming adventure. About that time, I decide to return a phone call from my moma, a former travel agent, who thinks I have a shot at upgrading my seat on what is to be an extremely FULL flight. She knows her stuff when it comes to travel, so I thought I ought to at least try talking to the counter person about "generously" relinquishing my seat in coach and paying for a (possibly cheap, according to Mom) last minute upgrade.

I amble confidently to the counter, where two staff members are talking business and wildly gesturing to each other. I stand there patiently. Waiting. Not going to interrupt. My question is not really important, after all.

It's a mused query, really.

Still waiting.

Still confident in having made new Cantina friends and remembering that I’m wearing my secret sexy underwear.

One of them glances at me and returns to her "very important" conversation.

A woman with a Prada bag steps beside me and both women immediately turn to cater to her question, which was something to do with her HUGE Jackie-O name brand sunglasses fitting in the carry on bin or would she need to purchase another seat?

Whatever.

Still waiting.

Finally, out of pity I think, one of the women turns to me and says, "May I HELP you?"

I smile politely (breathing in the "patience is an egg that hatches great birds" mantra) and ask my question about upgrading my seat. Here is how that conversation went:

Person on Staff: May I HELP you?

Me: Hi. I hear that this is a very crowded flight and was wondering how much an upgrade would be.

PoS: (sizing up my Bohemian pants and help humanity t-shirt and then shaking her head) No.

Me: Um. (Last I remember, "no" is not a price) So are there any? Is business class full?

PoS: Business class is not full.

Me: Great! How much is an upgrade?

PoS: (amused grin) Thousands of miles. Thousands and thousands.

Me: (confused, not remembering the whole American Airlines Advantage miles program and feeling like I'm actually speaking a different language) Excuse me?

PoS: (walking away and annoyed) Thousand of dollars!

And that's it. She was gone. I was left standing there bewildered in my Bohemian pants and sexy underwear, confidence shaken, wondering what had just happened, and wishing for a reenactment of that scene in "Pretty Woman" where I got to flaunt my "worth" in her face, saying, "Huge mistake. Huge!" But that's not real. And really, I didn't have thousands of dollars or miles to spend on anything. She was right.

[And scene]

Look. I understand that sometimes there are dress code rules. I understand that in a capitalistic society, the affluent are catered to. See Paris Hilton, OJ, or the MANY other celebrities who get special treatment legally and otherwise. I get that. I get that it’s wrong. But I do get it.

BUT there is no reason for anyone to treat anyone else with that level of disdain and inconsideration. And I represent the majority of Americans socio-economically. I am genuinely very lucky! I get to live out my travel dreams and choose what I want to wear on my adventures. Hell, I get to eat whenever I want! Lucky, lucky girl!

This will serve as a reminder to me to treat ALL people with loving kindness, including judgmental PoSes behind counters.

I got over it really quickly, as I met the loveliest person on my flight who had the most interesting things to say, and who helped me find the right train in the madness that is a London train station.

Pics!

Here are some of my favorite UK '07 pics:

Click on the links above the pictures for the rest which are (sort of) organized by sets according to what city/town I was in at the time:

London/Southgate

Oxford

Punting

Bath

Lost in London

Feel free to peruse, comment on, and/or ignore any and all of the photos!! :)

London Blogging

So, I'm in London, and you may be asking yourself, "What the hell is going on? Ginger is blogging. She's in London. And she's blogging? Not touring or pubbing or floating down the Thames to the Globe Theatre? but BLOGGING????(!)"

And the answer is Yes. I am blogging. But in my defense I am freaking TIRED! In short (the reduced Shakespeare version, only not nearly as funny nor tragic... mostly just reduced) I was here in London a week ago and met Mark's fabulous Green Pea friends who have taken such good care of me. I got to hang out with Brother Corduroy and his girlfriend, Ilham, and her two brilliant, gorgeous, fantastic, creative, wonderful (can you tell I like them?) daughters.

After three days of meeting and greeting followed by my first (intense) Quaker church experience and a (breathtaking) Sacred exhibit, I went off to Oxford for 4 fab days of conferencing with the IB program. And what could be better than hanging out with fellow (and international) literature geeks in one of the most literary places on the planet? It was like having 30 soul mates in one place, and we all became quick friends. We spent time together, discussing poetry, prose, and drama. We sat in the pub where J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis shared manuscripts and ideas, and we discussed the value of language and what globalization is doing to cultural identity which is very much language based.

We went punting together (complete with strawberries, champagne, tuxedos, and an attack swan), and had very English garden parties where we wandered around, gesticulating with glasses of Cabernet Shiraz, agreeing "thusly" and "verily." One time we found ourselves at an Oxford theater (formerly Oxford Castle), where we sat outside under tartan blankets and watched a modern version of Hamlet backed by such bands as The Killers, Garbage, My Chemical Romance, etc. After that was a night of super intense pub crawlery, including a stop at the pub where Clinton, "did not inhale."

I can't wait to show you the pics!!

After Oxford, I spontaneously went to Bath with my new friend, Ginelle, who is originally from Canada, but who teaches in Bahrain. We spent time hanging out in the squares of Bath where I read tons of Mary Oliver and fell madly in love with nature, and where I pretended to be claustrophobic like Jane Austen who longed for open fields of flowers, even though she didn't recognize the fact that she was living in one of the most astoundingly beautiful places on the planet... I know that makes no sense, but when you read Mary Oliver or Jane Austen you'll know what I mean.

So, I'm back in London where the Green Peas welcomed me back yesterday with open arms, bagels, and cafe lattes. Seriously, I want to move all of you here so that we can all sit at Mr. Bagels, drink coffee, and gab about the mad goings on around town.

I had a lovely dinner with another friend, Nicoletta, last night in an area of London called "Noho" which is the north version of "Soho". We had girlie strawberry drinks, entertained the idea of stilettos, and ate at a very French (3 course) restaurant. We shared with each other some of the secrets of our hearts and traded wisdom that can only be shared with people you may or may not see for another year. We ended the evening with amaretto hugs.

I got sort of lost in London today and wandered around (apple in hand), accidentally stumbling into Parliament Square (just as Big Ben struck 2:00) and ambled along the Thames to Blackfriars until I got tired, partly from walking, partly from stop and go cider tasting. Now I'm back at Mark's where I sit contently blogging and watching the gorgeous British rain clouds float heavily by his window, over his budding veg garden.

And that's just how it is.

Safe and Happy Check

Quickly quickly,
I just have a spare second before I hop on a train to Bath with a new pal. I've been in Oxford for four days (punting and pubbing all around) and will head back to London after this spontaneous Bath excursion. I've had a blast so far, and will need some serious convincing to not move here permanently. (Going to Alaska is a good motivator..)
Anyway,
HI FROM THE UK!!
I miss you!!

London Calling.. and then Alaska... and then NYC

Tomorrow I'm off on an adventure (Viaggio!!) and may be gone from the comfortable space of this blog for a little while.

Here's the sitch:
I'm flying to London tomorrow where I'll be attending a 4 day workshop in Oxford for the new International Baccalaureate (IB) class I'm teaching at school. I've (sort of accidentally) sandwiched said workshop between 6 days of what I'm calling "reflection time" in London. (Thanks to Mark and his housemates for letting me crash the barbecue for a few days!!) And for the first time since college, I won't have a Rich to lean on or an agenda. That's the adventure part to me. I am going to force myself to throw away all (or most) lists and BE. Hopefully I'll run into some interesting happenings and will come back with loads of stories and new friends. (And I'll try not to get arrested, Mom! No promises, though.);)

Two days after I return from that adventure, I'm off to Alaska with my family!! I get to go to Vancouver where I'll embark on a 7 day cruise for more adventures. We'll do day excursions in all of the towns along the way, but the one I'm looking forward to the most is the "Bike and Brew." Yep. They're going to give us bikes and beer and see if we can NOT launch ourselves off of a mountain.(I'm imagining ET for some reason..) OK, so it isn't THAT ridiculous. But that's how it plays in my head. Mostly, I can't wait to spend time with my crazy family and friends, since we always manage to make the most of our insanity and have a great time!

Two days after that, I head to New York with Fougs for another 3 or 4 day IB conference at the UN school! Anywhere I go with Fougs is a BLAST. Plus, I'll be having some serious withdrawal angst from not having seen her in so long. I may be dead tired from the other adventures, but it won't matter since hanging with the Fougs is SURE to ROCK! Hopefully I'll also get to see Annie and John and the family (+ 1 by then!!).

Wish me luck (especially on the London part since I'm the most nervous about it, and also since I'm terrified of flying in general and this will make 6 flights in 30 days!).

I'll try to check in if I can find internet access.

Until then friends, be well!

Viaggio!!

P-ta's 40th!

Last weekend, Rich and I headed to Houston to celebrate one of our dearest friend's (P-ta's) 40th birthday. In true P-ta fashion, we played board games -and I hesitate to call them that because "board games" sounds SO ordinary and the games that P-ta and his pals play are some that only true professional gamers know about- and drank Hornsby's cider. (Thanks Greg and Karen! You guys R.O.C.K.!)



The next morning poor P-ta had to work since it was Sunday and since he is the music/worship coordinator at his church. BUT after that was HUGE party with 40-50 folks who showed up just to talk about how cool P-ta is. AND he is!!!

Too bad I put my camera down, because I only got pics of the gaming and of the pre-party set up! (Hopefully Steve got some better ones?)

Anyway, Happy Birthday friend, P-ta!! We LOVE you and were so glad to be with you on your special day!!

'Shopping Cart Karma' by Christine

-a most relatable reflection told by the most excellent, enlightening, wit-tastic (Fou)guru on the planet. Enjoy!

'I don’t believe in reincarnation. At least not in the typical, literal, “I was Cleopatra in a past life and that’s why I’m afraid of snakes and think guys named Anthony are hot” kind of way. But sometimes things happen that seem to come from past life mistakes, bad karma that I feel pretty certain doesn’t come from something horrible I did in this lifetime.

'I have never been mean to a shopping cart. I am, in fact, quite kind to them, moving them out of the dangerous places other careless shoppers have left them, corralling them into safer areas or even shepherding them back into the store with me. But this week seems to be karmically linked to some past life’s offense, some previous June when I, in the guise of a burly 1950’s man angry about my wife not doing the week’s shopping, took my frustration at being unable to find the pasta sauce out on some poor, unsuspecting shopping cart. Or something like that.

'It happened in Home Depot. My subconscious must have seen it coming since, despite my long shopping list, I tried not to get a cart. When my hands became full of paintbrushes and sandpaper, I realized my mistake. But, with my hands full, I couldn’t walk back out to the carts on the other side of the cashiers, so I found one left in the lawn and garden department, not thinking about the myriad reasons why the cart might have been abandoned. For example, one of the wheels might actually be a square.

'I should have stopped after pushing it the first five feet and making such a racket that three different men turned around and looked at me with a combination of confusion and pity. Tha-THUNK-tha-THUNK-tha-THUNK. If I went slowly, the THUNK was so forceful that the vibration through the cart moved my whole body. But when I had to walk over to the lumber section, the flattened wheel really shined. At speed it was a THUNKing, jostling masterpiece. It’s impossible to find someone to help you at Home Depot, but I must have had seven different people in orange aprons ask me if I was okay. It was probably the noise that brought them out, but it might also have been the look on my face. I can only assume that it revealed how hard I was working to keep the cart heading straight down the aisle, because it was at higher speed that the cart also showed its tendency to turn right. Only right. Really hard to the right, like some kind of suicidal run at the various displays of nails and doors and chemicals of all sorts. I tried in vain to arrange my list in an order that would allow me to only turn right, but that is NOT easy. I had to keep my right arm rigidly straight, getting such a workout that I almost dropped my bag at the checkout when I tried to put it back into my cart.

'I’m not even going to talk about the trip out to the car, consisting of a 20 mph wind and a large piece of plywood. Let’s just say that I am sorry for whatever I did to shopping carts in a past life, because, though I’m not clear on my belief in reincarnation, I have to believe in the power of forgiveness. Please forgive me, oh shopping cart gods, for I need your good will! I will be kind and, now, having learned my lesson, will endeavor to find a doctor for your less fortunate brethren. All I ask is that you let me continue my shopping adventures free from the THUNKing, the pulling, and the frustration that can mar our otherwise wonderfully symbiotic relationship.

'Or something like that.'

The Best Medicine

Lisa and John were in town for one night only, but we packed in as much laughter as one can physically endure in one evening. Laughter with great friends is, after all, better than anything in any bottle or capsule.

*All pictures were taken by Lisa, John, or The Third Arm!!
* While sitting in the big red chair, especially, we missed you, Jen!!!

On Kissing and Catharsis

In case you didn't know, I LOVE books.

Even if you did know, I will probably mention this fact over and over and over again, just like that annoying kid in every fast food establishment who is jumping in concentric circles around his parent who is patiently trying to work out why the ice machine at the drink station isn't putting out. (ice - you perv) The kid yells, "Hey, look what I can do! Dad, look what I can do. Daaaad! Watch me! Look what I can do!!!" And then when Dad finally pays attention, the kid does something remarkably ordinary like kicking his leg just high enough to be able to clap his hands underneath it. --Yes. this did actually happen.

(sigh)

Hopefully I'm not that kind of annoying, but I DO love my literature.

Some might say that this is another in a (very long) list of addictions, and some might call me CRAZY when they learn about my reading rotation method or when they see me openly hugging and sometimes kissing books in public places.

I know what you're thinking.

Flagrantly kissing a new book out in the open, where God and all of creation can see, might cast a negative shadow on my otherwise pristinely pure persona. But don't worry. I am extremely responsible and have very strict boundaries on a first reading, especially in public. I only permit a slow amble to first base, allowing (maybe) a little bit of church tongue in the kissing, but only if that book is REALLY something special.*

Anyway.

The point I'm trying to make is that the reason I love my books is because they provide experiences that I wouldn't normally (and sometimes could never) have, and/or I get to meet people (alike and different from me) that I wouldn't get to know otherwise. This is certainly not a new concept --See The Princess Bride (Inconceivable!) and The NeverEnding Story (why don't you do what you dream, Bastian?...Call my name!...Save us!) as film reminders that books absolutely can provide an extraordinary adventure for the reader.

But more than that, good books, like all art (in any medium), provide for the reader an indescribably profound experience that the ancient Greeks called catharsis. [New Latin, from Greek katharsis, from kathairein, to purge, from katharos, pure.]

The word catharsis, according to ye good auld American Heritage Dictionary, is 'a release of emotional tension, as after an overwhelming experience, that restores or refreshes the spirit'.

Here's an example:

Do you remember the scene in the movie Garden State where Zach Braff's character climbs in the pouring rain onto the crane that's perched on the edge of a deep, unfathomable abyss? He stands there in his trash bag 'raincoat' and then screams as loudly as he can into the canyon. Then his friends join him on the edge and without any sort of words or exchange, they all three scream into the void. Together.

Though rationally it seems like a silly thing to do, we get that it's the exact RIGHT thing to do in the moment. We recognize/understand (without forming words) what 'that need' to scream into the void is. And we emotionally join the three of them even though obviously, we're not really with them. We're on our comfortable couches and easy loungers in our homes in real places like Dallas, Texas.

But we get it. And we're with them. And afterwards, like them (if we're not still looking for the Kleenex box), we FEEL better.

At the end of the scene the characters laugh, and they kiss. And there is a newness in them, and also a newness in us.

That's catharsis.

And as delicate humans in this chaotically changing world, where we are constantly being bombarded with unfathomable sadness and anguish, we NEED to experience catharsis. We need to experience it often and sometimes with others, so that we can be renewed from the inner secrets of our wounded spirits all the way to the tips of our feverishly working finger tips.

Catharsis is what makes our perception of the world tolerable and more than that, beautiful!

And that's what I get from my beloved books.


*At night in bed is a completely different situation, but I at least TRY to avoid the trashy. After all, we should only have edifying experiences at our most vulnerable..

Easy Does It, Until It Doesn't

Yesterday I decided that it was time to get back on that proverbial horse and ride.

Actually, it was a bike, not a horse.

Before the pregnancy, I was riding 6-10 miles every other day (just about) and was filling in the off days with circuit resistance training. I was eating right (or better than my usual cold pizza leftovers with a side of nothing much and chocolate). I was steaming all sorts of things and was all about the Uncle Ben's 90 Second Wild Rice pouches.

I actually felt healthy and my body looked fit for the first time since college!

Then when I got pregnant and the complications began, I was put on couch arrest (which lasted a month or longer), and I decided that I was supposed to crave things. By things, I mean dessert. And not the fruit parfait kind, but the chocolate covered in chocolate, resting in a moat of chocolate, on a chocolate plate kind, with a side of ice cream.

The couch/dessert combo was pretty much a disaster for all of my hard work.

After I miscarried, obviously my body was in no shape to do much of anything and my emotions kept me bed-ridden and sluggy, not to mention the "procedure" that accompanied it all.

BUT yesterday, for the first time in over a month, I decided to try and ride again! I was smart about it, too. I promised myself to ride at the pace of my Nelly Furtado CD, so as to keep things steady (and not sprint like I used to do). I promised to take frequent water breaks and to ride the shortest of the trails. I was going to try and "ease" myself back into the world of health and fitness.

Right. So the first part of the ride ROCKED. I was steady and paced, conscious of my breathing. My muscles seemed to recall how to do everything (um. like remembering how to ride a bike). I smiled and sweetly called out things like, "on your left" and generously passed along "hi, how are ya?" nods to others on the trail. Plus the weather was perfect. The temperature was in the mid 80's, and though a little humid, I still could feel tiny jet streams of cooler air occasionally and was thankful for the sunshine.

I got half way through the ride when I decided to stop and take a water break as per "the plan". I was, after all, a little bit winded, and I do understand the value of hydration. I stopped, sat on a lovely park bench among butterflies and GREEN vegetation, and allowed myself what I would soon consider very arrogant and ironic thoughts such as, "Good. This is pleasant. I needed this. Maybe tomorrow I can ride the longer trail. What should I steam for dinner?"

Needless to say, the ride back was not the same as the one before the water break. In fact about 3 minutes after I got back onto my bike, my muscles decided that THEY. WERE. DONE.

Shit.

I was not even close to home and my muscles were protesting every single push of the pedal! If you could look underneath my skin, I think you would've seen my muscles staging a sit in, holding signs that read, "Hell no! We won't go," the lead muscle on the phone with her union rep. I then wondered which of my muscles was the lead muscle (I'm guessing the quad?), which kind of made me chuckle despite the anguish, which in turn made me instantly aware of the intense humidity that was crushing my poor laughing lungs with all of its weight and density.

There was no more pacing; screw Nelly Furtado. The breathing was forced. Plus, was the ride home more up hill than usual? Where did my jet stream go? Forget the passers by pleasantries. Damn butterflies!

All I could think of with every forced movement was, "stupid (push) girl (push) stupid (push) girl (push)..."

I cannot tell you how I made it home, other than I was just too prideful to wave that white flag of surrender and accept defeat.

When I got home, I took a long shower and tried to revive the broken spirit that accompanies my perfectionist tendencey to beat myself up for not being able to do something perfectly the first time.

I did recover minute by minute and decided to draft a rather lengthy peace-keeping treaty (written, of course, in perfectly confusing legalese, using the most of my limited Latin skills) that would act as a compromise/diplomatic buffer between my lungs and leg muscles, and my brain. Fortunately for me, all have graciously agreed to sign said document, and we are going to try the mission again later today.

All seems to be more congenial for now, though my buttocks are still pretty sore, especially since they, too, endured the battle and were sadly left out of all consideration.