New Orleans, New Outlook

My husband and I went on our extremely belated honeymoon in January.  We went to New Orleans, which had been something we had discussed pretty soon after it became clear that our relationship was going to last the long haul.  It's good that we had determined that already because the drive there was a REALLY LONG HAUL.

We chose New Orleans mainly for the music and food, and to a lesser extent its open container laws.

We enjoyed all of those things to the fullest extent possible given our time and budget, but what I came away with was a sort of confused sense of identity.  Before we arrived, I had heard or read that New Orleans is the black sheep city of America.  It really did seem to be a place where weirdos of all stripes congregated to do their thing.  Our Garden District tour guide didn't JUST tell us about which houses had which famous people living in them, but would also get SUPER excited about the Italianate ironwork on the galleries.  Both of our French Quarter tour guides billed themselves, first and foremost, as paranormal investigators, which I thought was just a job for people on TV.  Vampires roamed the streets at night and drag queens roamed them by day.  Guys who looked down on their luck would sit on a curb with a cell phone, a microphone and a tiny speaker and sing their hearts out for change.  Just down the street, a multi-piece brass ensemble would be doing their best to drown him out.  Psychics and mediums were set up everywhere waiting for someone to sit in the lawn chair across from them. 

Strange though it may seem, I really felt that I was with my people.

I wrestle with that statement because I'm a pretty straight-laced person.  My friends and family have always joked that trips with me involve the clipboard of fun because I've planned every detail to the last.  I once suggested to a boyfriend that I might shave one side of my head and do that rockabilly undercut thing.  He laughed and said I would be way too self-conscious about it to pull it off.  I don't wear a lot of makeup, even for special occasions.  I don't drink too much.  I make lists.  For everything.

I like a nice cardigan.

Maybe I just appreciated that so many people could let their inner weirdo out and feel ok about it. 

I also, perhaps surprisingly, consult oracle cards every morning to help set an intention for the day.  I'm not trying to see the future or call on a deceased loved one - I'm just trying to centre in on how I should approach the day.  The cards keep suggesting changes coming and I'm not sure how to fit that into my daily intention box.

I'm hopeful about a few things, but if all the cards portend is that this is finally the time that I take all of my mundanities and my idiosyncrasies and realize that I can be boring and weird at the same time, then that's fine with me.

Because I do believe that I can get guidance from the ether through a set of cards I bought at Chapters.

But I also REALLY like a nice cardigan.

My World's on Fire

A few months ago, I did something called a Cheer Session at Ludy Luck Photography Studio.  It's a photoshoot in which the owner, Jennifer, sprays or splatters you with the paint colour of your choice and you celebrate yourself while Jennifer documents it on digital film. 
 

It seems pretty simple, but there's more to it.  Jennifer spends a crazy amount of time promoting fat acceptance and body positivity on her various social media sites and in real life.  It really is a transformative experience.  And a portion of the proceeds for each Cheer Session is donated to CAMH.  

Jennifer asked me why I was there - usually, people have something to work through when they're there.  I gave her a true answer: I hadn't quite rebounded after the excitement of my wedding last summer.  That was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth.  I chose red because my world's on fire.

It's been a tumultuous few months.  I'd blame Mercury in retrograde, but it's bigger than that.

It started with some bad news I'm not ready to share.  Then came my annual physical with my doctor.  The idea of an annual physical makes sense - screen me for risk factors, signs and symptoms of common ailments and give me advice and treatments for the same.  The reality is it's really just a time where my doctor makes it clear to me that she has not read my chart at all prior to our visit, has no idea who I am, and then pockets $50 or more to tell me that my BMI is above 25 kg/m2 and I should "keep an eye on that."  You know, because every magazine I've ever read hasn't already made it abundantly clear that EVERYONE ELSE is already keeping an eye on it.

This time, even though I had just finished telling her about my work AS A DIETITIAN she suggested I try Weight Watchers, OR THE DIET COMPANY THAT CAUSED A FAMILY MEMBER TO LOSE A GALL BLADDER.  All while wearing a johnny shirt that doesn't tie up around me.

And I wanted to tell her all about the work of the Health at Every Size movement and the fact that zero percent of my other chronic disease indicators were throwing up red flags so the point of this appointment was for her to fat-shame me and make me even less engaged with my personal health because my primary care provider makes me feel like a giant waste of space (emphasis on giant).  But I didn't.  I held my johnny shirt together, nodded politely, put my clothes back on after she left, drove home and cried.

I'm fairly lucky, actually.  I'm a straight, cis-gender, white, upper-middle-class person who grew up in a western democracy.  What I mean by that is that I was born with a great deal of privilege already loaded onto my pre-paid credit card. The only ticks in my negative column are the fact that I'm female and obese.  Even so, it feels like there's a boot on my neck a great deal of the time.

About a month after that, I started listening to this podcast: Uncover: The Village.  It purports to be about the serial murders by Bruce McArthur that took place in the Church-Wellesley area of Toronto, but branches out into the history of the gay village in Toronto and the multiple reasons its occupants might have to distrust the police and their handling of the case.  Spoiler alert: It's because, for decades (and likely centuries before that), the popo and the system of governance they represented engaged in a systematic campaign to ruin (and sometimes end) the lives of those who lived a homosexual lifestyle.

And then last week, a man with an assault rifle walked into a Wal-Mart in Texas with the express purpose of killing persons of colour.

And, of course, the earth is ACTUALLY on fire.  Fueled by a crippling reliance on petroleum and an endless supply of single-use plastic packaging.

And I just can't anymore.

When I talk to people about how I feel, they tell me I'm taking on too much.  I'm shouldering other peoples' burdens when I should really take care of myself.  But since I'm a straight, cis-gender, white, upper-middle-class person who grew up in a western democracy, and if I'm even a fraction as woke as I think I am, self-care has to be something a little more meaningful than a bubble bath and a pedicure because the things that are keeping me up at night are bigger than me.

The photoshoot with Lady Luck was a great start.  It made me feel good.  It sent a message about how I should feel about my body to everyone who sees the pictures and hopefully inspired some people to feel differently (better!) about theirs.  It supported a business that I think is doing something inherently good in the world.  And, in a small way, supported an organization that I think is doing something inherently good in the world.

  

In my effort to learn about how to make the world a better place, I saw one of those inspirational quotes on an Instagram account I'm following that said that the world doesn't need one person doing things perfectly so much as it needs a million people doing things imperfectly.  Part of what's burning me right now is that the fire is so fucking huge that I'm not sure I can handle the extinguisher I'd need to put it out by myself.  I feel like I've got the equivalent of a garden hose to fight a forest fire. I need more people.  Who will fight fires with me?

The Daily Challenge

Some of my loyal facebook and instagram followers will be aware that I have been intermittently engaging in daily challenges which I post on the sosh-meds for accountability purposes.

But those loyal followers will know that I haven't been super engaged with the challenges lately, and that's because they don't really resonate with me.  And here's where I hit my usual conundrum: I'm really bad at being self-directed; I really need the challenge to have some relevance to me. 

Recently my challenges are wanting me to consider people who can support me in my healthy living goal, consider ways I might be supported, and then ask one of those people to support me in that way.  Lame.

Don't get me wrong, I understand very well the importance of having a support system, knowing what support you need, and communicating your needs to your support system.  I was just really hoping for a challenge where I was going to do actual stuff.  Stuff that I could photograph.  Thinking about stuff just doesn't translate to a 4x4 image on Insta.  Or maybe that's an excuse to cover up my trust issues, which are the real reason, perhaps, that I haven't asked my support system for the support I need. 

New conundrum: Is the challenge really lame, or is the challenge too challenging for me right now? 

So here's my crossroads decision: Do I find a new set of challenges (like with a different app or something), or do I actually expose my vulnerability to the people in my life who could really make a difference by being the support that I need.  I guess the fear is that I'm going to haul out my foibles and nobody's going to be there.  I'll be standing there with my hang-ups flapping in the breeze like the luckless idiot in a horror or war movie who's just been disembowelled, holding my guts in my hands with nobody to shove them back into my abdominal cavity and sew me back up again. 

It's hard to say to people that I need a buddy to check in on me to see that I'm still logging my food, or getting my steps in, or going outside sometimes instead of ensconcing myself in the rabbit-hole-like comfort of the cool glow of endless streaming television.  But that's what I need.  And I need to tell my people that's what I need.  And trust that they'll be there to give me what I need.  But that's hard.

I guess that's why it's called a challenge.

Marie Kondo and the Discontent

My last post began the autumn of my discontent.

I resolved to get singing lessons or piano lessons and achieve goals and I did none of those things.

I did become mildly depressed, so I can't say I didn't do anything.

January is a funny month.  On the one hand, we feel like it's a time to set intentions and become new people.  On the other hand, it's cold and wet and unpleasant out there and mostly all I want to do is curl up in a blanket, eat and drink warm things, and watch the endless stream of blockbuster entertainment that flows from my smart tv.

I've been starting slowly, but there is a lot of "new" in my life.

I'm in a new band.  I have new furniture which has sparked a Marie Kondo-esque purge of my house.  New goals.  New approaches.  New hopes.

But the general malaise of autumn 2018 is not so far behind me that I don't see myself slipping back into it if I'm not careful.  And my most burning of desires still seem so far away that I'm not sure I'll ever achieve them, which makes the general comfort of stress eating and couch potato-ing that much more appealing.

I get that feeling that I have to do something big.  I have to turn my whole life completely upside down.  After I do that, I'll have a purpose again and feel like things are going the way they should.  It's kind of like rearranging your purse and starting by upending it to dump everything out onto the floor in front of you.  Sure, it's easier to find things when you've gone through it, but there's always the danger that in the upending, one of my most prized lipglosses is going to roll under the couch never to be seen again (this is a metaphor, btw, I'm not really talking about lipgloss here), and it is basically guaranteed that within a month of two my purse is going to become the same old shitshow of crumpled receipts, unwrapped restaurant cheque candies and tangled phone charge cords it always is.

So what I'm saying is: I need to be vigilant.  Or I'll never get my purse clean.

The Long Game

I had set some goals.  Check-in time.

I think the one that'll get the most mileage as far as interesting reading goes is my audition.  

It's no secret I'm a pianist.  I talk about it a lot.  It's a key part of my personality and a skill I'm pretty proud of.  I play keyboards in a band, but I sometimes find myself a little musically unfulfilled by being the keyboardist/back-up singer in a cover band.  That's not to say that I don't enjoy it or appreciate the unique challenges presented by being a part-time rockstar (just in case any of my band-mates are reading and think I want to jump ship).  It's just that being in a band is different from other types of piano playing and I miss that part of myself.  

So why audition for a musical?  Well, generally musical theatre music is pretty challenging; learning how to play new songs is always awesome.  Usually, you're supposed to be playing from sheet music, which is what I'm best at.  Being in a band often means simplifying the written music or improvising which is just not where I'm most talented.  I don't play by ear very well and there is something shameful about being the person on stage with a binder or tablet full of sheet music in front of her while everyone else has it memorized.  It would be really nice to be somewhere where the thing I'm most comfortable being is also the thing I'm supposed to be.  Finally, it's about duration.  In a band, you (should) play the stuff that gets people moving.  If something works, you keep playing it.  What this means is that you play your most popular songs over and over and over again.  Forever.  Until they're not popular anymore.  But trust me, you stop loving them WAY before the crowd does.  The great thing about working on a musical is that you're hitting performance time at just about the point where the songs are starting to lose their magic for you.  Then you're done with them.  And you can move on to the next bunch of songs.  It's perfect.  I would have to say that my most favourite place to be a pianist is in an orchestra pit.  So I want to get back there.

So why audition for a chorus role in a musical you don't really like?  Well, here's the thing.  In amateur musical theatre, nobody "auditions" for a position in the orchestra pit.  Someone just knows you can do it, and then you're the one doing it.  Which means that someone has to know I can do it.  Which means that I have to make people know who I am.  And while I could find out who the local directors are, set up my keyboard in front of their house, and rock out on my Les Miserables score, I feel like that is more likely to result in a disturbing the peace-type of violation than a job in the orchestra pit.  No, it's a much longer game.  First, you get into the community.  Then you advertise your previous experience by talking about yourself a lot.  Then the usual person can't do it for whatever reason (definitely not because you pushed them off a roof...actually, that's not a good example...I really did fill in once for someone who fell off a roof...which I had NOTHING to do with).  Then someone decides to give you a shot.  Then you blow them away with the talent they never knew you had because you were just the world's okay-est chorus/ensemble member.  

So, am I on my way?  Short answer: Probably not.

Long answer: My singing voice is quite low and more-or-less untrained.  I have a pretty good knowledge of musical theory, though, so I can find music to suit my unnaturally low singing voice.  This later bites me in the ass when they ask me to sing music from the show which is usually written for a human woman's voice which mine is not.  I chose to sing a Carole King song about 4 notes lower than its original key and I think I blew them away.  Then I was asked to do a cold reading, which didn't go well because I was told that ensemble auditions wouldn't involve a cold reading and I was already pretty freaking nervous.  I left, thinking it was a "thanks but no thanks but we really like your singing voice" and then was followed out of the room by the Assistant Producer asking me to come back the next day for a call-back.  That gave me hope. So I came back the next day, shiniest smile on, having spent the evening researching the role I thought they were calling me back for, only to find myself in a room chock-a-block with other hopefuls waiting for their callbacks too.  The room was literally vibrating with assumptions and hearsay about what was actually going on in the audition room, which was upset the butterflies in my stomach who do not like to be disturbed by gossip.  People would be called into the room one or two at a time.  Some would come back out and wait some more, some would leave, and some would stay in the room.  Finally, just one other girl and I were in the waiting room.  Some of the production team came out to talk to us.  They apologized for the wait.  Then apologized again.  Because they had just too many people and they wouldn't be able to use us in the show this time around...except maybe there would be some drop-outs and they'd call us if they needed us.  I felt really bad for the other girl because she received that news, then had to wait for her Dad who did get a role to be finished with whatever celebration was going on inside.  I heard applause from inside the room as they announced who would be taking each role as I was leaving.  I went home and I cried.  I wasn't really crying because I didn't get a role.  I knew hearing no would be a very real possibility.

I was crying for two reasons.  The first reason was because instead of having the courtesy to rip off the band-aid and just say "thanks but no thanks," some complete strangers thought it was totally ok to ask me to spend two and a half hours of my time getting more and more nervous for an audition that never happened on a really beautiful Sunday afternoon in August.  Their complete lack of regard for my time and feelings made me feel like a piece of garbage.  The second reason was that I was still remembering my long game.  As enraged as I was about being treated like a piece of garbage, and as much as I relished the idea of flipping them the bird if they did call and ask me to fill in for a drop-out, I knew that to achieve my end-game of being in their pit band one day I would have to accept the consolation offer in order to prove that I am a hard worker who wants to be involved in their productions.  That made me feel like worse garbage.  Like...squishy, drippy garbage with the sweet vinegar smell of rotten fruit.

So that was shit.

But I still feel the need to work on my musical portfolio.  So I have other plans.  They involve taking singing and/or piano lessons.  This is an equally convoluted long game.  I miss living in a small pond.

I still need to work on my other goals.  One of them was to start a gratitude journal, which I did not do.  I'll start now:

I am grateful for the friend who asked me how the audition went, was apologetic about it, and then worked really hard to get me an audition for another show.  It really meant a lot to have someone vouch for me and my willingness to put in the work.  I didn't get that part either, I suspect because I do not have the voice of a human woman, but they were at least kind enough to just say, "Thanks for auditioning, but we can't use you.  We'd maybe like to work with you in the future, though."  Which was maybe not genuine, but at least it was decisive and still nice, and gave me hope in a way that didn't string me along.

I am also grateful for the friend who brought wine and brownies over to my house to sing some songs.  My second favourite thing to do is accompany soloists.  They have voices that do sound like human women (or men...or whatever), and people have written music for them.  I help to make them shine.  

I am grateful for other things, but that's a start, anyway.

Something New

Well, it's been a long while since my angry tirade against the wedding industry.

As it turns out, I managed to have a pretty uncommercial wedding.  My biggest expenses were the food (which was fine), and the photography (which I haven't seen yet, but the photog was a lovely addition to the day).  Otherwise, the day went about as well as I could have expected, with strange family dynamics, my inability to plan beyond a big picture, and the fact that I felt like I was melting under the mountain of tulle I chose to wear way back in January when it was chilly outside.  Seriously, I could have grown orchids in the tropical swamp under my skirt.

Many people warned me of the letdown I would feel after the big day.  I suppose I was fortunate in that basically as soon as I returned home from my nuptials, I caught the flu.  As soon as I could no longer focus on planning and organizing one of the biggest events in my life, I had to focus on getting better, so I guess that was good.

But now that I'm not so focused on my immediate health or one solitary event sometime in "the future," I am considering the next "what's next?"

Goals for the future (near and long-term):
1. Get down a morning and night-time routine - I've been reading more about Ayurveda and while I'm not ready to give up dairy, I can get down with self-massage and meditation on the regular.
2. Audition for a musical - audition booked.  Songs chosen.  Memory of previous audition failure almost faded.
3. Get out of debt - weddings are expensive, yo.
4. Encapsulate and insulate the crawl space - living room is COLD in the winter, yo.
5. Gratitude journal - one of the happiest times in my adult life was my #100happydays journey.  Working on being grateful might help me feel grateful, no?

Some goals may conflict.  Most are SMART.  Maybe I'm getting this thing called life?

Something Blue

Did you dream of your wedding as a child?

I did not.

I know girls growing up who, at the age of 8 or 9, had very SPECIFIC ideas of what their wedding would look like.

I was not that girl.

I mean, I think I imagined I would get married.  And I think I imagined I might wear a wedding dress but beyond that...

Maybe part of my issue is that I didn't go to a lot of weddings as a child.  I used to look through the wedding albums in my grandparents' den and I used to imagine what my family members were thinking when the pictures were taken.  My mother took me to the ceremony of our next-door neighbour once, and that was nice, but I didn't really get what was happening, although I did think the dress was pretty.

I don't even have a lot of experience with weddings as an adult.  Most of my friends are either a long way from getting married or married already; I think I've attended 5 weddings as an adult.  I've been a bridesmaid one time, and that was *kind of* a shotgun wedding, so I don't think most of the usual traditions were observed.

Long story short, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING.

Last weekend, I did maybe the worst thing I could possibly have done to myself.

I went to the local wedding trade show.  

I live in the Niagara Region.  Weddings are pretty much our number 2 industry here.  It was some overwhelming, claustrophobic, serious shit.

First, when you enter and pay, they ask if you're a "bride" and they give you a sticker that announces this to the world.  Putting the sticker on your coat is a MISTAKE because that alerts all of the rabid vendors to your status and FRESH MEAT.

The whole thing was this slippery meat market of greasy deejays and fast-talking photographers.  Occasionally, there would be a mild-mannered cakery owner offering samples which I do not need to eat because I know who is baking my cake or my friend who is a florist that I basically word-vomited on because I was too punch-drunk from what came before, and that was lovely, but I must say, the worst booths were the bridal shops.  

At these shops, a middle-aged woman with one of those "could I speak to the manager" haircuts would congratulate me just a little too saccharinely on my engagement, gushingly ask me if I had bought a dress yet, and then ask me the date of my wedding.  I would answer and would be met with a moment of silence, the previous moment's treacle still dripping from the woman's mouth.  Then she'd say, "2018?" to which I would answer in the affirmative.  At this point, she would wipe the syrup from her lips and go into full-on pearl-clutching mode, gasping at how I hadn't even tried anything on yet, and just-so-I-know it takes 5-7 MONTHS to get a dress, and then you have to have it altered, and then she would roll her eyes and raise her eyebrows and say I should come in for an appointment immediately and we'll try to find me SOMETHING.

And I'm not sure why this is a huge surprise to them because NOBODY FUCKING TELLS YOU THIS SHIT AND HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW IF I'VE NEVER DONE IT BEFORE AND YOU'RE REALLY ONLY SUPPOSED TO GET MARRIED ONCE ANYWAY. RIGHT, BITCH?

Suffice it to say, the specific boutique I'm referring to in this situation (though most were similar experiences) bullied me into making an appointment which I full-on no-showed because they were assholes.  

Suffice it to ALSO say, I had a full-on ugly-crying meltdown when I got home that I was never going to find a dress and the whole wedding would be a disaster.

Good news: I found a dress the following Tuesday, and it was from a consignment shop so it's in my closet RIGHT NOW.  Take that, local boutique staffed by misanthropic harpies!

Lessons learned: The giant wedding guide binder that I bought shortly after I got engaged is not entirely accurate about timelines.  My new strategy is to do ALL THE THINGS WAY TOO EARLY!  NOTHING WILL GO WRONG!