Comparable to a Semi-Pro Hockey Player

New Year's Resolution 2011:  Actually be selfish once in a while and do things for myself, just for myself.

I'm not trying to pretend that I'm a saint at all.  I'm not.  I am a people pleaser.  About the only people who I've built up a tolerance to attempting to please mercilessly are my husband, my parents, and my brother.  I have varying tolerances for everyone else, on a scale dependent on how well I know you.  If I just met you, I will drop anything and everything to make you request come true.  That comes from being in the hospitality industry for too long.  Close friends run the closest chance of hearing me say no, although I very rarely do, because they are the ones that come up with the best ideas.

But I am a people pleaser.  It seems to be my god given talent.  I wish I had a different one.  If I had been better at math, I probably would be making more money now then what I am.

Realizing that I needed to work on finding myself again this year included the realization that I needed to be selfish.  I needed to do things for myself, just for myself, even when I should be doing something else.  At least every once in a while. 

Yesterday provided me with such an opportunity.  Kendall was home sick for most of the day and our house was a mess to boot.  It was a day that should have been spent disinfecting, ridding the entire house of the ickiness that is chased me away from my own bed last night.  I got as far as the bathrooms and bedroom.  Mopping the floor and vacuuming were in sight.  But then I got a phone call.  It seemed that God was interfering.

There had been a cancellation at the massage parlor and they could get me in at 3:15. 

I am a sucker for a massage.  I got hooked on them when I did a study abroad in Thailand.  They were so cheap over there, maybe $10 a hour, often with the massage happening by the ocean.  Bliss! I think I had at least four or five in the month that I was over there. 

However, my always tight budget often has not allowed me to spend the money I would like on getting a massage as often as I would like.  For a while, I did make sure that I got one at least once, up to two to three times a year, always after predictable, super stressful event days. 

I needed a massage after these days because like most people pleasers, I internalize my stress.  When stressed, I tighten up every fiber of my being, pulling and twisting myself inside to just get through the next over dramatized emergency, and unintentionally create knots that feel like they were the size of golf balls in my shoulders and neck.

My annual to quarterly massages were all before we got married and moved to Fort Collins, when my money was still just my money.  But when we got married, I suddenly took on this thought process that because our family budget tightened when Kendall began grad school, I had to let go of almost all of my indulgences.  Kendall never said anything of the sort, I just came up with this preposterous thought on my own.  So, for almost two years, out the window went visits to an Aveda hair dresser, massages, and shopping at places like Express, J. Crew, or Banana Republic.  Instead, I went to a beauty school, shopped at Target and Kohl's, and dropped massages all together.

Dropping the massages was probably the worst indulgence to leave behind because my high stress job was knitting the thick, worn and torn muscles of my back into a mass of knots, the kind that lead to headaches and migraines.  On particularly bad weeks, Kendall would rub and knead his knuckles into the granddaddy of them all, lodged just underneath my left shoulder blade.  This bad boy would just move side to side and never dissipate, no matter how long Kendall pushed and prodded at it, or how I stretched and pulled on it.  We could not work it out, even together.  I knew that this knot was to stay until I got professional help. 

You can imagine my delight when my new boss gave me an hour massage for a holiday gift in December.  The world was realigning itself for me again.  I had a wonderfully less stressful job that I loved, a boss who was wonderfully in tune to how to make employees happy, and I WOULD BE GETTING A MASSAGE IN THE NEAR FUTURE!!!!!  (My excitement in that moment to the massage truly can only be expressed correctly with all capital letters and five explanation marks).

I had called last week to set an appointment for President's Day since I had it off as a paid holiday (A PAID HOLIDAY!!!).  Unfortunately, the massage parlor was all booked.  I put my name on the list for them to call in case of a cancellation.  I forgot about that request and made other responsible plans for the day.  I was all set to take care of my sick husband and finish cleaning.  The floors were calling out to me. I literally had the bucket in hand.  But so was the massage parlor, literally calling out to me... Mopping quickly got shelved.  (Dust bunnies dreams and icky germs crawling all over my household be damned!)

This was the moment, the return to relaxation, that I had been so excited for.  And it was not so much.  It was downright painful. Blissfully painful, but short on the relaxation.

Remember that knot under my left shoulder blade that I had be building up for about two, two and a half years.  My massage therapist worked on it for a half hour straight.  She didn't just rub it.  She was having me "help her work through it" by creating swimming motions, lifting my body and arms in similar fashion to the crawl, butterfly, and breast stroke, while working her palms and elbows deep into the muscle, only to have that damn knot push back from side to side.  She held my shoulder blade with her left hand, working and rolling the fingers of her right onto and over the thing as hard as I could possibly stand.  It was the most technical massage that I had ever received, it felt glorious, and it still was getting no where on my body.

Finally, Jessie (the massage therapist) gave a deep sigh, similar to the ones that she was having me do as she pushed harder, and harder on the muscle, until she hit that "feel-so-good-hurt" (as she described it). 

"You know," came a slightly confused, exasperated voice.  "You've got a lot going on in this spot.  It reminds me of a client that I have that plays for the Colorado Eagles.  His back was in knots like this, and to be honest, it took me probably five sessions before I could work them all out.  And, honestly, I think you may be worse then he was....so what do you say that we give your back a rest and move on?"

For those of you who do not know, the Colorado Eagles is Northern Colorado's semi-pro hockey team.  They are all bad asses.  They win division titles.  They get into five to six fights per game.  Most of them are between the ages of 18 and 25.  In my opinion, a 28 year old woman (or specifically, this 28 year old woman) should not be compared to a semi-pro hockey player of this caliber in any shape or form.  I'm pretty sure that by the hesitancy in Jessie's voice, that she felt kind of bad saying it.  I'm also pretty sure that she didn't mean it as a sales pitch either, just as a way to relay her frustration.  But being compared to whichever bad ass brute of a player this was, hit this message home:

I need to spoil myself.  Cutting back on personal pleasures so drastically only made things worse off for me in the long run. Lesson learned.

Although my muscles are very much sore today, it's not Jessie's fault.  It is a "feel-so-good hurt".  I would recommend her (she knows what she's doing), I will return, and I am looking forward to the return of the quarterly massages and that some day, these knots will have un-worked themselves. And I am most thankful for the physically painful realization that is allowing me to let go, unwind a bit, and be just a 28 year old woman who should only to be compared to other very amateur athletes on the kickball field or snowboarding down a mountain.

Can girl friends suck like boyfriends?

I am a little put out right now.  Mostly at myself because I am subjecting myself to an abuse that I would never have stood for ten years ago.  I need to realize that I've been "dumped" by a friend, and I just don't want to let her go.

Way back in the day when I was single and unattached, I re purposed a rule that I had grown up knowing as a law:  three strikes and you're out. I've also referred to it as the rule of three, to be more fair, since the person who ends up being out (or rejected) is often yourself. 

It starts on a very basic level.  You meet a guy, there's a spark and you trade numbers.  You call him.  He picks up and you chat.  You call him again, possibly chatting or leaving a message.  You vaguely talk about making plans together.  You call him again.  During this entire time, whether it be days (hopefully more than 3 because that's just sad) or weeks, he does not call you.  You have made an effort three times, he has made none.    He has your phone number; he could reach you if he really wanted to.  He's not interested. 

Rule of three, three strikes and you're out.

This rule kept me grounded.  It made me think rationally about if a guy was actually interested in me or if I was more interested than he ever intended to be.  It was a way of thinking that brought me down to a guy's level- either they're interested or they're not.  Sometimes it turns on and off like a light switch, only not so noticeable. 

A girl can't appear to be desperate if she stops calling after three tries.  But what I like about the rule the most was that there was a little bit of a loop hole. If said super-cute-guy-who-looked-little-bit-like-Luke-Perry-and-had-an-amazing-laugh does call back, then the rule of three starts all over again.  I might also add that if a guy is too busy to call a girl back or just doesn't think it's important to return calls, he's not worth it.  There are PLENTY of guys out there who will call back.

Now I won't say the rule isn't fool proof, but it worked well enough for me to figure out who really had potential an who maybe had completely forgotten who I was once the beer from the bar wore off.  It was a rule that I passed on to my friends and a rule that they passed onto their friends.  It was a "He's just not that into you," type statement without the harsh reality of someone having to actually tell you "He's just not that into you."

I retired the rule when super-cute-guy-who-looked-little-bit-like-Matthew-McConaughey-and-makes-me-laugh-so-hard-I-almost-wet-my-pants called me back after only one call.  He always called back.  Still does.  I never thought I would have to use it again.  But I think I was wrong.  I should have used it with this friend to save me the embarrassment of being "dumped" by her without even realizing it. 

Here's her deal.  She wasn't my friend for a very long time.  She was a woman that I worked with that I had A LOT of conflict with during our first year working together, which I will venture to say that was more on her part and her tendency to overreact to things... and I feel safe saying that since if you're reading this blog, I'm guessing you know me fairly well.

A little over a year ago, she went through a pretty horrible break up with her boyfriend of four years and moved to Fort Collins where she worked and knew no one.  I know what it's like to move to a town where you know no one.  I know how horribly lonely it is, how desprate you can be to make friends, and how difficult it really is to meet people our age.  I didn't have to, and I will be honest- I really didn't want to, but I took her under my wing, submitting myself to venting sessions, crying sessions, and drunken happy hours.  I invited her over to hang out with my friends (after carefully issuing a warning to them that I was, at least for the time being, taking back everything I had bitched about regarding her).  Eventually, I did come to value as a friend and as she started to pull her life back together, I began to really enjoy being around her.  We had finally learned to communicate, both at work and on a social level. 

Early April she had the opportunity to return the favor for all the venting/crying/happy hour sessions because I got let go from my job.  Which I felt really would, in the long run, help our friendship because our boss really looked down on co-workers socializing together.  It did for a while.  She provided me with a good reference, we met for drinks several times, and I clung to her because she was the only one who really understood my ranting about our previous place of employment.  I got a sick enjoyment out of hearing how overworked she had become because I had been let go.  I felt for her, but hearing her complain made me feel needed still.  It's something that I desperately had to hear while coping with the fact that somehow I had failed.  Meeting her for happy hour, or even the idea of meeting her for happy hour, became almost like a fix for the hurt and frustration I was keeping inside of me.

It was not a healthy relationship by any means.  We were two broken pieces, with rough edges that probably shouldn't be put back together.  But I was trying to conjure my own type of gorilla glue.

Because if there's anything that I'm good at, it's relationships.  I'm a good friend and I'm good at keeping in contact with people.  I'm a "call-you-out-of-the-blue-and-talk-like-we-saw-each-other-yesterday" kind of girl, even if I haven't seen you for two years.  I know when to listen, I know when to say the tough stuff, and I know when to be supportive.  I'm up for anything and I will drop everything to help you out.  I am a good friend so I couldn't imagine why this friendship wouldn't work out.  I had helped her find her strength after all, and had been a friend when it didn't seem like she didn't have many.

I'm wondering if she felt my desperation. 

Slowly, our communication with each other stretched further and further apart.  Instead of a week, it became two weeks, only over text messages or emails.  And then an email I sent wouldn't be responded to for three weeks or a month.  I added her as a facebook friend.  I was the one doing all the initiating.  Although it has dropped in frequency, I have continued to contact her in some way at least once a month.  I haven't seen her for at least six, probably seven months.

My roommate ran into her at an industry meeting about a month ago.  Amanda came home and said that she had sent her well wishes, that her life had gotten less hectic, and that she wanted to do drinks sometime.  I told Amanda that I was going to go ahead and let this girl be the one to call me, if she really did want to do drinks and catch up.  I was fed up with it.  At least that night I was.  And I hadn't sent an email, text, or given a call to her since then.  Until last night.

Last night I was at a committee meeting for an event that I help with.  The meeting was drawing to a close and everyone else was leaving.  I still had over a half a glass of wine in front of me and I was on this girl's side of town.  I sent her a text.  It wasn't that late. I knew better.  But I sent the text anyway. 

I finished my glass of wine, waited five more minutes, and didn't hear anything.  Halfway into my drive home, I got a text from her saying that she just wasn't up for it, maybe next time.  Ah- there it is... the little bit of hope, the change up that's just floating in the air and you've got your eye steady on it as the ball is begging you to smack the crap out of it.  I was always a sucker for a change up.

I sent a text back, saying I'd give her more notice next time and asking what her schedule was like next week.  And I felt a little bit dirty and angry at myself the minute I pushed "send". 

I still have heard back from that text.  I am thinking that I have been "dumped" by a girl friend.  I never thought that would have been possible.  I didn't think that friends could suck like boys used to suck.

Strike three probably should have been back in October.  I wish I would have thought to apply my old rule sooner.  Maybe then I wouldn't be sitting here, typing away my misery, much like I used to journal my sorrows away in high school and college when things didn't work out with a guy.  It's been a long time since I've had a break up that has blindsided me.  The only good thing about this is that there are some really good break up songs out right now.  So I think I'm going to go to bed singing a little Cee Lo in my head... the grammy version because the visual of the muppets make me smile.

Not that it even really matters.  I have plenty of really great girl friends that I am so much closer with, here in Fort Collins and elsewhere that I have built into healthy relationships, the type which wasn't created out of desperation and have a plethora of laugh-until-I-cry-or-wet-my-pants moments.  Which is why I need to end this and end it now. 

And, because I mentioned that I am her friend on facebook, I must admit that I am hiding this post from her.  I won't get any vindication from her seeing an "ex" friend spouting off and I really don't want to get a text message inviting me on a pity date in response.  Forget you and F.. you too.

Even My Subconscious Is A Closeted Neat Freak

I have a pretty vivid imagination.  Most of the time, I can keep it in check.  Usually if I start daydreaming with twists down a road of the unfathomable, unrealistic, plain old fiction, I can just shake it off, smile and get right back to work.  Most of these blurbs of imagination are just a functional form of procrastination that only take 30 seconds at most.  It’s all I will allow during the week; I’m a very busy person.

Where I can’t control my imagination and find it playing and toying with me the most is in my dreams.  

Now I know that everyone thinks that they have strange dreams, but it’s gotten to the point where sometimes I don’t want to share what I’ve dreamed of because it gives people a wierd impression of me.  Perhaps that's because most people carry the belief that dreams are a form of communication between a person’s subconscious and every day psyche. 

Great Example of Katy’s Crazy Dreams:

A few months ago I had a dream that contained G.E. Smith.  Name sounds familiar but you can’t quite place it?  He was the long, blond haired front man for the Saturday Night Live band in the early 90’s. 

Yep.  He was in my dream. ...As a swimmer, in a swim team that I was coaching, in the ocean, in India.  Mind you I have never, ever been a competitive swimmer, I’ve only visited the ocean twice, never in India.  Nor have I ever met G.E. Smith OR do I have any knowledge of the fact that he is a competitive swimmer, a lover of the ocean, or has spent time in India.

Weird, right?   I’m well aware.

This dream came from nowhere.  Just pure imagination, from the depths of my brain, craving a release. 

If you did believe that it was a message from my subconscious, you may look up key words on dream interpretation websites (like I tried shortly after having this bizarro dream).  If you look up ocean, you may find that since I was out in the middle of the ocean, that I feel that I’m experiencing setbacks in my life.  However there are no word cues for India, Swim Team, G.E. Smith, or the brightly colored, pink Speedo that he was wearing.  Therefore, for lack of research on the other main players in my dream, I feel that no conclusive evidence points to the fact that this dream is a reflection of my life. (Trust me, there are no pink Speedo's in my life).

I could give you numerous other examples of strange dreams pulled from various stages of my life, but none of them really reflect anything about me, other than the fact that I have a flamboyant imagination, especially when in the deepest depths of slumber. 

However last night was the first night that my dreamscapes gave me a tidbit of perspective into my subconscious. 

In my dream, or I should say nightmare, last night I was being chased by dust bunnies.  And they were TERRIFYING.

These were not the cute, little white rabbits pulled out of a hat by a magician nor were they brown bunnies seen hopping in and out of the trees beside the gravel road of my parent’s farm.  These were enormous and grotesque hares, the size of a normal five year old child, with beady pink eyes, and fangs sticking out from long, dripping snouts.  Although the body of each rabbit looked twisted, I was very sure of what they were because of the tall, veiny ears, and long, brown, course fur sticking straight out from each body, of which the main component consisted of a thick, chalky dust that clung to the entire surface area of each strand. 

These dust bunnies chased me through my house, jumping off of all surfaces that I know are hot spots for dust to fall on.  With every pounce came a landing that resulted in a poof of dust coming off of their body, falling lightly on the surfaces left behind.  These monsters roared, snorted, and bit at me as I tried to fight against them with my hands, slapping at them in dusting motions meant to conjure up the power of the wax on/wax off of the Karate Kid.  Fighting against them was of no use- the dust bunnies did what rabbits do.  They reproduced at an amazingly rapid rate and took me over.  At the end of my dream, I stood alone in the place that I knew as my living room, with heaving, seething rabid dust bunnies covering everything I could see blinking those terrible pink eyes and twitching their snotty noses.

When I woke this morning, my hair gave proof that I had been tossing and turning all night out of fear during my nightmare.   My normally side swept bangs had a colic the size of an orange over my right eye, the hair on the back of my head was practically standing straight up.  It was comical and I wish that I would have taken a picture to share.  It was so bad that upon first sight, my husband started laughing and grabbed for a hat, telling me “You HAVE to do something about that!”

After the my hair had been tamed (not to be confused with the hares in my dream that were still running wild through my brain) and Kendall had stopped laughing at my expense, he asked me why I had tossed and turned all night.  When I finally brought myself to admit to him that the dust bunnies had come out to get me, he laughed again, whole heartedly.  “Is your brain really telling you that you need to dust?”  he asked innocently enough.  “Didn’t you just dust like a week ago?”

It’s true, I did.  It doesn’t mean that I stop myself from thinking that I should drop everything, get out the buckets, washrags, and cleaning agents when I find out that a friend is visiting this weekend.  A friend that I need to remind myself lives in a bachelor pad that he has affectionately dubbed “The Shanty”.  He won’t care if our home has a little dust here and there.  But if I can fit a dusting session in tonight, I will.

Hopefully finding time for a dusting session will put my subconscious’s closet neat freak side at ease so that my dreams can be void of these phantom dust bunnies and left to the likes of any and all early 90’s SNL actors with maybe a guest appearance by Tina Fey. 

Everyday Super Powers

I'm a big fan of demotivational posters.  It began a few years ago when I worked at the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.  There were pages upon pages of motivational posters for sale in our office supply catalogs, none of which we could afford to purchase because we were a non-profit and had no money for such frivolous things.  However, when there is a will, there is a way.  My way was cutting out the 2 inch squares from the office supply catalogs and posting each monthly motivational posters behind my desk on an 8x10 paper.

I still keep in contact with my co-workers from the CFF, especially during event weeks.  I have started the tradition of sending them cards made from demotivational posters to give them a laugh in an otherwise stressful week, often with themes that stem directly from my experiences in that office.  The first card I sent had a poster that stated "If you can smile while in the midst of chaos, then you may not truly understand the gravity of the situation."  It was a favorite for a long time.  Until I came across this little guy.

Humbling, isn't it. 

However, that's the exact reason why this poster has become my favorite.  It's humbling and uplifting at the same time.  Yes, I am unique! As is my husband, my roommate, each and everyone of my friends... we all bring a little something different to the table: a different perspective, a different talent, different values and abilities.   These little somethings that everyone brings to the table, I like to think of as everyday super powers. 

Doesn't just saying everyday super powers make you feel like you could conquer the world?!  Even if you're having a bad day where it seems like the world is full of people out to get you (let's just call them henchmen to stay with the theme), all you need to do is imagine your cartoon voice over introduction.  Mine would probably sound something like this:

 
Able to see something good about every person or situation regardless of how asinine it may be to do so!

Can coordinate large groups of people, whether it be for a theme party, kickball team, happy hour, or girls night, in a matter of moments!

Don't try to talk your way around what's happened in the past boys, she has the memory of a steal trap!

And damn, she's confident enough in herself that she doesn't care if you think she looks ridiculous in those tights!

 

It's Katy! 

And she rocks! 

 Meanwhile... back in the blog....

So the next time you're having a bad day, remember that you are unique... just like everyone else... and try to remember what your everyday super powers are.  

Points to anyone who creates their own theme song.

Extra credit to anyone who calls me up and shares it with me.