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Proj Ridic: I Can’t Even Make a Proper Ass of Myself

by Stephanie on January 29, 2012

So, as we discussed last time, I am on a quest to lean to conquer my fear (or at least quit being so paralyzed by it) of feeling ridiculous. So this week, I set myself up for a big beginning. This week, I was not only going to go skiing without Kyle, but I was going to go skiing with someone that I’d only met on the internet.

DUH-DUH-DUN!

This was a terrifying prospect for me because is focuses in on two of my greatest fears: being that one person sitting all alone and that no one will like me in real life. Hey, I didn’t say they were rational fears, just that they are fears. And this skiing excursion was going to toss me right outside my comfort zone and challenge that one secret fear that I think we all carry deep in our brains:

What if no one likes me?

So that was the plan. I was ready. I was going to embrace my discomfort, accept my fear, and dive in anyway. At least, that’s what was supposed to happen. Kyle messed it up first. He was originally supposed to work on Wednesday, hence, my solo skiing. But then the project he was overseeing finished a day early, negating the need for him to go in at all. And if he didn’t have to be at work, there’s no way in hell anyone was keeping him from going skiing, least of all just so I could have the experience of going without him. Ski season is short, people, and a day of skiing is not to be wasted. Suddenly I found myself with a partner once more.

But no matter. This was actually a good thing, if you think about it. This meant that he could drive, as he always does, freeing me to nap in the car, as I always do. And then once we got to the lodge and I met up with my internet friend, Vickie, he would split off and ski on his own for the day. Then, we could meet back up at the end of the day, he could drive home, and I could pass out during the drive home. Kyle would get in a day of skiing, and I would still get the emotionally crippling experience of meeting a brand new person for the first time. Plan B, go.

Except that didn’t happen either.

I’m not really sure how I thought it was going to go down. We had agreed on Wednesday. I’d suggested 9am in the lodge, then told her what I looked like and what I’d be wearing. She never responded. I guess I thought that I would walk into the lodge a few minutes late (as we’re prone to do,) and I’d hear someone call out, “Hey! Stephanie! Over here!” And I would know it was her. Then we would spend the day skiing together, with lunch in the middle and maybe some beers afterwards. This seemed like a logical and plausible chain of events in my head, and I kinda figured that everything would just work itself into place.

Except that none of that happened. We walked into the lodge a few minutes after 9am, and I looked around, waiting for someone to recognize my white pants, pink and brown jacket, and white floppy hat. Nothing. I told Kyle to grab a table and I did a few laps through the different parts of the room and into the back room, even though the only people back there were a couple of 70 year old men, and waited for my name to be called. Nothing. I made eye contact with a few women who were the right age and build to have been the woman in her Facebook profile picture. Nothing. I even walked up to a few of the more promising candidates and timidly said, “Sorry to bother you, but is your name Vickie?” And then when they said that it wasn’t, I apologized profusely and tried to explain that I was supposed to meet someone but I didn’t know what she looked like and I thought they might have been her. And as I said it, I realized how stupid that sounded.

Finally, after 20 minutes of walking around and searching, I returned to Kyle’s table, defeated. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if she was there but didn’t recognize me or if something had come up and she hadn’t made it or if she’d forgotten altogether, but regardless of the reason, I’d failed in meeting my internet friend. And even though I’d tried my best to find her, I still felt like somewhat of a failure.

So despite my best intentions, what followed was Plan C: ski with Kyle just like we do every time. There was absolutely nothing different or special about this trip. It wasn’t even that great of a day of skiing; the conditions were hard and icy and I got into a weird emotional place in the morning and couldn’t ski for shit, eventually wiping out while paddling to a lift. Things did get better after lunch; we found a couple of decent runs, and I even added another black diamond to my repertoire without crashing. But the day still felt like a disappointment. This was supposed to be an emotional victory that would leave me feeling stronger and more confident; instead, it left me feeling sad, like an opportunity was missed.

So instead, I chopped off all my hair and tried to crochet a hat.

Not true. Well, not totally true. I did chop off my hair and tried to crochet a hat. But not because I failed at my emotional skiing experiment. Well, maybe a little because I failed. I mean, I’d tossed around both ideas separately previous to my emotional venture. And maybe it was that feeling of defeat that made me say, “You know what? What the hell, fuck it. Let’s do this shit.” And do this shit I did.

The hair, if I might say so myself, was a rousing success.

The hat, I’m willing to say, was not.

Okay, so my first attempt at emotional exploration wasn’t quit the victory that I’d expected. Instead of finding a feeling of pride and strength and a deeper sense of who I am, I’m left sitting here with a badass haircut and a wad of yarn that’s starting to actually look something like a hat and the same, gnawing feeling of wondering.

But the good news is that there’s still time. This was my first baby step into my personal exploration, and though I’m starting to realize that this may be harder than I first though, I’m not deterred.

I’ll make a proper jackass of myself yet!

{ 7 comments }

Project Ridiculous

by Stephanie on January 22, 2012

My name is Stephanie, and I am afraid of everything.

I’m afraid of wearing hats. I’m afraid of singing karaoke. I’m afraid of scarves. I’m afraid of coloring my hair bright red because it will fade. I’m afraid of wearing eyeliner. I’m afraid of making the tiniest of waves at work. I’m afraid of going skiing by myself. I’m afraid of inviting people to hang out with me. I’m afraid of going to work or skiing without full makeup, including three shades of blended eye shadow. I’m afraid of people seeing me taking pictures, especially of myself. I’m afraid of asking strangers to take a picture of me. I’m afraid of interior decorating. I’m afraid of wearing skinny jeans without boots or a super loose top. I’m afraid of playing video games. I’m afraid of striking up a conversation with strangers. I’m afraid of wearing lipstick. I’m afraid of eating alone in public without a book.

My name is Stephanie, and I’m tired of being afraid.

Seriously, it’s fucking stupid. I’m 25, almost 26 years old. I’ve done so many things, accomplishments that I never imagined myself reaching. I light rock shows, I run mile after mile, I ski ridiculous hills, I write a marginally-successful blog. And yet, I’m terrified of going to lunch alone or wearing a fucking scarf. I think it really comes down to being terrified of what others will think of me or how they will respond to me. I’m not afraid of diving down a black diamond run or running 13.1 miles. Okay, lies, both are terrifying. But I can overcome something like that because I know that my success or failure is objective; either I make it to my goal without dying or I don’t. And that success or failure is entirely within my control. No one else can help me or hinder me; it’s all up to me to either kick ass or end up on mine. But when my success or failure depends not only on the judgement and reactions of other, but on a subjective opinion…that’s when I find myself frozen in my tracks and scuttling to my safety zone.

My name is Stephanie, and my motto for this year is, “New Me, Fuck You.”

I don’t me you, personally. (I like you.) I mean the rhetorical “You.” The You who judges me and makes me feel afraid. The You who looks at me weird and makes me feel self-conscious. The You who is the voice in my head telling me that I look like a jackass. All of You. Fuck You. Especially the me You. You’re the worst.

In case it isn’t obvious and annoy yet, you guys can probably tell that I’ve been spending a lot of thought on introspection lately. I think it’s a healthy way to approach a new year and soon, a new age of my life. Kyle says it’s what happens when I have too much time on my hands. Regardless, there’s no denying that I’ve spend a lot of time lately thinking about the person I want to be, the person I wish I were. (I promise guys, I’ll be back to writing about transvestites and my underpants soon enough.) And all that thought has brought me to come up with a plan of action.

I call it Project Ridiculous.

I call it that because once a week I want to do something that scares me or makes me feel ridiculous. Not because these are necessarily tasks that I feel I can’t live my life without accomplishing; I can probably live my life without ever singing karaoke and still consider myself a well-rounded, successful adult with a full life. But I need to do these things because they scare me. I need to be able to feel that fear and do it anyway. Because the reality is, I’m tired of being afraid, I’m tired of second-guessing myself, and I’m tired of worrying that I look ridiculous. Just fucking tired.

But I also call it Project Ridiculous because it’s fucking ridiculous for me to be 25 years old and live in so much fear of embarrassment, ridicule, and failure. I’m afraid to act because I can’t stand the thought of not receiving approval from those around me when the reality is I shouldn’t give a shit about the approval from those around me. The strangers I see on the street, the people sitting across from me at the bar, the checker at the grocery store…they don’t care about me or have any of my interests in mind. They don’t give a shit about my success or failure. So why should I allow what I perceive as their judgement to keep me held in a stasis of fear? The answer is I shouldn’t. Hence, Project Ridiculous.

Sometimes I’ll tell you guys about it, and whether my foray into the uncomfortable was successful or not. Sometimes I won’t. I already know what this week’s challenge is going to be, and it’s a dozy: I’m not only going to go skiing without Kyle, but I’m going to meet up with a woman who I’ve never met before and only know through the internet. I know. It’s terrifying. Spending the day skiing, which traditionally is a pretty social activity, without my emotional safety net AND meeting a new person for the first time without that safety net in place. The possibilities for awkwardness are endless.

My name is Stephanie, and I’m ready to be ridiculous.

{ 10 comments }

I Wandered Into Wonderland and Now I Can’t Get Out

by Stephanie on January 18, 2012

You guys.

I. Am. Fucked.

I knew it was a bad decision. I could see it’s splendor twinkling in the corner of my eye, tempting me. I held off for as long as I could, knowing the dangers that lay within, but watching all my friends frolic in the magic was just too much. Finally, my willpower shattered, I admitted defeat and ran pell-mell into the deviance.

And I joined Pinterest. The land of I Wish.

You guys, it’s been bad.

I can’t fucking stop wandering around Pinterest, soaking up all the creativity and brilliance that’s out there. Everything that I’ve always wanted but couldn’t quite articulate and things I never knew I wanted, all there, neatly organized in picture form. The punk rock haircut I’ve always wanted. Beautiful tattoos that I’ll never have the courage to get. The perfect shade of apple green for the (previously) sunshine yellow kitchen I wanted for the house I don’t live in. The perfect way to wear Doc Martins with a sequin dress. And a million craft projects that will be the perfect way to express my endless creativity and badassery. Goals I never had or wanted, all laid out in front of me, begging me to take them up and enrich my life with them.

Except that like so many other Pinterest journeymen, I haven’t actually done anything with any of this brilliant Pinterest inspiration. Except annoy Kyle with all my new, creative crafting and decorating ideas. He off-handedly mentions that we could use a pretty basket for our new shelves and I immediately squeal, “OH! You know what would look super cute? You blow up a balloon and glue buttons to it and then you pop the balloon and what’s left is a button basket! Wouldn’t that be super cute?” And then Kyle starts to drink.

Which leaves me to my other current favorite Pinterest activity: sitting at my laptop and staring wistfully at all the amazing that could be mine, if only. And maybe it won’t all be for naught. I am planning to talk to my hairdresser to see if my hair and my face could handle one of those super hot haircuts I found. And I’m already quietly collecting supplies for my first Pinterest-inspired craft project. (Hint: the main ingredient is beer bottle caps!) So maybe I’ll actually find myself bringing some of this awesomeness into my own life.

But for now, it’s a fun place to dream.

{ 4 comments }

“One Inch, Two Inch, Old Pants, New Pants” or Learning to Find My Beautiful

by Stephanie on January 14, 2012

That was the title I was saving. The “inch and pants” bit. I was saving it for when I hit my goal weight of 145 pounds. 145 pounds is the weight that the Wii Fit set for me, and that seemed attainable enough. So I set out on my “weight-loss journey,” as it’s often called by people who are trying to loose weight.

I did it because I didn’t like the way this person looked or felt:

(To be fair, that ensemble wasn’t do me any favors.)

So I started running. I joined MyFitnessPal. I started upping the amount of water I drank. I became more cognitive of what I ate. And for a time, the weight came off. There was actually a point where I was down to 148 pounds, a mere three pounds from my goal, (for those of you who are bad at math.) I was so driven. I felt great, and I was determined to meet my goal. Never mind that I still hated my thighs and would have traded the upper half of my IQ for the opportunity to trade my ba-donka-donk for an adorable tiny little white-girl ass. Somehow, loosing those last three pounds to meet my goal was going to transform that woman in the picture above into this:

(Don’t ask me how that one was going to work, it just was.)

Except that it never did. I mean, it might have for all I know, but I wouldn’t know because I never lost those last three pounds. Some poorly timed injuries plus…well, life got in my way. Exercise wasn’t as consistent and stress made for poor eating decisions. (Read: more Taco Bell.) I lost the momentum that I’d gained.

I set that goal for myself about a year and a half ago.

Since then, my weight has fluctuated up and down along with my life. At the moment, I’m in one of my “health kicks,” where I try to track my food closely(ish) and exercise five days a week, a mixture of skiing, running, and a few P90X videos for interest. But what’s different this time than any of the last year and a half is that for once, I don’t really give a shit about what the scale says.

It’s true. I don’t. For once, I’m going about this with the focus on my health, rather than my weight.

It kinda started the other day, while I was doing the P90X Plyometrics video. I was in my living room in my Goodwill gym shorts and t-shirt, jumping around like an asthmatic rhino and sweating like a whore in church. As I flopped over in a hamstring stretch, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror that rests against the wall. And despite myself, this ridiculous thought flew through my head:

Damn. My legs look good.

I hate my legs, always have. They’re huge and my thighs rub together when I walk in a dress. But I couldn’t help it, I actually liked the way my legs looked. They looked long and lean, like I could crush a man’s head between my thighs. And that’s when the realization smashed me in the face .

I will never be a size 6.

I’ve never held delusions that I was ever going to be a size 4. Let’s face it, when you’ve got an ass like mine that can be used as a resting place for a beer, you will never fit into a size 4. It just doesn’t happen. And the more I look at my body, the more I think that this is pretty close to as good as it’s going to get. Sure, I still have some squishy parts that I’d like to tone, but when you look at my silhouette I don’t think it’s going to get much smaller. I am the size I am, and that size will never be 6. It could be an 8, maybe, if I tried really hard and only in certain brands, but the more I look at myself, the more I think that I am just built as a size 10. And I’m tired of feeling like a failure because I can’t attain a goal set by a fucking video game. I’m not a failure. I’m just built on a larger scale than the fucking Japanese guy who designed the game thinks women should be.

Which means that instead of attaining society’s beautiful, I need to work on finding my beautiful.

My beautiful is a body that is healthy. That can ski, run, and hike with strength, and maybe a little bit of grace. That stays active and strong as the years go by. That is athletic and strong and toned. I’m sure that my body can be all those things. The hard part?

Seeing that beautiful in my body.

Like every woman alive today, I’ve been conditioned to believe that beautiful is that woman in the picture above. I will never be that woman. And instead of trying to be her, I need to start seeing the beautiful in my own body. Which is really fucking hard when I’ve spent the majority of my life focusing on all the things that are wrong with it. I still can’t stand in front of a mirror naked without becoming embarrassed for myself. But here’s what I can see:

My wrists are beautiful.