The Dating Drought

I’d like this to be a celebratory post to tell you I’ve reached my next milestone, but unfortunately it’s not. In fact, I can’t even blog consistently.

I’d like this to be a post to tell you that something spectacular has happened in the past two weeks… that has propelled me closer to my goals, but unfortunately it’s not. In fact, I’m stagnant.

I studied endlessly for a final exam, only to come up short. I passed a class with the worst grade of my college career. Regardless of the circumstances of the course (some fishiness surrounding an incredibly unacceptable failure rate), I take this personal failure to heart.

I’ve been battling migraines for the past two weeks. Until you’ve had a migraine, you can’t understand the debilitating nature of having a ‘headache.’ I’ve wanted to hit the gym every day, but the dizziness, the light sensitivity, and the propensity to projectile vomit at the slightest movement prohibited said workouts.

I can report that my diet has been going well. I had a great grocery-shopping buddy this week and we waxed philosophical on life in the produce aisle. He bought ice cream and I didn’t. Small victories in the frozen foods.

Perhaps the thing most on my mind in the past two weeks has been my dating-drought. This is my longest dating-drought in my adult life. My last date was in March, when the wonderful man from Logan Square I had been dating snuck out in the middle of the night. I like to think he gave me a kiss on the cheek before his exit, but chances are he gathered his coat, his keys, and his glasses (my favorite) and slipped away forever. Coward.

I need to get out of the mindset that having a man care about me equals self-esteem. Having someone to keep me warm at night doesn’t equal mental equilibrium. Men are the icing on the cake; not the substance that complete my being.

I’d like a man as an accessory to enhance my life, but not until I can learn to not let them define me as a person. I’ve made the mistake too often of seeking validation and acceptance through my relationships with others.

It’s a mistake. Lasting happiness must come from within… and for me has come after months of beating myself up. It’s been months of introspection, analyzing my quirks and idiosyncratic behaviors that I can’t stand. Months of breaking down my feelings and really thinking about them, instead of reacting to them. Learning that there are better ways to live my life, better ways to see myself, than I’d considered before.

A way to live life that focuses on me as an individual, not me as someone’s girlfriend.

The dating drought continues, and I am fine. Of course there are pieces of me that hate sleeping alone at night. There are pieces of me that hate happy couples walking along the city streets with love in their eyes. There will always be a piece of me that will wait for Mr. right to show up at my door in the rain with flowers just to say he misses me.

The pragmatic me reminding myself to focus on changing myself… and that’s what I will do.

“The Summer of Cee,” has been a success. I have lost weight. I have worked out regularly. I have laughed more in the past few months than I have in my life. I have met new people. I have tried new things. I have read about Tao. I have learned to trust.

Most importantly, I’ve learned it’s okay to be home on a Friday night watching shoot ‘em up movies and talking about baseball on Twitter. It’s okay to order sushi because I’ve earned it.

It’s liberating to be awake at midnight with the lights on, the music loud, and typing on my keyboard violently (something my ex always hated) …without disturbing anyone.

Two Weeks in the West Loop

I’ve abandoned my cozy North side studio for the industrious hustle of the West Loop. Two weeks feels like a lifetime when your bed is only 30 minutes away. I want to go home.

Staying in the West Loop is a bit of a culture shock, to say the least.  Though it is nice to be within walking-distance of the Loop (I walked to the House of Blues on Saturday night), I’m a walking insecurity.

As I live among the Chads and Trixies, I can’t help but feel insecure.They have money and are impeccably dressed. My Old Navy yoga pants and Red Sox T-shirts don’t really fit in, even for dog-walking. They drive new BMWs, have expensive watches, and shine their shoes.

The Chads are well-built machines of weightlifting madness. Their muscles bulge under their Ed Hardy (why hasn’t this fad died?) T-shirts.   They aren’t polite, they do not look at me. They are more inclined to talk to the dogs I’m watching than me.

The Trixies walk the hallways in their bikinis, carefree living by the pool with their cucumber water.  They wear their tight yoga pants, while they leisurely recumbent bike for 10 minutes as their only workout for the day, yet have amazing bodies.

In a building this big, there’s always someone in the gym. I’m been going everyday and each time is awkward. I watch people with near-perfect bodies work closer to perfection, while I’m struggling to move closer to average. I feel judged. I feel weak.

I miss my gym on the north side.  Attached to a hospital, it’s filled with ‘old people.’ Some are doctors, some nurses from the hospital on a break, running with their cell phone clipped on their scrubs. Some are mothers, wheeling in a screaming toddler, pacified by animal crackers and sippy cups in the daycare, while mom finds an hour of silence surrounded by adults. Most are over 65 and walk the track, recovering from surgery under the care of a physical therapist.

The north side gym is full of faces I know. All of the trainers are encouraging and close to my age. One of the trainers played football at my alma mater and gives me a high-five every morning. There’s a group of older gentlemen who walk every morning at the same time I’m there, and wave when they see me on the elliptical machine. One of them brings me a Dixie cup of water every morning about 45 minutes into my cardio workout, which started one day when he said I wasn’t smiling enough.

The north side gym feels like home. Taking a two-week break from that gym feels like punishment. There are some days when going to the gym is my only interaction with others, and I miss my waving old men. I miss my high-fives. I especially miss Dixie Cups.

In the West Loop, I’ve kept my workouts on track, watching baseball or listening to music while I run, putting my blinders on to the people around me the best I can. I’ve been picking the machines in which I have the best view of the skyline…

I count windows on the Sears Tower.

I watch the clock on the Boeing building, instead of the one of the elliptical machine.

I study lines and symmetry of buildings, ignoring those sitting poolside.

One more week of heightened insecurities. One more week of working out in a room with floor/ceiling mirrors that show every body flaw as I lift. One more week of people talking to the dogs in the elevators instead of me.

One more week and I can move on with my life.

It’s Okay To Have Problems

I’ve been writing a lot, but I’m still getting used to the idea of publishing my thoughts where people can read them. Something about being so exposed is a vulnerability with which I continue to grapple.

The writing part comes easy. I’ve been journaling since my early teens and have a shelf-full of moleskins to prove it. For the past few years I’ve been keeping a digital-private journal with layers of security unnecessary for a personal computer. . Folders are locked; files are locked. Thoughts are filed away for archival purpose, never to be used against me at a later date. Feelings go in, but they don’t come back out.

I am a jealous voyeur of those who can open up their emotions and vulnerabilities so eloquently, concisely, and freely to a myriad of strangers and google-searchers who stumble upon their words.

Honestly, I’m inclined to feel sorry for anyone who might happen upon this blog. I can ensure it is poorly written, poorly edited, and the borderline-psychotic ramblings of a 20-something who should (definitely) already have herself together.

These eloquent blogs (I read many) are revealingly beautiful. They’ve taught me it’s okay to admit that I cry, something I’ve always been convinced that should always take place behind closed (locked) doors, with faces and tears smothered in satin pillow-cases.

Vulnerability is beautiful.

Vulnerability is normal.

Vulnerability is essential.

I haven’t posted anything in a month and I haven’t made a public announcement of my blog yet, because I’m still learning to embrace my outward sensitivities. I’m learning to live my life as less of an island and more of as a village.

When discussing these issues with a friend over coffee this week, he looked me in the eye firmly and said, “It’s okay to have problems.”

I’m sorry, what? You’re telling me it’s okay to have problems? No one has ever explicitly told me this before, but it makes sense. It’s simple. Really just 5 words, but to me it was a moment of clarity.

It’s okay to have problems. It’s okay to be difficult. It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to struggle. It’s okay to be human. It’s okay to be sensitive. It’s okay to want. It’s okay to long. It’s okay to hate yourself (so long as you’re willing to fix it).

Exposing these pieces of myself is essential to staying on track. Being a public failure is worse than being a private trainwreck….so here I am. Hoping to keep all of the cars on track… moving to slimmer waist lines and greater happiness (are these directly correlated? I hope so).

That’s the goal, at least.

Five Temptations (that will sabotage my plans)

Throughout this process thus far, it’s been important (and easy) for me to figure out what my biggest temptations would be. They are glaringly obvious constant reminders of derailment. They are in my face constantly, begging me to hop off the wagon….and lead to weight stagnation, or worse weight gain.

Hopefully it’s true what they say–that knowing is half the battle.

1. Alcohol. I’m a vibrant 25 year old, living in a big city. Though the history of Chicago is at times fuzzy, I’d like to believe this city was founded on some grand land charter with a focus on happy-hours, Irish Pubs, and drink specials.

My best friends are boys, and man can these boys drink. While the idea of a PBR case-race is appealing, it’s not something the waist-line can tolerate. Bars on every corner and my interest in “having fun,” have caused me to drink more calories than I can quantify…and I can count pretty high.

2. Eating Out. The Chicago restaurant scene is any foodie’s dream. A drain on my wallet and on my caloric intake, going to these restaurants makes me feel heavier just thinking about them… especially the bars.

The fancy restaurants present scallops, swimming in four-inches of butter. It’s hard to find good sashimi, but every maki-roll tastes great with their sauces, rice, and carbohydrates. The bars smother everything in buffalo sauce and serve them with a side of ranch. The Midwest has amazing frozen custard.

No wonder I am fat.

3. Family/Friends. I have a hard time telling people “No.” If everyone wants pizza for dinner, we’ll eat pizza for dinner. Though my folks live six-hours away, when there’s a visit on the horizon, I know there will be constant eating. I dread it, but my will power is often lacking. I try to temper the amount I eat around them, but it’s a fruitless (literally, no fruit in sight) attempt.

How can I refuse to make dad his favorite hushpuppies (without eating several)? I can’t turn down mom’s bourbon slush. These foods are filled with love, therefore eating copious amounts will bring happiness.

I have to learn to say, “No.”

4. My Schedule. I am a busy-Cee. I work a full-time job. I am a full-time graduate student. I have baseball games to watch, a puppy to walk, friends, a dating life (at times, though there’s a drought), books to read, beaches to relax upon, and baseball cards to collect.

Now, I’m adding diet and exercise into the daily routine and wondering if there are enough hours in the day.

I will find time to make it work, but it’s a full-plate that sometimes makes lengthy workouts and healthy eating difficult. I’m working on this piece, placing diet and exercise as pillars of success and happiness.

5. My Own Worst Enemy. I’m moody, I’m cynical, I’m negative, and most days would be better if I had a hug.

I am my own worst critic, my own drill-sergeant, and sometimes this freight-train of negativity can not be stopped.

I can go from laughing to anxious in seconds flat, and I expect to have a great deal of break-downs throughout this process, but I am hoping I’ll turn them into positives and prove to myself that I’m the keeper of my own destiny; the counter of my own calories.

I think I can beat me.

You’re Doing it Wrong

“If the food you are eating is not to optimize your health and well-being, then what is it for?”

I read this on Twitter the other day. I sat at my screen, dumbfounded…and still am.

I’ve used food for many things other than to optimize my health and well-being.

When I was a kid, we’d use JELL-O  mix (when it’s in it’s granulated form) to learn how to do addition and subtraction on the kitchen table.

At Thanksgiving, the grandchildren would spread grandma’s stuffing thin on a plate and affix our utensils and soda cans to plates and shake them upside-down. Imagine that goo sticking to your ribs….

I made a solar-system project out of fruit and candy in the fourth grade for the Science Fair.

I’ve used licorice whips as weapons. I’ve filled water balloons with pudding. I’ve used frozen grapes as projectiles.

I’ve used ice cream to drown feelings,  toasted beers to celebrate.

I’ve had greasy cheeseburgers because that’s what I felt like eating.

After my “big-breakup” I spent days on the sofa watching Grey’s Anatomy eating puppy chow (the chocolate coated cereal, not the dog food).

…and now it becomes clear. I’ve improperly used food the majority of my life.

I blame my Italian heritage. I was raised in a family where you didn’t say no to food, because that was considered rude.

If someone cooked dinner, you clean your plate, regardless of portion side.

If you wanted a cannoli, you ate a cannoli.

In fact, if you finished one cannoli, grandma would probably give you another, or insist that you eat some of her special homemade fudge. WHO is going to say no to grandma’s fudge? Shame on you… it’s delicious.

… and that’s the problem.  It is delicious.

I printed out the quote at the top and taped it to my refrigerator. I’m moving past the dumbfounded part and quickly embracing this as my new-anti-junkfood mantra. So far, it’s sticking with me.