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On talking too much, or the NBA Summer League

When I was in graduate school several years ago, the introvert in me – and that would be 100 percent of me – was desperate for some quiet time.

You don’t get much in graduate school. It’s all group projects and collaboration (another overused word! noted for later topic) and covering for That Guy.

I found then that there was one place, one unlikely place, where I could enjoy near-complete silence: my dental hygienist’s chair.

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I’d lay down on the vinyl, in that curiously comfortable decline, and we’d say nothing. I’d close my eyes. I knew when to close my mouth for that tube thing. She might ask if I had summer plans when we were done. Maybe.

I still don’t even know her name. I don’t need to. This is still one of my favorite things to do because there is no talking, and no one feels awkward about it.

I suspect that’s why so many of you cook, or write, or train, or paint: It’s not always a solo pursuit, but it’s quiet.

Desperate for basketball

There’s this Rush song. Maybe you know it. Oh, of course you know it. Everybody knows it – it’s Rush. It’s “Spirit of the Radio.”

And there’s a phrase in it that describes the majority of my basketball viewing, if you can call it that: it’s “a friendly voice, a companion unobtrusive.”

See, there’s quiet, and then there’s isolated. I can do the latter all too quickly.

With basketball, I can turn the volume on low to just barely hear some of the region’s TV announcers, all companions unobtrusive. I can watch it out of the corner of my eye as I exercise for excessive periods of time, something else done perhaps in the pursuit of quiet.

The NBA’s Summer League, while nothing like the NBA or especially college basketball*, would ostensibly fit the bill, yes? Turn the volume down to low. People moving about. No one talking to me, just in my vicinity, the voice just familiar enough.

usatsi_10971194_147386290_lowres — *Champs…of the Euroleague. Sorry, guys, we know you worked hard, but still*

Except.

ESPN, the Satan of sports broadcasting, took over the Summer League two or three years ago. Which means there is constant yapping. I mean, Dan Dakich. Would you shut that whole in the middle of your face? For a second?

I know the answer to this.

NCAA BASKETBALL: JAN 17 Michigan at Wisconsin — *FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, DO NOT USE THAT MIC, DAN DAKICH*

The NBA does a lot of things right, but man, I’m looking at cricket as an alternative. Cricket! In America! What is this country coming to?

*Wait until November, friends. I will try not to but probably still will bore you to death with Big East basketball. Sorry in advance.

Word nerd alert: Journey is a band, not a quest/mission/odyssey

Today…today was just a bad day at the office. A crappier Monday than usual. So on my calendar this week is one subject that will be the equal of my salty mood.

The overuse of the word “journey.”

I love the English language.

No, I love it. That’s why I seriously don’t love it when a word is appropriated to the point of meaninglessness.

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Though certainly not the only instance, but one of the more recent examples, is use of the word “disrupt” to describe anything that might merely unsettle an industry. In the essential sense of the word, this in and of itself is not necessarily wrong.

But the word to entered into our collective conscious thanks to Harvard business professor Clayton Christensen, who used the word as as a matter of wholesale industry change: what product or service will come along, like cheap steel rebar, to disrupt an industry to the point of changing it completely?

Now Zion Williamson is a disruptive basketball talent. Billie Eillish is a disruptive musical talent. Tesla is a disruptive car. I don’t know, I don’t see Tesla turning the auto industry on its head. It’s merely another category.

We work. We’re not on a quest for fire

Hard work is hard and the change that comes from it is incremental. But it’s not necessarily a journey. Journey implies a terminus. You hit your goal and you’re done.

I don’t think so. Not for any of you.

So cooking journeys and learning journeys and fitness journeys…well, there is no terminus to the fitness “journey” I’m on, I can tell you that.

The great work you do never stops. You cook better, you learn more, you get stronger and healthier – mentally and physically – the harder you try. You just get better and better at what you do and I love you for it.

So my friends, you’re not on a journey. That’s a band. A great band. You just keep being your best you.

You’re welcome.

My foibles as a blogger and human

It’s been a curiously beautiful holiday weekend here in the upper Midwest. The sort of weather, really, that makes you wonder what sort of tragedy is around the corner. It’s sunny today: will there be a tsunami tomorrow? In the upper Midwest? Sure, why not?

But that’s not the only reason I’ve not been as visible as my start. I’ve turned up my anxiety tenfold, all on my own, by announcing to you, my dear readers, that you should be reading all my posts because there will be something interesting in there.

I’m pretty sure there are few things that can stop a writer faster than saying out loud that you’re good. So it’s back to the drawing board for me, talking about nothing, talking about everything.

It’s also a good time to reflect on what’s been great this week, what’s been less than great, and what’s to come this week.

Awesome!

Diet and exercise: I’d posted earlier that based on the intensity of my workouts, I’ve probably been enormous calorie deficit over I don’t even know how many years.

Like so many I’ve body image problems; I didn’t know how to manage the variability with sorting out the right amount to eat. There were tears! So embarrassing.

Because it turns out that eventually, your body will manage this for you. I found myself starving and migrainous toward the end of the week, even with a higher caloric load; I couldn’t help but eat more. With another 600-700 kcals total – that’s a lot! – I found myself dropping weight.

Fitness friends, I’ll keep you posted.

Women’s World Cup: Turns out that the U.S. won. Who would have guessed?

What this brings up is an interesting discussion of how one is paid by an employer: is it based on value to the company as a part of overall revenue, or individual performance?

Outside of sales, the U.S. doesn’t pay people based on individual performance. Or in this case, team performance. The men’s team gets paid more because the men’s world cup generates more revenue. Nevermind that they’ve never made it past, what, the round of 16, if they make it all?

One wonders if after today, a new compensation model for the women’s team won’t become more necessary. I’d like to hear U.S. Soccer tell the world that the crappy men’s team makes more money because the men’s world cup sells more ads.

By the by, I actually have no idea what happens in a soccer game!

Less awesome

Body image: The opposite end of my diet and exercise win. I’ve never felt so much anxiety over what should just be a matter of basic health.

It’s 2019. In era of body positivity my obsession is antiquated, and I hate myself for that, too.

I found myself crying like a baby first with worry, then with self-loathing. I can’t win for losing.

Ruined chicken: Less horrifying than my inexplicable vanity, pride and downfall from it, is my ruined poached chicken, a recipe I can make with my eyes closed.

Actually, the truth is, I feel ashamedly terrible about this, too. the chicken turned out a bit tough and dry, but it’s not inedible; I tend to think of food as fuel, so what do I care? Somehow I do.

Setting myself up to fail: I’m not sure why I felt compelled to let you know that even if I’m talking about boxing, you’ll want to take a look. As though I can come up with some life lesson every time I start typing.

Today is a great example of not even coming close.

Coming up this week

There are a few topics I’d like to discuss. Whether or not there’s a life lesson in any of it, I don’t know.

Overuse of the word “journey”
Women’s sports
How much work at work is too much work
When are you too old to accomplish what you want?
Can I fix my poached chicken?

Until then, I thank you all for reading! Have a great week!

To dwell or not to dwell

Today is July 3 which, in the U.S., has nearly the same holiday feel as July 4. And yet, with all the gains I feel like I’ve made in just, what, eight days? It doesn’t feel like a holiday to me. It feels like I felt nine days ago.

There’s every reason for me to feel fine:

My migraines have improved
My mood has improved
My workouts have been better
My employer, recently merged, is still pretty terrible, but a little less terrible

But today, I feel:

Unbearably ugly
Out of shape
Uninteresting
Exhausted

The challenge today, or always

One wonders whether spending time spitting this out is a good idea. I’ve read that suppression, the ability to say screw it, is really what serves a person’s mental health. Obviously I’m not so good at that.

There is a particular condition on which I’ve ruminated my whole, 5-foot life, and that’s not being a six-foot supermodel. Having a regular figure. Starving myself to a ludicrous figure. Eating my way back to a spherical figure. Returning to a regular figure.

I don’t know if this is way of seeing is particular to women worldwide, or handed down to some of us no matter where we are. Or both.

More recently, on a day in which my head felt like Pangaea splitting apart, I couldn’t stop myself; I ate about 2000 kcals worth of cookies. Fatty, sugary, chunky and huge, they were, and I’d already eaten the day’s food – about 1400 high-fat, low-carb kcals.

Problem or solution

And the next day, I felt amazing. Two-and-a-half pounds heavier, thanks glycogen! but great. As in, my head felt great. My heart felt great.

I spent some time with a number of different calorie calculators. How are the results derived? I gave some thought to just how intense my workouts are really. Are 80 handstands considered intense? Which is to say, are 1400 kcals a day enough?

Probably not. But I feel no worth except at my boniest, my tiniest, my most unsustainable.

I don’t know why I care

I’ve long since given up on dating, but there is still in the back of my mind a reminder that I’m still in fact nobody without a mate, riches, unfathomable thinness.

I could let the mate go. The riches, eh, could still happen. The appropriate thinness?

1700 kcals is what I decided to try. Could I achieve a worthy thinness If I’m not cannibalizing my own body for energy? Can I wait more than another two days to find out?

What about my migraines? The extra kcals could be one of the keys to recovery. For years I’ve labored under the idea that X calories were allowed at Y age.

I honestly do not know if I can let myself eat more, heal my head, and risk weight gain. I already can’t stop staring at these extra two pounds. How pathetic – how first world? – is that?

How pathetic am I?

A quick note about my posts

I have a lot of interests that might seem to only interest me. For example, while writing here, I’ve got my right eye on the NBA free agent trade news crawl. I might write something about that, and at first blush, that might not interest any of you.

Though I don’t succeed every day, I do my best to find the story within those stories that would be of greater interest to all of you. There’s always something.

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For example, I did a piece about UConn rejoining the Big East. I titled it poorly; the greater part of that piece were thoughts about the state of women’s sports. I know there’s a lot to talk about there.

So I have two points: a) I’ll do my best to title pieces in a way to illustrate the bigger picture in the piece that might interest you; and b) I hope you’ll give them a skim.

I’m open to suggestions, and am happy to cover a particular topic. I have a perspective on everything! Feel free to let me know in the comments.

It’s finally summer and no one’s happy

It’s finally summer in the upper Midwest of the United States. At least it is this week.

o-DULUTH-MINNESOTA-900 — *Duluth, Minn. This is nice. And not where I live.*

It’s been curiously rainy and cool until this week. I couldn’t tell you why; I heard it’s got something to do with the extremely cold winter in the Plains states next door and the jet stream out of Canada. Well, thanks, Canada. For America’s Hat, you’re not doing a very good job keeping us warm.

(Canada, I’m kidding! Except for your interloping NBA team, you are stupendous!)

I wanted to address a few results of the area’s extended chilly rainy spring:

Foul moods sticking around
The hilarious belief that now that it’s around 80 degrees, it’s “hot.”
My suddenly and completely out-of-control yard

Nobody’s close to happy

pg2_g_cubsfan_300 — *This summer might be cheerless for most, but laughing at the Cubs is always available.*

Everyone suffers from some degree of seasonal affective disorder up here, I think. Or that’s the claim. I had a boyfriend a while back who claimed to suffer from it, but I never noticed a difference between the summer jerk and winter jerk.

This year, no one’s had to make a particular claim. The cheerlessness was palpable in everyone, and is still, even though the weather seems to have turned a corner.

One wonders if the longer one spends in the gray rainy dark, the harder it is to snap out of the cabin fever and into a more human state of mind.

We can get into the metaphysical discussion, our essential being, and does an extended negative circumstance, like crap weather, put us into an existential crisis and all that. Does it change what we are? For how long? Forever? Or can it not change our essence? Are we crab-asses, essentially, or people who are just crabby a lot? Is there a difference? I’m open to ideas.

It’s not hot.

I grew up on the coasts of North and South Carolina here in the states. And I’m here to tell you that 80 degrees is not hot.

It’s also not “muggy.” For the past couple mornings the news has reported an onslaught of muggy weather. Right now that means 58% humidity. That’s adorable! But it’s not muggy. It’s nice.

I’ll take arguments in the comments below, but I’m not wrong. In fact, I’m right! If that doesn’t make you want to comment, I don’t know what will.

My yard is the Genesis Planet.

If you’re Gen X like yours truly, then you probably remember Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, which included the creation of a brand new planet full of giant ferns and hostas and other extra-large, but definitely earth-bound plants. It was called the Genesis Planet.

This is now my yard.

I know some of you really get into this stuff. I don’t. See above, North and South Carolina coasts. As a kid I had to work in the yard around three times a week for most of the year. The smell of cut grass still makes me nauseous but I’ve otherwise repressed those memories. I’m lost out there in the yard, what with trimmers and clippers and mowers.

So save me! I’m taking applications. Let me know in the comments below if you’d like to get my yard under control! I’ve got five bucks with your name on it.

Thanks!

As always, thank you to my readers, current and new. I look forward to talking with you!

Update: posting as pain relief

Until today, it was the most popular post in my (five-day) blogging career. “Posting as pain relief” resonated with a lot of you, and still grows in readership bit by bit. This was unexpected. It was truthful in a way that I can’t say to anyone live.

But I have some good news.

Yesterday afternoon found me on errands, including stops at shops where I could kit out my new workout space. The shop with the plush rug. The used sports equipment shop for 20-lb. dumbbells. The Salvation Army for some kind of slick plates that would make better gliders than the ones I’ve got.

While in the Salvation Army, I passed by the furniture, giving it a dreamy look. It was in good shape, all of it. Mine is…not so great. Cats with claws will do what they do and there’s not much you can do until they’re gone.

My mind went dark. Shouldn’t I, at an age I’m not telling you but which is old enough I should likely be looking elsewhere at furniture, not look longingly at used stuff?

I felt the familiar feelings of failure. Of pointlessness and worthlessness and the real question of whether my future was worth attempting. Instantly, from the brain stem or the amygdala or wherever that starts, my blood was pumped with it.

But a funny thing happened at Sam’s Club. Just down the road a piece from the Salvation Army, I found a fair parking spot on a busy Saturday. It was sunny and hot, at least for the upper Midwest. I didn’t move for a moment. Full of bad feeling, of sighs, a slow heartbeat, I simply told myself to stop.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that this would be the first time in my life that organically, truly out of the blue, I dismissed my failures – “failures” – and acknowledged instead my accomplishments, all of which came thanks to an early resilience and the distinct impression that six-year-old me could be Alexis Carrington one day.

joan-collins-alexis-carrington-Cd7cff848ad9f26ccde1cd0e3050f3148 — *Without a doubt.*

All of this, thanks to blogging. It’s a correlation, and maybe a weak one, I don’t know. But I’ve had a lot of therapy and I’ve never had revelations anywhere, but especially not at Sam’s Club before. And if this is happening at Sam’s Club, it’s probably best not to think too hard about correlation vs. causation.

Thank you, all

There’s a hole in the heart that’s truly hard to fill, if it ever does. I think writing is one way to start. Your feedback doesn’t hurt! I’ll take it anytime. And will keep you posted as my health changes with a regular writing practice. It’s an interesting experiment, this, and look forward to sharing it with you.

Working it out when working out

Today I finished creating a new exercise space, one where I can spend hours and hours focusing on a different kind of pain: The physical. The burn. The torture you make for yourself on purpose and put in our planners. Why do we do it? Let’s talk in the comments below.

Well, wait: let’s not talk about that just yet. The psychological, even metaphysical, back-and-forth about why some people go balls out and some people flow and ohhhhmmm is a discussion for another day. And it’s the weekend.

When it comes to fitness, sometimes it’s fun just to talk about what we’re up to. Many of those who’ve stopped by are fitness-focused, so I hope you’ll join in. But I think it’s important to hear about whatever movement moves any of you!

My space, your space

Everyone needs a good exercise space. In the comments below, I want to hear about yours. Do tell!

Me, I’d been exercising in my bedroom. I’m an exercise-at-home type, very private, and I have a couple of cats who might get under foot. But even someone as short as me wants to make a leg extension without hitting a bed corner, chair, wall…

Now my new space runs about 6′ x 10′, and is covered with a dark blue ultra plush rug into which my hands can hook snugly for easier V-position work and handstands. My hands are strong but I’ll take the assist. The rug’s also flush with a solid banister that I can either hook onto lengthwise for decline work or use as a barre.

When I need a higher barre, a white fold-up IKEA barstool tucks neatly behind a maple storage cube that sits on high nickel legs. That sounds quite fancy. It’s not. It’s falling apart and needs to be replaced. Badly. But it too is rather tucked away, so…another payday.

I keep all my mats, weights, loops, bands, this nifty kettlebell converter and gliders – Corelle plates, finally handy! – in a homey, sweater-covered storage tub. So until the area starts to smell, which will be soon, trust, it won’t even be entirely obvious what happens over there. It’s like a grown-up lives here or something.

My movement, your movement

Are you a gym rat? Have a favorite trainer? In the comments below, talk about your favorite workouts!

I’d mentioned in a previous post that I can go on and on. And on. Today:

Tonique Tokyo Onsen Express (35 min)
Tonique Sculpt Dynamics Arms (37 min)
Tracy Anderson post-pregnancy floor core work (~20 min)
Tracy Anderson method mat unweighted and weighted arms (~15 min)
countless jackknifes (~80? depends if the music’s good!)

And this is a light day, meant to help work out some serious DOMS from yesterday’s stupid heavy leg day. Man, I just wasn’t thinking. I mean, I’m an old lady who doesn’t eat carbs and somehow I thought this wouldn’t hurt:

Tonique Born to Move (~58 minutes)
Tonique The Box mat/wall workout (37 min)
Linda Wooldridge standing barre thighs (26 min)
Tracy Anderson post-pregnancy floor core work (~20 min)
Tracy Anderson method mat unweighted and weighted arms (~15 min)

IDIOT.

I think tomorrow will have to include some very light dance aerobics just keep myself from turning to stone, maybe 45-60 minutes. You reap what you sow.

Now, I’m not giving you these itineraries to show off. (Well, maybe a little!) I’m doing so to invite conversation about what you do and exchange ideas. Let’s talk!

Final notes

First, stay tuned for a key follow-up post. I have good news. I think!

Weakness as strength. Strength as weakness.

Hilary Mantel is the fantastic author of Wolf Hall and Bringing Up the Bodies. If you’re into historical fiction and good writing, pick these up.

She’s also the author of a memoir I’ve not read, Giving Up the Ghost. It includes a quote called out by the Times, one that struck me and I’m not yet sure why:

“I used to think that autobiography was a form of weakness, and perhaps I still do. But I also think that, if you’re weak, it’s childish to pretend to be strong.”

If you’re weak, it’s childish to pretend to be strong.

The greatest power, is in not needing it. There’s a quite confidence one can effect when you’ve got nothing to prove.

But there’s a difference between believing unfailingly in one’s competencies, and using them as a cover for what is an existential weakness. Am I being childish by closing off my weakness to my local world?

I don’t mind telling you. Here’s my weakness: Part of me is eternally six. Easily hurt. Prideful. Resilient, never not sad, but could make people laugh even then. Here’s the key: little me is in control a lot and I feel like I can’t help it. It might be childish to pretend otherwise. But is this something you can say out loud in America?

Hours and hours

strong-little-girl I work out for hours at a time. It’s contemplative, meditative, painful. I can’t imagine working out for a normal amount of time; it wouldn’t seem enough. Today’s workout made me realize that this is another cover, and it’s not just for my vanity. The pain feels familiar. It feels like weakness. It is weakness. Nobody works out for hours if they don’t have to.

What am I covering for? Am I taking myself back to my young painful life? Am I desperately trying to give my six-year-old the muscle she needs? I don’t know. I’m open to your thoughts.

We’ll be back after these messages

There’s a lot in Mantel’s quote to unpack. It deserves more than one post; it deserves a conversation. Please leave your thoughts in the comments. We’ll talk again soon.

My cat who hates me is stalking me as though she likes me

IMG_20190627_190901509_PORTRAIT~2 — *“When 900 years old, you reach… Look as good, you will not.”*

I mentioned in a previous post that I have an old house. By old, I don’t mean cool, mid-century-modern old, like with a little Pledge it’ll look like a Design Within Reach catalog in here. No, by “old,” I mean, didn’t-start-with-running-water old. Also, what is Pledge?

When I first toured the place, after noticing the more newly added walk-in closets upstairs and two-year-old central air, I checked out the basement. These are a dodgy proposition in any house, let alone one that’s been standing more than a century. Got lucky. It was in pretty good shape, the bones of it anyway, and it still is, considering its age.

In the basement were a number of storage areas added hastily by the family who owned the place for 80 years or so. The place had been rented out for about two years by the time I showed up. I can’t recall why the original owners had left it. I do recall the renters being unhappy to see me. I also recall them being even more unhappy to see me set free a black cat trapped in one of those storage areas.

It was an accident. I didn’t know. I was shocked, though, by the amount of cat shit stuffed in that room. It’s one thing to keep your pet in the basement – I guess – but another to never clean up after it, ever. She was desperate to get upstairs, probably out of curiosity more than escaping all that shit. It was a tiny space for creature meant to roam. Of course she wasn’t mine; I had to shove her back in there. I left, heartbroken by the everyday neglect of everyday people.

IMG_20190627_190851042_PORTRAIT — *What she does when I call her.*

“I’ll take the house and the cat,” I said to my realtor. “The renters can leave her there after they vacate. I’ll check on her until I’m all moved in. Put her in the offer.”

“The renters would like to stay.”

“The renters are not staying.”

The cat’s really old these days. She was an adult when I moved in and it’s been 12 years now; in that time she’s gone through phases of hating me and hating me more. Cats, man. I respect her for it.

IMG_20190627_190646507 — *The fart face.*

More recently I think she’s become senile enough to follow me around as though she wants my attention. This is new. I’ll bend down, pet her, she’ll bite, she’ll swat, she’ll follow again, I’ll try again. Her hair is getting gummy, matted in spots, falling out in chunks. I know what that means.

Love takes a lot different forms if you’re open to it. The hard part is appreciating it while it’s around. This old lady, this gassy old bag of bones skulking around the house like she was here when it was built, I’m just not sure I’ve noticed her enough.

And it’s getting late.