Last night I dreamed we were at Jill and Wade's wedding again, but this time, everyone knew about it, and Shannon and I were helping with it. However, as my dreams go, there were many askew moments.
Wade had to sit in some tiny little room in the basement, and I was in charge of keeping him and Jill apart. I was also in charge of transporting the cake, and when I put it on the dining-room table, it looked awful--it had been in my car for a few days. But Mrs. Sellers said it was okay.
Mrs. Sellers then asked Shannon if she had a flat iron for her hair, but Shannon just walked away. I quickly apologized to her, then ran after Shannon and asked why she was so rude to Mrs. Sellers. She looked at me, obviously surprised, and said, "Mrs. Sellers? Where was she?"
A few other bizarre things happened, and then I realized that Mr. and Mrs. Sellers were both invisible, and only I could see them.
And then I woke up.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Back in the Blog Life Again . . .
The last few weeks have been incredibly tumultuous! I haven't been writing because I've been so distracted.
A quick summary:
After my breakdown, I ended up getting another interview, so I had two, back to back. I interviewed with Virginia Tech on the 23rd, and the Union County Library on the 26th.
And that has done wonders for my confidence and hopes, for many reasons.
First, it shows me that I am marketable. That I can get interviews, even if they don't end in jobs.
And the VT job isn't going to work out, but that's okay. I haven't gotten a call back from them, but even if I do, it's just not going to happen. But, again, that's okay.
The Union job also isn't going to work out. It's a wonderful library, with wonderful people, but it's just not the job for me, so I removed myself from consideration for the position. It's nice to reject a job for once, instead of having a job reject you.
And this is not to say that I'll still be slap-happy-sappy if I haven't gotten another interview in a month . . . but I do have a lot more hope and positivity, and I can tell myself that I got some pretty awesome interviews.
Today I got up and did some yoga, and for the first time since I started doing it, or any other form of activity, I felt good. I felt good while I was doing it, I felt good afterward, and I feel good now.
A quick summary:
After my breakdown, I ended up getting another interview, so I had two, back to back. I interviewed with Virginia Tech on the 23rd, and the Union County Library on the 26th.
And that has done wonders for my confidence and hopes, for many reasons.
First, it shows me that I am marketable. That I can get interviews, even if they don't end in jobs.
And the VT job isn't going to work out, but that's okay. I haven't gotten a call back from them, but even if I do, it's just not going to happen. But, again, that's okay.
The Union job also isn't going to work out. It's a wonderful library, with wonderful people, but it's just not the job for me, so I removed myself from consideration for the position. It's nice to reject a job for once, instead of having a job reject you.
And this is not to say that I'll still be slap-happy-sappy if I haven't gotten another interview in a month . . . but I do have a lot more hope and positivity, and I can tell myself that I got some pretty awesome interviews.
Today I got up and did some yoga, and for the first time since I started doing it, or any other form of activity, I felt good. I felt good while I was doing it, I felt good afterward, and I feel good now.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
At the crossroads. I'll make sure to look out for Daniel-San and Britney.
First, some background, just so you understand exactly how I have gone about job searching up to this point:
1) There are certain jobs I simply will not apply for.
There is no point in applying for positions such as "Library Director" or "Head of _____ Services." I will not get these jobs. I have applied for a couple here and there, but those are the exception, not the rule--one was when I was still pretty idealistic about all this; the other is the Union County job, and that's only because I was urged to apply for it.
I do not wish to be a children's librarian or to work in a school library.
But anything else is fair game.
2) When applying in Columbia, I look at the RCPL, USC, SC State Library, and SC Library Association sites every other day, if not every day. I apply to jobs I doubt I can get, but I still apply because you don't know if you don't try . . . and I also apply to jobs I know I am overqualified for, because you have to start somewhere. However, even after these many, many applications, I have gotten exactly 1 interview for a position here in Columbia. And I did not get that job.
3) To increase my chances of getting a job in my field, I have been applying to other jobs in other places. I receive notifications from the ALA, LISjobs.com, and the Society of American Archivists. I perform other general searches on other sites. Again, I apply to jobs I know I cannot get, and I apply to jobs I know I am overqualified for, because you have to start somewhere. However, even after these many, many applications, I have gotten exactly 2 interviews; 1 of those will take place this Friday (which I'll get to in a moment), and the other is for a job that was rescinded due to budget cuts.
4) There are, of course, jobs that are less or more desirable than other jobs. And there is no such thing as a perfect job. Take, for example, the position I interviewed for at the King County Library System. It was in a great place . . . it paid somewhat well . . . but I'm not all that excited about working in a public library, and I don't want to work in public services. Or the job I interviewed for at Thomas Cooper: we wouldn't have to move . . . it was in an academic library . . . but I wasn't all that thrilled with the position, which didn't pay well at all. Or the job I applied for with the Montana State Historical Society. I have absolutely no desire to live in Montana . . . and the pay was terrible . . . but I'd love to work for an historical society, and the position, archivist, is one of my dream jobs.
So, you see, there's no such thing as a perfect job, unless I were offered the chance to be the head of Special Collections for UVA. And that ain't gonna happen.
With all of this in mind, we come to this past Friday, when I received an email from Virginia Tech Human Resources, offering me an interview for a job I'd applied for. I was thrilled. I have an interview with them this coming Friday.
But it has become more of a mixed blessing than a reason to celebrate. The problem is the job itself. It's in a desirable place . . . it's in an academic library . . . and it's in technical services, which is what I want. But the pay is not great. In fact, it's pretty crappy.
These circumstances have led Curtis and me to have a long, in-depth conversation about it, and about my job search, and about life in general.
After a great deal of thought, consideration, soul-searching, and discussion, I have come to a point not only in my job search, but also in my life, in which I have realized and accepted the following:
1) We can only move out of Columbia if the following conditions exist:
a) Curtis can definitely get a job in the new place. I had previously thought this would be pretty easy, as I was under the impression that there were a lot of jobs out there in his field, but that is apparently not the case.
b) I will make $60,000 or more. This is not going to happen, at least not now. Maybe in 20 years, but not now.
c) The cost of living in the new place is lower than Columbia.
2) Because I cannot guarantee A or C, but I can guarantee B, I have decided to stop looking for a job outside of Columbia. There's no point.
3) While I will still look for jobs in my field in Columbia, I am going to relax my search. It will actually be a lot easier now; there are so few of them. But since there's no way we can move, there's no point in looking.
4) I will, however, step up my efforts to find jobs outside of my field. I will be visiting 3 employment agencies this week to try to find temporary employment, or perhaps temp-to-perm employment, in the administrative or clerical sector.
5) If I do not have a job in my field in Columbia by next May, I will stop looking permanently.
6) If I do not have a job in the administrative or clerical field by Labor Day, I will begin applying for jobs in retail or restaurants.
7) Moving is not off the table, though. Curtis would like to move. And because it is a surety that he will make more money than I, no matter where we go, I am leaving it up to him to find a job in another city.
8) Once he has found said job, we'll move. I'll look for a job in my field leading up to the time we move and for three months after we have relocated, but then I will return to working in the administrative field.
9) In the meantime, I need to find a new purpose in my life. I genuinely feel that I have wasted my life, as well as a great deal of money, and you can tell me until you're blue in the face that I haven't, but that is not going to change how I feel. Because every day that I get up and don't go to work and read yet another rejection letter and wonder how bad it is that our mortgage is late again and watch my savings dwindle is another exhibit in the prosecution's case of Life v. Evans.
Because of this, I have become utterly unmoored, I feel that I am worthless and that I lack purpose, and I become increasingly more depressed every day. I'm going to keep blogging. I'm going to keep leaving the house. I'm going to start seeing my doctor more often. I'm going to try very, very hard to do yoga more often, and I'm going to try to get back on the 5K training. Maybe I'll start writing in earnest again. Maybe I'll become a better housekeeper.
So, in summing up, that's where we are now. We're not leaving Columbia unless it's economically feasible. I've stopped looking outside Columbia. I'm going to continue looking in Columbia, but until then, I'm going to be a secretary, assuming I can get a job in that field. We're moving if Curtis finds a job somewhere else. I have wasted my life. I need to find a new purpose.
1) There are certain jobs I simply will not apply for.
There is no point in applying for positions such as "Library Director" or "Head of _____ Services." I will not get these jobs. I have applied for a couple here and there, but those are the exception, not the rule--one was when I was still pretty idealistic about all this; the other is the Union County job, and that's only because I was urged to apply for it.
I do not wish to be a children's librarian or to work in a school library.
But anything else is fair game.
2) When applying in Columbia, I look at the RCPL, USC, SC State Library, and SC Library Association sites every other day, if not every day. I apply to jobs I doubt I can get, but I still apply because you don't know if you don't try . . . and I also apply to jobs I know I am overqualified for, because you have to start somewhere. However, even after these many, many applications, I have gotten exactly 1 interview for a position here in Columbia. And I did not get that job.
3) To increase my chances of getting a job in my field, I have been applying to other jobs in other places. I receive notifications from the ALA, LISjobs.com, and the Society of American Archivists. I perform other general searches on other sites. Again, I apply to jobs I know I cannot get, and I apply to jobs I know I am overqualified for, because you have to start somewhere. However, even after these many, many applications, I have gotten exactly 2 interviews; 1 of those will take place this Friday (which I'll get to in a moment), and the other is for a job that was rescinded due to budget cuts.
4) There are, of course, jobs that are less or more desirable than other jobs. And there is no such thing as a perfect job. Take, for example, the position I interviewed for at the King County Library System. It was in a great place . . . it paid somewhat well . . . but I'm not all that excited about working in a public library, and I don't want to work in public services. Or the job I interviewed for at Thomas Cooper: we wouldn't have to move . . . it was in an academic library . . . but I wasn't all that thrilled with the position, which didn't pay well at all. Or the job I applied for with the Montana State Historical Society. I have absolutely no desire to live in Montana . . . and the pay was terrible . . . but I'd love to work for an historical society, and the position, archivist, is one of my dream jobs.
So, you see, there's no such thing as a perfect job, unless I were offered the chance to be the head of Special Collections for UVA. And that ain't gonna happen.
With all of this in mind, we come to this past Friday, when I received an email from Virginia Tech Human Resources, offering me an interview for a job I'd applied for. I was thrilled. I have an interview with them this coming Friday.
But it has become more of a mixed blessing than a reason to celebrate. The problem is the job itself. It's in a desirable place . . . it's in an academic library . . . and it's in technical services, which is what I want. But the pay is not great. In fact, it's pretty crappy.
These circumstances have led Curtis and me to have a long, in-depth conversation about it, and about my job search, and about life in general.
After a great deal of thought, consideration, soul-searching, and discussion, I have come to a point not only in my job search, but also in my life, in which I have realized and accepted the following:
1) We can only move out of Columbia if the following conditions exist:
a) Curtis can definitely get a job in the new place. I had previously thought this would be pretty easy, as I was under the impression that there were a lot of jobs out there in his field, but that is apparently not the case.
b) I will make $60,000 or more. This is not going to happen, at least not now. Maybe in 20 years, but not now.
c) The cost of living in the new place is lower than Columbia.
2) Because I cannot guarantee A or C, but I can guarantee B, I have decided to stop looking for a job outside of Columbia. There's no point.
3) While I will still look for jobs in my field in Columbia, I am going to relax my search. It will actually be a lot easier now; there are so few of them. But since there's no way we can move, there's no point in looking.
4) I will, however, step up my efforts to find jobs outside of my field. I will be visiting 3 employment agencies this week to try to find temporary employment, or perhaps temp-to-perm employment, in the administrative or clerical sector.
5) If I do not have a job in my field in Columbia by next May, I will stop looking permanently.
6) If I do not have a job in the administrative or clerical field by Labor Day, I will begin applying for jobs in retail or restaurants.
7) Moving is not off the table, though. Curtis would like to move. And because it is a surety that he will make more money than I, no matter where we go, I am leaving it up to him to find a job in another city.
8) Once he has found said job, we'll move. I'll look for a job in my field leading up to the time we move and for three months after we have relocated, but then I will return to working in the administrative field.
9) In the meantime, I need to find a new purpose in my life. I genuinely feel that I have wasted my life, as well as a great deal of money, and you can tell me until you're blue in the face that I haven't, but that is not going to change how I feel. Because every day that I get up and don't go to work and read yet another rejection letter and wonder how bad it is that our mortgage is late again and watch my savings dwindle is another exhibit in the prosecution's case of Life v. Evans.
Because of this, I have become utterly unmoored, I feel that I am worthless and that I lack purpose, and I become increasingly more depressed every day. I'm going to keep blogging. I'm going to keep leaving the house. I'm going to start seeing my doctor more often. I'm going to try very, very hard to do yoga more often, and I'm going to try to get back on the 5K training. Maybe I'll start writing in earnest again. Maybe I'll become a better housekeeper.
So, in summing up, that's where we are now. We're not leaving Columbia unless it's economically feasible. I've stopped looking outside Columbia. I'm going to continue looking in Columbia, but until then, I'm going to be a secretary, assuming I can get a job in that field. We're moving if Curtis finds a job somewhere else. I have wasted my life. I need to find a new purpose.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Job application materials
There's a job I'm applying for, the Director of the Union County Carnegie Library, and I have some really mixed feelings about it. Of course, I'm nowhere near getting it, I haven't even interviewed for it, and there's probably no way I'll get it, but the circumstances surrounding it are making me think about it in a serious way.
The best way to represent my quandary is through a pro-con format.
I'd start out as a Director of a library.
Pro: That's great! Start at the top.
Con: But what if I can't get another position later on, in a different library, because I'm considered overqualified?
Con: What if I'm not cut out for this job? What if it's too much responsibility, too much to do?
It's in a public library.
Pro: You don't have any experience in a public library--it will be great to add to your resume and to build your skills around a wide range of positions!
Con: You would rather work in an academic library--what if I end up screwing up my chances later?
It's in Union, SC.
Con: I don't think there's any way I can commute.
Pro: Curtis is willing to move.
Pro: I'm willing to move.
We could live in Spartanburg.
Pro: I have friends in Spartanburg.
Con: I have many, many more friends here.
Pro: Sometimes it's nice to start fresh in a new place.
Con: I'm scared that things won't go well in a new place.
Again, I'm nowhere near really needing to think about any of this. I'm really putting the cart before the horse and manufacturing anxiety. But I'm just one of these people who needs to think about things.
The best way to represent my quandary is through a pro-con format.
I'd start out as a Director of a library.
Pro: That's great! Start at the top.
Con: But what if I can't get another position later on, in a different library, because I'm considered overqualified?
Con: What if I'm not cut out for this job? What if it's too much responsibility, too much to do?
It's in a public library.
Pro: You don't have any experience in a public library--it will be great to add to your resume and to build your skills around a wide range of positions!
Con: You would rather work in an academic library--what if I end up screwing up my chances later?
It's in Union, SC.
Con: I don't think there's any way I can commute.
Pro: Curtis is willing to move.
Pro: I'm willing to move.
We could live in Spartanburg.
Pro: I have friends in Spartanburg.
Con: I have many, many more friends here.
Pro: Sometimes it's nice to start fresh in a new place.
Con: I'm scared that things won't go well in a new place.
Again, I'm nowhere near really needing to think about any of this. I'm really putting the cart before the horse and manufacturing anxiety. But I'm just one of these people who needs to think about things.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I'll just be here, going blind in the dark.
I'm not really a lot of fun right now. And I'm doing a modified version of "I'll never get married and I'll spend the rest of my life alone." Which drove everyone crazy.
So I'm pretty sure that my current state of mind isn't really conducive to having people around me, either. No one likes an Eeyore.
With that in mind, I'm taking myself out of the landscape. No one wants to watch me mope or listen to me complain. I'll keep leaving the house because that's good for me; I'm just not doing it with anyone else.
My poor husband will have to deal with it, but I'll try to exorcise most of the meep demons before 4:45 or so.
I'll still be moping about on the blog, though, so you might not want to tune in here, either. In fact, it'll probably be a lot worse here.
So I'm pretty sure that my current state of mind isn't really conducive to having people around me, either. No one likes an Eeyore.
With that in mind, I'm taking myself out of the landscape. No one wants to watch me mope or listen to me complain. I'll keep leaving the house because that's good for me; I'm just not doing it with anyone else.
My poor husband will have to deal with it, but I'll try to exorcise most of the meep demons before 4:45 or so.
I'll still be moping about on the blog, though, so you might not want to tune in here, either. In fact, it'll probably be a lot worse here.
Update on yesterday's interview
Okay, so I didn't actually have an interview yesterday. I thought I was going to, but it was just a "What can we do for you / what are you looking for" conversation with the people at the employment agency. It went well, and the woman I met with was nice and very positive . . . no job yet.
I'm now trying to decide whether I'm going to go through any other agencies. I'm connected to 2 now, and there are 2 more I'm contemplating.
I'm now trying to decide whether I'm going to go through any other agencies. I'm connected to 2 now, and there are 2 more I'm contemplating.
Pseudo-interview
I had an interview today for a volunteer position at RCPL. It went well; I'd end up working about 4 - 6 hours/week, split between two days. I'll probably start next Tuesday.
While getting paid would be really nice, I'm excited to have this opportunity, because it will give me some valuable experience in a public library--something I don't have.
While getting paid would be really nice, I'm excited to have this opportunity, because it will give me some valuable experience in a public library--something I don't have.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
We'll see . . .
I have a job interview this afternoon. It's with Spherion, and I believe it's some sort of part-time or full-time temporary clerical work.
I have strangely mixed feelings about this.
On the one hand, the hand that writes checks from my ever-dwindling savings account, I'm hoping this works out.
On the other, I'd really like to get a jobjob, and I worry that spending every day at a job that's going nowhere and pays little is not going to inspire me to come home and spend every evening applying for 2 - 5 jobs.
I know that I can't look a gift job in the mouth, and I really do need the money, but I wish I'd get an interview for a real job once in a while. Especially since I got yet another rejection email today, from a job that contacted me in late May to set up an interview, said they'd call back the next week, and never did. And I tried contacting them, left a message, but nothing happened.
Any job at this point is a good job, and any pay at this point is good pay, but there's a part of me that feels like a loser because I'm interviewing for a part-time (or full-time temporary, not sure) secretarial position. That I might not (probably won't) get.
Ah well, we'll see.
I have strangely mixed feelings about this.
On the one hand, the hand that writes checks from my ever-dwindling savings account, I'm hoping this works out.
On the other, I'd really like to get a jobjob, and I worry that spending every day at a job that's going nowhere and pays little is not going to inspire me to come home and spend every evening applying for 2 - 5 jobs.
I know that I can't look a gift job in the mouth, and I really do need the money, but I wish I'd get an interview for a real job once in a while. Especially since I got yet another rejection email today, from a job that contacted me in late May to set up an interview, said they'd call back the next week, and never did. And I tried contacting them, left a message, but nothing happened.
Any job at this point is a good job, and any pay at this point is good pay, but there's a part of me that feels like a loser because I'm interviewing for a part-time (or full-time temporary, not sure) secretarial position. That I might not (probably won't) get.
Ah well, we'll see.
What the blog's name means
While I'm at it, I'm going to explain the name of this blog.
My mother typed up the church bulletin every week, and at the end of the announcements section, she would put in a "Thought for the Week," which consisted of a quote, or a pithy little saying, or a Bible verse. Something like that.
Well, every week, in the Sunday morning service, this one deacon would be in charge of leading the devotions, doing the welcome and announcements, etc. And every week, he'd go over the announcements in the bulletin. And every week, he'd read the Thought for the Week. And every week, he'd say the same thing after reading the TftW: "And you know, that's the truth."
I pointed this out to my mother, who found it hilarious. She'd be in the choir loft when he'd read these, then make his assertion, and I'd look at her and mouth "And you know, that's the truth." She finally learned to stop looking at me at that point, but she always started laughing uncontrollably anyway.
At some point I convinced her to put things in the TftW from movies, etc.; as I told her, "He's going to say the same thing every time, and it's not like he's going to know where it's coming from."
These were some of my proudest ones:
"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist." And you know, that's the truth.
"Emmanuel Baptist Church--we get you closer to God." And you know, that's the truth.
"Life is like a sock monkey." And you know, that's the truth.
This statement became a huge part of my life, and I use it (and "And look at that. And it's a beautiful day") all the time, whether I need to or not, and whether the situation warrants using them or not. Because, sometimes, you just need something to say.
My mother typed up the church bulletin every week, and at the end of the announcements section, she would put in a "Thought for the Week," which consisted of a quote, or a pithy little saying, or a Bible verse. Something like that.
Well, every week, in the Sunday morning service, this one deacon would be in charge of leading the devotions, doing the welcome and announcements, etc. And every week, he'd go over the announcements in the bulletin. And every week, he'd read the Thought for the Week. And every week, he'd say the same thing after reading the TftW: "And you know, that's the truth."
I pointed this out to my mother, who found it hilarious. She'd be in the choir loft when he'd read these, then make his assertion, and I'd look at her and mouth "And you know, that's the truth." She finally learned to stop looking at me at that point, but she always started laughing uncontrollably anyway.
At some point I convinced her to put things in the TftW from movies, etc.; as I told her, "He's going to say the same thing every time, and it's not like he's going to know where it's coming from."
These were some of my proudest ones:
"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist." And you know, that's the truth.
"Emmanuel Baptist Church--we get you closer to God." And you know, that's the truth.
"Life is like a sock monkey." And you know, that's the truth.
This statement became a huge part of my life, and I use it (and "And look at that. And it's a beautiful day") all the time, whether I need to or not, and whether the situation warrants using them or not. Because, sometimes, you just need something to say.
Dream blog: This will be the first of many, I'm sure.
I've got to be better about this. I'm supposed to be doing this every day, and I've missed two days so far. Blergh. Must improve! As the Horse says in Animal Farm: "I will work harder."
I was very ambitious yesterday, though; I applied for 3 more jobs, and found quite a few more I'll be applying for as well.
I remember my dreams pretty frequently, and usually in great detail. No one really cares to hear my dreams, but I like telling people about them. This way, I can feel like I'm telling someone, but no one really has to listen.
I've been dreaming about my mother a lot lately. Many of my dreams about her have the following theme: she's alive again, but she WAS dead before, and I have to explain to people that, yes, she was dead, but she's alive now. I had a dream like that a couple of days ago. I was in Bluefield WV again, staying at the B&B where we stayed when we'd visit her in the hospital. She was with us, and we had to explain to our extremely nice innkeeper, Daniel, that yes, Mom HAD died, but she was back.
Last night I dreamed about her, but the dream was different. I was in War, and she and Dad were both still alive and the pharmacy was still open. I was trying to pack up a giant truck to go somewhere, and there were people moving into a building next door to us, and we kept running into one another and mixing up our stuff. Mom and I were looking for a purse that I'd had years ago, but we couldn't find it. Then we started singing a song to the tune of the Popeye song.
I was very ambitious yesterday, though; I applied for 3 more jobs, and found quite a few more I'll be applying for as well.
I remember my dreams pretty frequently, and usually in great detail. No one really cares to hear my dreams, but I like telling people about them. This way, I can feel like I'm telling someone, but no one really has to listen.
I've been dreaming about my mother a lot lately. Many of my dreams about her have the following theme: she's alive again, but she WAS dead before, and I have to explain to people that, yes, she was dead, but she's alive now. I had a dream like that a couple of days ago. I was in Bluefield WV again, staying at the B&B where we stayed when we'd visit her in the hospital. She was with us, and we had to explain to our extremely nice innkeeper, Daniel, that yes, Mom HAD died, but she was back.
Last night I dreamed about her, but the dream was different. I was in War, and she and Dad were both still alive and the pharmacy was still open. I was trying to pack up a giant truck to go somewhere, and there were people moving into a building next door to us, and we kept running into one another and mixing up our stuff. Mom and I were looking for a purse that I'd had years ago, but we couldn't find it. Then we started singing a song to the tune of the Popeye song.
Monday, July 12, 2010
All Yoga Mats Are Equal. Some Yoga Mats Are More Equal Than Others.
Because performing yoga on the hardwood floor in the living room was uncomfortable at best, I bought a yoga mat at Wal-Mart the other day for $9. It seemed fine. It was from what I'd considered a reputable company, Danskin.
Today, I got up to do some yoga on my new mat.
That didn't work so well.
My hands and feet slide really badly on said mat. It makes Down Dog even harder for me, and DD is, inexplicably, one of the hardest poses for me to perform. I'm never quite right in DD--my feet are too wide apart, my hands are never wide apart enough, my butt's too high . . . you get the picture.
And Mr. Slick Mat makes it worse.
So, first: does anyone have a suggestion to make this mat more user-friendly? Should I use baby powder?
Next: lacking a suggestion, should I buy another yoga mat? How much should I spend?
Today, I got up to do some yoga on my new mat.
That didn't work so well.
My hands and feet slide really badly on said mat. It makes Down Dog even harder for me, and DD is, inexplicably, one of the hardest poses for me to perform. I'm never quite right in DD--my feet are too wide apart, my hands are never wide apart enough, my butt's too high . . . you get the picture.
And Mr. Slick Mat makes it worse.
So, first: does anyone have a suggestion to make this mat more user-friendly? Should I use baby powder?
Next: lacking a suggestion, should I buy another yoga mat? How much should I spend?
Sunday, July 11, 2010
A day of surprises
Self-improvement status update . . .
Yoga: Didn't happen yesterday. I'm going to pigeon-pose myself stupid today to make up for it.
Blogging: I didn't blog yesterday. Part of it was sheer laziness. I spent the greater part of the late morning and early afternoon in bed with Curtis, watching, first, a movie I'd spent nearly three decades looking for, and, next, some MST3K movies. While I try to make sure I'm getting out of bed--that somehow makes me feel more productive, even if I just move to the couch--I'm allowed to spend time in bed as long as Curtis is there with me. That, I reason, is not "Sally falling apart" time. No, that's "valuable moments spent with my husband" time.
The first movie we watched was Miyazaki's Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind. I watched it when I was probably about 10 or 11, and it stuck with me throughout my entire life. For a long time, I didn't know the name of it, and therefore couldn't even begin to look for it. A few years ago, with the help of an anime-loving friend (I honestly can't remember who it was--maybe my Japanophile friend Tommy?), we were able to tease out the name of the movie with my rather inexact description of a scene: "There were giant fleas in it. Giant flying fleas, I think."I was wrong about the "flying" part, but the rest of it helped my friend help me.
I found it on Netflix, and ordered it. It was as magical and allegorical as all of Miyazaki's movies, and I realized the scene that had stuck with me for so long was almost exactly as I remembered it--it was as if it had been burned into my memory. I cried at the end, as I am wont to do with many of his movies. It made me want to watch _My Neighbor Totoro_ again. I'm holding off on _Grave of the Fireflies_ until I shake off a bit more of the gloom.
The MST3K movies were not among their finest offerings. One was Soultaker, starring Joe Estevez, Martin Sheen's brother. The other was some movie with Joe Don Baker.
Leaving the House: I had one major thing to accomplish last night, but before that, I decided to go out on a minor excursion. Accompanied by Matt Archer, I went to 5 Points, to the new yogurt place, and bought bubble tea. Nom.
I also bought a bottle of wine as a gift for Wade and Jill, as their engagement party was last night at Wade's parents' house.
So Curtis and I went to their engagement party . . .
Which turned out to be their wedding.
It was a total shock. Only Kim--who was performing the ceremony--was in on it. The rest of us, including their families, were completely duped. It was a lovely surprise, though, and a truly touching wedding. We hung out with many friends, then headed over to Shannon and David's to splash about in the pool.
Yesterday was a really good day.
Today is also a good day. Curtis and I ran some errands, and now we're back at home, relaxing and listening to the storm.
Yoga: Didn't happen yesterday. I'm going to pigeon-pose myself stupid today to make up for it.
Blogging: I didn't blog yesterday. Part of it was sheer laziness. I spent the greater part of the late morning and early afternoon in bed with Curtis, watching, first, a movie I'd spent nearly three decades looking for, and, next, some MST3K movies. While I try to make sure I'm getting out of bed--that somehow makes me feel more productive, even if I just move to the couch--I'm allowed to spend time in bed as long as Curtis is there with me. That, I reason, is not "Sally falling apart" time. No, that's "valuable moments spent with my husband" time.
The first movie we watched was Miyazaki's Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind. I watched it when I was probably about 10 or 11, and it stuck with me throughout my entire life. For a long time, I didn't know the name of it, and therefore couldn't even begin to look for it. A few years ago, with the help of an anime-loving friend (I honestly can't remember who it was--maybe my Japanophile friend Tommy?), we were able to tease out the name of the movie with my rather inexact description of a scene: "There were giant fleas in it. Giant flying fleas, I think."I was wrong about the "flying" part, but the rest of it helped my friend help me.
I found it on Netflix, and ordered it. It was as magical and allegorical as all of Miyazaki's movies, and I realized the scene that had stuck with me for so long was almost exactly as I remembered it--it was as if it had been burned into my memory. I cried at the end, as I am wont to do with many of his movies. It made me want to watch _My Neighbor Totoro_ again. I'm holding off on _Grave of the Fireflies_ until I shake off a bit more of the gloom.
The MST3K movies were not among their finest offerings. One was Soultaker, starring Joe Estevez, Martin Sheen's brother. The other was some movie with Joe Don Baker.
Leaving the House: I had one major thing to accomplish last night, but before that, I decided to go out on a minor excursion. Accompanied by Matt Archer, I went to 5 Points, to the new yogurt place, and bought bubble tea. Nom.
I also bought a bottle of wine as a gift for Wade and Jill, as their engagement party was last night at Wade's parents' house.
So Curtis and I went to their engagement party . . .
Which turned out to be their wedding.
It was a total shock. Only Kim--who was performing the ceremony--was in on it. The rest of us, including their families, were completely duped. It was a lovely surprise, though, and a truly touching wedding. We hung out with many friends, then headed over to Shannon and David's to splash about in the pool.
Yesterday was a really good day.
Today is also a good day. Curtis and I ran some errands, and now we're back at home, relaxing and listening to the storm.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Back in the high life again. It's the champagne of rambling.
I used to write all the time. It was my refuge, my salvation, the best part of everything I ever did. It was what I was good at, what I was known for, what I was envied for, what made me happy. I doubted everything else I did, everything else I tried, everything else I was, but writing was the only thing I was sure about.
My father was a science and math whiz. He was an expert at things people will pay for. I was not good at either of these things.
My mother was a great singer, and very popular in high school. I was none of those things. She was the head of our church's youth choir, which I was forced to join, but not because I could sing--it was expected because she was the director. She was a majorette, popular, well-known, much beloved. She couldn't understand why I wasn't like her. Why I had so much trouble making friends. Why I cried from the sheer loneliness. Why I wasn't just . . . happy. The friends I had were popular . . . and I was just this person who hung out with them.
I fortunately didn't have brothers or sisters with whom I was forced to compete.
My extended family was, and is, athletic. My cousins were tennis champions, basketball stars, quarterbacks, runners, cheerleaders. I was none of these things. I was uncoordinated, sickly, not very athletic, a terrible runner. I briefly excelled at soccer in the eighth grade, but it was not even an intramural sport in my school. I never played it again. I was a strangely, surprisingly good skier, but skiing was hard to keep up with, especially once I moved to South Carolina.
My family was, and is, attractive. My cousin married two consecutive Miss West Virginias. People talked about how pretty, how stylish, how this, how that they were. I didn't get that. I was not attractive. I was short, and dumpy, and pale. I wasn't terribly slender. I dressed badly. I had bad hair. Boys didn't pay a lot of attention to me.
I was intelligent and I made good grades, but that was less a point of pride, more an albatross. I didn't want to be The Smart One. I didn't want my teachers to notice me. It just made me more of an outsider. I just wanted to be left alone.
So there I was. I was dumpy, unattractive, unpopular, not athletic. I was intelligent, but mostly it garnered me the derision of my peers--it never seemed to pay off.
Throughout my childhood and in high school, I thought I was a talented artist. I realized in college, however, in the one art class I took, that that was not the case. And I was actually okay with that--I was in a writing class at the same time, and learning that I was not the next Odilon Redon was okay with me.
Because I could write. God, I could write.
I never doubted it, not for one second. I knew I was good. Other people knew I was good. And unlike my mad classroom skillz, people admired this ability in me. The fact that I made straight A's didn't help me . . . but my writing did.
I believed it all through high school, all through undergrad. And other people believed it, too. I had professors tell me I should get my MFA. But I told myself an MA would be better for me--more marketable. Yes. I'd get my MA, then my PhD, and then I'd teach college English. What a grand plan.
So I went to graduate school at the University of South Carolina, and I quickly found how silly my plan had been.
Every day I was there, getting my MA in English, I felt a little bit worse. A little less confident in my abilities. A little dumber. A little less talented. My classes, my professors, the people around me, everything seemed to say "You don't belong here. You're not good enough. You're not smart enough. You don't have any abilities." Everything felt like constant oneupmanship. If you said you liked Derrida, someone sniffed and said he liked Foucault, but Derrida was certainly . . . serviceable. If you said you liked Foucault, someone else sniffed and said she found Foucault pedantic and had switched to Irigaray. If you said you were attending a conference, someone was quick to say "I attended that two years ago. I presented a paper." If you said you presented a paper at a conference, someone else said "That's nice. I just published in a journal." If you said you published in a journal, there was always someone to tell you your journal was perfectly fine . . . but the journal they'd published in was far superior.
In short, I was miserable. I don't know if other schools are as cutthroat, nasty, and unpleasant as USC. I hope not. Maybe they're worse. Maybe they're not. I'm just glad I finished. I hunkered down and staggered through, wondering what on Earth I'd do when I came out the other side.
I took one creative writing class the last semester I was there, and I was so happy. It was one of the few classes I'd actually enjoyed. I regretted not being in the MFA program, but it was too late. Instead, I was a few months away from receiving a degree I didn't want, from a school and a program I hated. The creative writing class was too late. I already believed I was unsalvageable, untalented, unworthy.
I am a great believer in personal responsibility, and I hate it when people find ways to blame others for their shortcomings. But I believe that USC wrung the love for literature and writing, and my belief in my abilities, right out of me. I came out thinking I couldn't write, and I shouldn't even try. Even though I did well in the creative writing class, that wasn't enough. I knew I wouldn't do well in real life . . . wouldn't be published . . . shouldn't even try. In fact, when I attempted to get jobs in writing, I couldn't. Rarely even got interviews for these positions. So . . . there you go. USC was right.
So for a long time, I just stopped. I would occasionally post a blog on MySpace or Facebook . . . would occasionally write articles for a friend's web site . . . but I knew people were reading it and thinking how terrible my writing was, how simpleminded I was.
And as time went by, it just became easier not to do it. I didn't have to think about how I wasn't as good as I thought I was . . . wasn't as talented as everyone had always said. I could just tell myself I had been all right at one point . . . but I was nothing special. And it was best if I just let this little trifle go. When I saw people I'd known in high school or college, and they told me they'd always thought I'd write the great American novel, or be famous because of my writing, there was a sharp sting, a hollowness inside me, as I thought of everything I could have been, should have been, was . . . but I brushed it away, told myself I was never that good, or talented. That I was good enough for my tiny hometown, good enough for undergrad . . . not good enough for anyone anywhere else. I always smiled and said "Nah, I did other things!" And I'd turn the topic away from me.
And that was my comfortable, warm cocoon: you're not special. You're just like everyone else. You're probably not even as special as everyone else is. Go back to not writing. You'll be happier. Stop thinking you're anything good. You aren't. You never were.
But yesterday, everything changed.
A friend came by when I was in the midst of a real crisis of confidence.
I've been unemployed since February. I can't find a job, and I've been applying. A lot. I'm unemployed because I left a job that, after almost 9 years, was becoming increasingly uninspiring. A job that left me thinking I was even more hopeless and talent-free than ever.
So, five months of unemployment later, I found myself getting up every day, applying for jobs for hours, receiving one refusal after another, not working out, and sometimes not even leaving the house. I got up every day and thought about how I was failing at cleaning my house. I got up every day and thought about how I was failing at getting a job. I got up every day and thought about how I was failing at working out. I got up every day and thought about how I'd failed at my past job. I got up every day and thought about how I'd failed at school. I got up every day and thought about how I was failing at life.
It just became so much easier to lie on the couch and cry. I was proud of myself for getting out of bed. That seemed like a huge accomplishment.
And over the past few days, I felt as if I was imploding.
A friend came by last night, a very very dear friend, someone who, in another life, would be my sister. This friend came by under the guise of Bringer of Soup, and proceeded to bring about an intervention.
She asked me what would make me happy, and at first I couldn't think of anything. Shopping used to make me happy, but I couldn't do that anymore. (I'll cover that in a future post.) I didn't want to drink my troubles away (not that it hadn't occurred to me). I was terrified of gaining weight, so eating my pain wasn't an option. Working out just made me sad and sick and miserable--but I liked yoga. Watching TV was fine, but I felt lazy. I enjoyed playing this one game online.
And then she asked: "What makes you happier than anything else? Doesn't anything make you really happy?"
And I burst into tears.
The only thing that had ever made me truly happy was writing. It was what picked me up and hugged me when I was crying on the floor. It was what told me I was good, and worthy, and right. It was what told me I mattered. It was my retreat when everyone around me was yelling at me and everything around me was wrong.
But I'd decided to stop it. I'd let it go and didn't even know if I could get it back. I'd tried recently to write, but the words wouldn't come out.
So I promised her I'd do the following:
Leave the house. Every day. Even if it's to go to the post office and come back.
Do some yoga. Every day.
And, finally, and most importantly, write. Every day.
I don't know what I'm going to write. I don't know that what I'll write will be valuable, or interesting. I don't know if anyone will read anything I have to say.
But none of that matters.
It only matters that I'm doing it.
My father was a science and math whiz. He was an expert at things people will pay for. I was not good at either of these things.
My mother was a great singer, and very popular in high school. I was none of those things. She was the head of our church's youth choir, which I was forced to join, but not because I could sing--it was expected because she was the director. She was a majorette, popular, well-known, much beloved. She couldn't understand why I wasn't like her. Why I had so much trouble making friends. Why I cried from the sheer loneliness. Why I wasn't just . . . happy. The friends I had were popular . . . and I was just this person who hung out with them.
I fortunately didn't have brothers or sisters with whom I was forced to compete.
My extended family was, and is, athletic. My cousins were tennis champions, basketball stars, quarterbacks, runners, cheerleaders. I was none of these things. I was uncoordinated, sickly, not very athletic, a terrible runner. I briefly excelled at soccer in the eighth grade, but it was not even an intramural sport in my school. I never played it again. I was a strangely, surprisingly good skier, but skiing was hard to keep up with, especially once I moved to South Carolina.
My family was, and is, attractive. My cousin married two consecutive Miss West Virginias. People talked about how pretty, how stylish, how this, how that they were. I didn't get that. I was not attractive. I was short, and dumpy, and pale. I wasn't terribly slender. I dressed badly. I had bad hair. Boys didn't pay a lot of attention to me.
I was intelligent and I made good grades, but that was less a point of pride, more an albatross. I didn't want to be The Smart One. I didn't want my teachers to notice me. It just made me more of an outsider. I just wanted to be left alone.
So there I was. I was dumpy, unattractive, unpopular, not athletic. I was intelligent, but mostly it garnered me the derision of my peers--it never seemed to pay off.
Throughout my childhood and in high school, I thought I was a talented artist. I realized in college, however, in the one art class I took, that that was not the case. And I was actually okay with that--I was in a writing class at the same time, and learning that I was not the next Odilon Redon was okay with me.
Because I could write. God, I could write.
I never doubted it, not for one second. I knew I was good. Other people knew I was good. And unlike my mad classroom skillz, people admired this ability in me. The fact that I made straight A's didn't help me . . . but my writing did.
I believed it all through high school, all through undergrad. And other people believed it, too. I had professors tell me I should get my MFA. But I told myself an MA would be better for me--more marketable. Yes. I'd get my MA, then my PhD, and then I'd teach college English. What a grand plan.
So I went to graduate school at the University of South Carolina, and I quickly found how silly my plan had been.
Every day I was there, getting my MA in English, I felt a little bit worse. A little less confident in my abilities. A little dumber. A little less talented. My classes, my professors, the people around me, everything seemed to say "You don't belong here. You're not good enough. You're not smart enough. You don't have any abilities." Everything felt like constant oneupmanship. If you said you liked Derrida, someone sniffed and said he liked Foucault, but Derrida was certainly . . . serviceable. If you said you liked Foucault, someone else sniffed and said she found Foucault pedantic and had switched to Irigaray. If you said you were attending a conference, someone was quick to say "I attended that two years ago. I presented a paper." If you said you presented a paper at a conference, someone else said "That's nice. I just published in a journal." If you said you published in a journal, there was always someone to tell you your journal was perfectly fine . . . but the journal they'd published in was far superior.
In short, I was miserable. I don't know if other schools are as cutthroat, nasty, and unpleasant as USC. I hope not. Maybe they're worse. Maybe they're not. I'm just glad I finished. I hunkered down and staggered through, wondering what on Earth I'd do when I came out the other side.
I took one creative writing class the last semester I was there, and I was so happy. It was one of the few classes I'd actually enjoyed. I regretted not being in the MFA program, but it was too late. Instead, I was a few months away from receiving a degree I didn't want, from a school and a program I hated. The creative writing class was too late. I already believed I was unsalvageable, untalented, unworthy.
I am a great believer in personal responsibility, and I hate it when people find ways to blame others for their shortcomings. But I believe that USC wrung the love for literature and writing, and my belief in my abilities, right out of me. I came out thinking I couldn't write, and I shouldn't even try. Even though I did well in the creative writing class, that wasn't enough. I knew I wouldn't do well in real life . . . wouldn't be published . . . shouldn't even try. In fact, when I attempted to get jobs in writing, I couldn't. Rarely even got interviews for these positions. So . . . there you go. USC was right.
So for a long time, I just stopped. I would occasionally post a blog on MySpace or Facebook . . . would occasionally write articles for a friend's web site . . . but I knew people were reading it and thinking how terrible my writing was, how simpleminded I was.
And as time went by, it just became easier not to do it. I didn't have to think about how I wasn't as good as I thought I was . . . wasn't as talented as everyone had always said. I could just tell myself I had been all right at one point . . . but I was nothing special. And it was best if I just let this little trifle go. When I saw people I'd known in high school or college, and they told me they'd always thought I'd write the great American novel, or be famous because of my writing, there was a sharp sting, a hollowness inside me, as I thought of everything I could have been, should have been, was . . . but I brushed it away, told myself I was never that good, or talented. That I was good enough for my tiny hometown, good enough for undergrad . . . not good enough for anyone anywhere else. I always smiled and said "Nah, I did other things!" And I'd turn the topic away from me.
And that was my comfortable, warm cocoon: you're not special. You're just like everyone else. You're probably not even as special as everyone else is. Go back to not writing. You'll be happier. Stop thinking you're anything good. You aren't. You never were.
But yesterday, everything changed.
A friend came by when I was in the midst of a real crisis of confidence.
I've been unemployed since February. I can't find a job, and I've been applying. A lot. I'm unemployed because I left a job that, after almost 9 years, was becoming increasingly uninspiring. A job that left me thinking I was even more hopeless and talent-free than ever.
So, five months of unemployment later, I found myself getting up every day, applying for jobs for hours, receiving one refusal after another, not working out, and sometimes not even leaving the house. I got up every day and thought about how I was failing at cleaning my house. I got up every day and thought about how I was failing at getting a job. I got up every day and thought about how I was failing at working out. I got up every day and thought about how I'd failed at my past job. I got up every day and thought about how I'd failed at school. I got up every day and thought about how I was failing at life.
It just became so much easier to lie on the couch and cry. I was proud of myself for getting out of bed. That seemed like a huge accomplishment.
And over the past few days, I felt as if I was imploding.
A friend came by last night, a very very dear friend, someone who, in another life, would be my sister. This friend came by under the guise of Bringer of Soup, and proceeded to bring about an intervention.
She asked me what would make me happy, and at first I couldn't think of anything. Shopping used to make me happy, but I couldn't do that anymore. (I'll cover that in a future post.) I didn't want to drink my troubles away (not that it hadn't occurred to me). I was terrified of gaining weight, so eating my pain wasn't an option. Working out just made me sad and sick and miserable--but I liked yoga. Watching TV was fine, but I felt lazy. I enjoyed playing this one game online.
And then she asked: "What makes you happier than anything else? Doesn't anything make you really happy?"
And I burst into tears.
The only thing that had ever made me truly happy was writing. It was what picked me up and hugged me when I was crying on the floor. It was what told me I was good, and worthy, and right. It was what told me I mattered. It was my retreat when everyone around me was yelling at me and everything around me was wrong.
But I'd decided to stop it. I'd let it go and didn't even know if I could get it back. I'd tried recently to write, but the words wouldn't come out.
So I promised her I'd do the following:
Leave the house. Every day. Even if it's to go to the post office and come back.
Do some yoga. Every day.
And, finally, and most importantly, write. Every day.
I don't know what I'm going to write. I don't know that what I'll write will be valuable, or interesting. I don't know if anyone will read anything I have to say.
But none of that matters.
It only matters that I'm doing it.
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