Spinning

I’m writing this from the backseat of a cab, heading back home. I’ll probably get motion sick before I finish. I can’t read in car. I can barely tolerate looking at my phone, not even to send a text or scroll through Instagram or get directions. I feel like I’m going to puke in under a minute. It’s remarkable, if I think about it, how much my life has been shaped by this predisposition toward motion sickness. That’s what it is, I found out: a genetic predisposition. I found out from one of those 23andMe DNA tests. Anyway, some my most unpleasant, most humiliating, most unpleasant experiences have involved motion sickness. There was the time I broke my toe in college and couldn’t walk across campus so I tried to take the school shuttle from campus health to my dorm and it should have taken ten minutes max but I didn’t know the route and it was over 100 degrees outside (I went to college in the desert) and I’d been up all night high on opiates and finishing an essay and now I was in excruciating pain and lost and dehydrated and the bus was just making me ill. Another rider took pity on me and offered me water. He must have seen how sick I was. Or maybe I begged him for a drink. The plastic bottle he handed me was clearly used, refilled, with warm water that was tinged with brown, like maybe it had been used for coffee or tea before. I drank it down. I was so grateful. Another time I got so overheated and sick on the CTA I had to get off like six stops early and strip off my winter layers and just stand there underdressed on the platform in the cold until I’d recovered enough to reboard. That’s actually happened a bunch of times. Now when I take a slow train line, I try to remember to bring ginger chews or some hard candy to suck on. Snacks and water. I am like a baby. It’s sort of pathetic. And then there were all the times I drank too much. Puking in other people’s houses, cars. Puking in my own house, my own car. Puking in the gutter. In the end, it was the hangovers that took me out of the game. They were just so epically bad. Spinning on bed. Head in the toilet. Weak stomach for days. I wonder if I even would have ended up in AA if I could hold my booze better, physically, I mean. If I wasn’t such a lightweight. I guess we’ll never know.

Well, I made it home. I feel okay. I’m feeling like a dummy for ordering oysters at the airport for dinner, but I guess I never learn.

Diary: Halloweentown

Today my alarm went off at 4:50 am and instead of rolling out of bed to run in the sleet I reset the alarm for two hours later and went back to sleep. Exactly ten minutes later D clambered down from her bunk bed threw on the lights in the hall, barged into my room to use the master bath (?), and then instead of going back to bed she plopped down on the floor and started crafting. “D. It’s way too early. Go back to bed. Happy Halloween.” Of course she cried. She was just so excited. This kid loves holidays more than anything, all the holidays, all the birthdays, all the anniversaries. Any excuse to celebrate. She gets that from her dad’s side of the family, and I’m happy to say that lust for the extraordinary parts of life have rubbed off on me too. But not Halloween. Not at 5:00 am anyway. After some tears (hers) and pleading (mine) she went back to bed for two more hours and so did I. The rest of the day was business as usual–work, school–except the sleet turned to fat flakes of snow that fell hard without stopping from 8:00 am to 5 pm. My walk home was enchanted autumn meets winter wonderland, fluffy diamond dust piled high on ruby, peridot, and amber leaves, glistening in huge swaths of fake spiders’ webs, gathering in jack-o’-lantern nooks and witchy crannies. The neighbor’s horrible ghoul collapsed in a cold heap. At home, we ate dinner so early I thought I wouldn’t be hungry, but rotisserie chicken and roasty garlicky asparagus changed my mind. We donned costumes. R in a dog mask, me in a hot dog hat, D in a full body hot dog costume with a dog mask and puppy paws. We met the neighbours out front at 5:00 pm, a whole crew of kids six and under in costumes mostly hidden under coats and parents who are game for mostly anything, and walked around the block, watching our kids clamber up slippery wooden stairs, try to ring doorbells with gloved hands, and beg their way into truly astonishing amounts of candy. The families dropped off one by one, their kids were too little and too cold, until it was just me and D left and it seemed that the snow drove even the local teenagers to turn in early. At some point it hit me that I wasn’t anxious, that I hadn’t felt anxious all day, and that this was something. Big days, social stuff, seeing friends usually winds me up tight. We stuffed hand warmers into our hands and boots and hit a few more houses that had gone on all out in the decoration department. D saw a realistic Pennywise, a realistic warewolf, several realistic zombies, and several severed limbs but never admitted defeat. I forced us back in when there were more houses with lights off than on. Back at home, we helped D with her candy dump and sort, warmed up with hot cider, and read out loud. Later, in bed, D cried, “Why does Halloween have to be over?” and talked about about Thanksgiving, calling it “The Worst.” Honestly, I get why a holiday that involves a 5k, cooked vegetables, and no presents is cold comfort at the end of Halloween, but I have no doubt that by the time Thanksgiving rolls around she’ll be bopping around my bedside at 5:00 am and eventually crying herself to sleep she will be so sad to see another good day go.

Gaslit

When I was seventeen, I made out with a boy named Pat. He was a massive gamer geek who lived in a crusty apartment with a bunch of other massive gamer geeks who, as a group, could not bothered to look up from casting spells or killing trolls in their online fantasy world to even grunt a hello at girls like me who occasionally found ourselves at the apartment, against our better judgment, sitting around on crusty couches bored listless in the blue glow of computer screens and Kevin Smith movies. Pat even looked a little like a troll, short and lumpy, though I reassured myself he looked like a young, soft Gold-era Ryan Adams.

Like I imagined Ryan Adams to be, Pat was also kind of a bristly jerk and I steered clear of him until I found out from a friend that he had complimented my ass. At least I think he complimented it. “Pristine,” is what he called it. Flattered, I relayed the information to my best friend, who is smarter than me, and immediately took the wind out of my chaps.

“So, he thinks your ass is…clean? That’s weird.”

“No, he thinks it’s perfect. Like, the platonic ideal of an ass.”

We consulted the dictionary definition. “Pristine: in its original condition; unspoiled.” We checked out the synonyms: “virgin; pure; unused.”

“He’s saying that nobody else has touched it. That’s what he likes.”

“No way. I was wearing my good jeans.”

“Hm. You might be right. You do have a good ass.”

With that settled, I decided to make out with Pat. My self-esteem was on the ground after being recently dumped by my first boyfriend and pining away in unrequited high school love for another boy for over a year, and the news that somebody was paying attention to a part of my body that I had only ever thought of as a liability made previously-invisible Pat blink on like a Lite Brite. Oh look! A distraction! Not a cure for my heartbreak but a mild salve. Something to do.

So, me and my long legs and good jeans and pristine ass made out with lumpy little Pat and, honestly, it was pretty hot, at least as far as this wildly hormonal and underexperienced teenager was concerned. It was fun. I didn’t like Pat, but I definitely wanted to hook up with him again. I told a friend, the one who had passed on the good word about my ass, hoping she might pass my interest back to him.

When she did and got back to me a few days later, Pat’s response floored me: he said it never happened. He denied the whole thing, first to our friends, and later to my face: that we were alone together, that we kissed, that we rolled around in bed together for over an hour.

I was prepared for rejection or disinterest–that was the long and short of the story of my romantic life up to that point. I was prepared to be a little sheepish about the fact that I was interested in this weird dude. I wasn’t expecting to be humiliated. I definitely hadn’t planned on spending the days and weeks to come defending–and ultimately questioning–my own sanity. Did I misinterpret the originating comment about my body? Did I commit some grievous teenage error by talking about our hook-up? Did he not have as much fun as I did, as I thought he was having? Was he not lucky to have me in his bed, to put his hands all over me? Did I make up the entire goddamn thing?

I walked away from that encounter embarrassed, of course, but also a tiny bit unhinged. It makes sense, though.

Eventually the girl who doesn’t believe in herself is going to stop believing herself.

What A Body’s Good For

I ran a marathon last Sunday: my second-ever in life, my first in over seven years, and my first race longer than a 5k since giving birth 3.5 years ago. I only signed up a few weeks ago, but I’ve been running a steady 3-4 times per week since January, thinking in the back of my mind all along that I was in training for “something.”

These last eleven month have been a harsh reminder that long distance running is an exercise in wrecking your body to make it stronger. Because I am a runner, I will never sport a pair of strappy sandals to a dressy event. My soles are completely calloused over. On any given day, I have a few blisters in various states of healing on the backs of my heels or the sides of my toes. Some of my toenails have fallen off and grown in so many times that they are thick and leathery and impossible to disguise with a coat of glossy Essie nail polish. On runs over eight miles, my sports bra chafes against my chest, leaving raw marks that scab over and last for at least a week. When I run outside in the afternoon, sweat drips from the tip of my ponytail onto my skin, inviting a rash of angry red pimples across my shoulders. In July, I crashed into the asphalt after stepping sideways into a pothole and it looked like I took a cheese grater to my knees, forcing me to wear long pants to work for two weeks in the middle of summer. I wrestled with a foam roller off and on all year, trying to tame my IT band into submission.

I ran along the lake in the pre-dawn, I ran through the city after dark, I ran north to Winnetka past mansions that will never not blow my mind, I ran south to Uptown past the parks and beaches that remind me of being newlywed, and then a new mom in Chicago, I ran through neighborhoods where I would not feel comfortable slowing to a walk, I ran in the pounding rain, I ran in the snow, I ran off hangovers and anxiety and period cramps and rage, I ran until my lungs burned and I fell into the dirt sobbing when Brock Turner was sentenced three months in prison, I ran to the grocery store, I ran awkwardly through what looked and sounded like a bumping block party, I ran 18 miles on a treadmill at the gym, I ran, and I ran, and I ran.

Last weekend, on a calm, warm day in between the Cubs win and the Democratic loss, I put my training to the test with the marathon put on by the Milwaukee Running Festival that I’d signed up for just four weeks earlier. I’d been wanting to run another one since I crossed the finish line at the Chicago Marathon back in 2009, and even made it halfway through training for one back in 2012, but things kept coming up (pregnancy, 60 hour work weeks, a two week trial in Delaware, parenting, life) that stopped me from committing until last month, when I realized that I had the weekend of November 6th free and that I’d put in enough miles that I could probably survive 26.2.

I drove up to Milwaukee from Chicago on Saturday, swung by the race expo to pick up my packet and some 30% off workout gear, hit up our favorite pizza joint for some carbs, and hit the hay early in a hotel that was even dirtier and scarier than I expected it to be based on the discounted rate. In the morning, I woke up early and ran.

The first half was exhilarating. I went out fast and hard and was thrilled to be speeding down the middle of the road through a beautiful Rust Belt city on a Sunday so gorgeous you’d never guess it was November. I was moderately surprised by a series of hills, as Chicago is pancake-flat, but delighted that they sloped down as often as they climbed up. I hadn’t been certain that I would be able to finish the race without injury, but now it looked like I was going to knock an hour off my first marathon PR!

I couldn’t keep up that pace forever, though, and the second half became exhilarating in its brutality. The day turned hot, my legs burned, and my feet turned to lead. Somewhere between miles 18 and 20 everybody around me started walking and the goal shifted from keep running at a 9:30 pace to keep running period. The hills doubled in length and grade. The course took a turn through Milwaukee’s more industrial neighborhoods and I pounded pavement past brewing complexes and broken glass. I repeatedly jammed my rubber earbud into my ear canal because it kept slipping out. I dutifully choked down energy goo and shot blocks every 20 minutes, as well as a fibrous chia bar around mile 23 that I immediately regretted on account of how quickly it went through me. I managed to pick it up in the last two miles, which ran along Lake Michigan, and I crossed the finish line one minute under my 4:10 goal.

Every part of my body was sore and shaky and sick and soaked through with sweat and I was ecstatic that I’d not only accomplished something I’ve been wanting to do for years but that I’d left every ounce of energy on the road behind me. My husband and daughter were waiting for me the finish line, and I lurched over to them, grinning and gasping for air. After a desperate pit stop at the port-a-potty, I laid in the grass and split a chocolate milk and a giant cookie with my three-year-old. We stayed there until my legs started to seize up, and then we got up and wandered around, slow, woozy, stomach roiling, happy as I’ve been in recent memory.

When I lost the will to continue propelling myself forward, we headed back to the car. I’d packed fresh, soft clothes to change into for the drive back to Chicago, and could not wait to get them on. I dug the extra-large concert tee and american apparel sweatshirt and clean mesh shorts out of the duffel in the trunk and ripped my disgusting race shirt off my aching body. There were a fair number of people milling about between their cars and the race course, other runners, beat up, with medals hanging around their necks, and their families, helping them along. Amid the noise, people shouting, music from the post-race party pounding in the background, I heard a voice above the rest:

Check it out! Over there! Taking off her shirt!

Before I’d even registered that it could be directed at me, half obscured by cars behind and in front of me, in my sports bra and shorts, I had the clean shirt on, and I heard the voice again:

I feel cheated!

I turned and saw that the voice belonged to a middle-aged man, and I considered throwing him the finger, until I saw he was accompanied by his two young daughters, so instead I just turned away. I’d planned on changing completely behind the car, because who cares, but decided to finish up in the front seat instead.

To recap: I trained for eleven months and accomplished a physical feat of Lifetime Achievement-level proportions, one that makes men bleed from the nipples and women shit themselves, and this idiot thinks my body is something to look at. He tried to take my body–in that moment, an apotheosis of strength and stubborn persistence–and turn it the butt of a truly lazy joke premised on the assumption that women are sexual objects.

Of course, as a woman, I experience things like this, and much worse, all the time, but the unusual circumstances of this encounter threw the disconnect between our ideas of what a woman’s body is good for into relief and revealed societal obsession with female form over human function for what it is–completely and utterly absurd.

Growing up Mormon, I was taught that my body was a temple. Temples are sacred, inviolate, literal houses of God. They are also magnificent to behold. In the early days of the church, pioneer women donated their best china, which was dusted into fine powder and mixed into concrete so that the walls of the temple might shimmer like the walls of heaven itself. The first time I went into an LDS temple, I was 14 years old, on a youth trip to Washington DC. I spent the entire worship session trying to catch the eye of a cute boy from Chillicothe, Ohio. There was a dance at the church later that night and I dusted glitter powder from Bath and Body Works on my face, arms, and bony adolescent chest. The temple in DC is a many-spired architectural marvel meant to draw the eye and so did I.

An LDS temple is far more than just a pretty (or ostentatious, depending on your take) building, though. It is an edifice in every sense of the word. A building, yes, but also the pinnacle of achievement in Mormon theology, the solid center around which everything else grows. Permission to enter the temple, granted by a bishop following a formal interview, proves you are worthy. Getting married in the temple qualifies you for salvation. Going back to the temple, to participate in rites and ordinances on behalf of your ancestors, to receive direction, to commune with God, means you belong. The temple is a symbol, a stand-in for everything Mormons believe, and my body was too. As a teenager, keeping it covered, refusing permission to enter or even touch, meant I was worthy. Attracting attention from men meant that I had value. Later, giving birth and nursing a child meant that I was fulfilling my most elemental role, the one that would get me into heaven. Looking, acting, and talking the part of the believing Mormon wife and mom–covering my shoulders with sleeves even though I’d never qualified to wear the sacred LDS undergarment, turning down a cup of coffee even though I was secretly locked in an exhausting battle with booze, offered a chance at being saved and the illusion of belonging.

The only trouble with being a symbol is that I hated it. Or rather, when my body was a symbol, I hated my body. I poisoned it with drugs and alcohol. I starved it and stuffed my finger down my throat, not often, but enough to do damage. Men pawed at it and I blamed myself. I lifted my shirt in the mirror and grabbed the fat around my stomach every day for more than a decade, only stopping when my daughter became old enough to follow me into the bathroom.

Until I’d had enough. This year, the year of running, the year of recovery from fear and lack and shame, this is the year I started fighting for my body. I forgave it for being female. I forgave it for not making babies on demand. I forgave it for going haywire upon ingesting so much as a drop of alcohol.

I forgave my body, and then I started to defend it. My body is not something to look at. It is not a symbol. It is not a temple because it is not God’s house. It is my house. I’m the one who has to live here. If I take off my shirt or even (gasp) my bra, it could be for any one of a million reasons. Maybe I am hot, or sweaty, or there is a tag worrying at the back of my neck. Maybe I just finished a longass race and want to change my clothes. Maybe I am running in the sunshine along Lake Michigan and I feel so goddamn happy to be alive and moving that I just want to feel the wind on my bare skin. Whatever it is, you better believe it has nothing to do with you or any other person, thank God (and it has nothing to do with Him either).

Breakfast for Dinner – Part IV

[This post is the fourth in a series. See Parts I, II, and III.]

When you moved to Ann Arbor, I’d already been there for a year, and you were still just my boyfriend. I added up the years when I told people you were coming, in an effort to authenticate our relationship, even though my answer to the next question seemed to push us backward a step. “Three years. No, he’s not moving in with me.” Three years, though. That’s everything when you’re twenty-three. If we’d been together any longer, we’d be something akin to high school sweethearts, and everybody knows there’s something a little funny about high school sweethearts who go on to get married, simultaneously wholesome and tragic with a touch of small-town fundamentalism thrown in, and we I weren’t any of those things, although we knew people who were.

If we spent two years in Tucson trying to work the other person into our lives, we spent two more in Ann Arbor laying the groundwork for a life together. We approached something close to domestic bliss in our two separate studio apartments. After class, I trudged three-quarters of a mile up the hill to yours and sat cross-legged on an inflatable air bed surrounded by a pile of textbooks while you cooked. Red chili, and chicken soup, and baked macaroni and cheese. Comfort foods to put us through six months of winter. There’s no room for kitchen tables in studios, so we hurt our backs hunching over on the wood floor in front of the TV, leaning in close to garlicky omelets and quiches made with fresh vegetables from the Kerrytown farmers’ market, or biscuits and gravy with sausage from the over-expensive European grocer we’d taken to visiting together on Saturday mornings, or red potatoes dyed redder with smoked paprika from the Spice House. I gave up coffee our year apart, so we sipped the hot tea that you smuggled from your job at the cafe instead, at all times of day, and especially with breakfast for dinner. Again, a little warmth to get through six months of winter. And there were other days when you let your little Ford pickup coast the same three-quarters of a mile downhill to my downtown apartment, and we’d eat ramen or pasta because I only owned one pot and didn’t keep food in the fridge, or we’d rotate between the same three cheap restaurants within a block of my apartment: do you want sandwiches, pizza, or Chinese? You always wanted pizza, and I never wanted any of it, because your cooking was better.

Ann Arbor is where we learned how to eat and live well. Of course, it doesn’t feel like living well when you’re in it, in the midst of 4:00 a.m. wakeups, and icy sidewalks, and broken down cars, and crappy restaurant jobs, and 20+ pounds of textbooks strapped to your back, and too-loud neighbors at my place and too-quiet neighbors at yours, and rejection letter after rejection letter after rejection letter, and groceries on credit at the end of every semester, and walking back and forth and back and forth between two separate apartments and why aren’t we married yet?

I’m supposed to write about our fourth diner now. I started writing about our diners two years ago, but I stopped whenever I got to Ann Arbor, because we never really had one there. We never went to Fleetwood together, that greasy spoon in an old Airstream trailer that my law school friends swore smelled like townies and sweat, but you insisted made a decent hash. And you never joined me at Angelo’s, all the way over on North Campus, where professors ordered poached eggs. And we liked Afternoon Delight quite a bit, with its oversized muffins and amusing name, but not enough to wait in line for over 30 minutes on any kind of regular basis, not when we could grab two almond croissants, a coffee, and a boiling hot peach tea for less than ten dollars in less than ten minutes at the pastry shop on the corner of Stadium and State and sit at the only table talking quietly about exactly what kind of diner we’d open on our own someday.