Average Jane

I went to the gym this morning. I went because I can’t go tonight. I went because I can no longer afford not to go.

I got on the scale. Saw a number I haven’t seen in 2 years. Got off the scale. Went downstairs to the weight room feeling flushed. I did the first set of rows. Then the first set pushups. Big girl pushups. Strong pushups. Rest. Second set of each. Rest. Third set. I stood up.

I started thinking about that scale again. And all the hard work I’ve put into myself over the last 3 years. I thought about all the blood sweat and tears I put into myself and my body.

Then I started thinking about my knee. And the pain. The pain that cripples me. The pain that has kept me from running… biking… doing anything that makes me feel good.

Then I started thinking about the cookie I finally allowed myself to eat the other day. And the beer I drank the other night. The margarita. The peanut butter I ate out of the jar with a spoon. Every night. Every afternoon. The rice I eat cold before I go to bed because I don’t want to wait to heat it. The chocolate I eat at work because I’m stressed and need a reason to leave my desk. The ice cream I eat even though I don’t want to because I’m sick of saying “no” to people and them asking “why?”.

And then I cried at the gym. I cried at the gym at 7:30am. I made it out of the weight room and into the locker room before fully breaking down, thank goodness. No one needs to know.

I was diagnosed with a sub clinical eating disorder about a year ago. Basic definition: I am fucked up about food and my body — like most (literally most) women. I stopped trusting my nutritionist. I think she lies. I stopped doing cardio. I can’t do any cardio because my knee, my foot, my back… And if I can’t do cardio, and I can’t stop eating, and all the control is gone, and the scale continues tipping…

And what if I cannot mentally and emotionally handle that? What if I cannot handle that?

So today I’ll call my nutritionist. Then my therapist. Then my mom. Maybe in that order. Maybe not. I wonder which will be most comforting. I wonder which will have the answer. I wonder which one can fix me.

I wish TED was a real person. Because if TED was a person, I could shake TED’s hand. Or give TED a hug. Thank TED for all TED has done for me.

But TED is not a person, but a convention of the world’s visionaries. Each year, over 1000 people gather in Monterrey for four days. The conferences which cost $6,000 (the annual TED membership fee), sell out a year in advance. As a matter of fact, if you can’t get into the TED@Monterrey conference, you can go to the TED@Aspen conference - a simulcast event of the Monterrey conference sent via satellite to Colorado. According to their website, ted.com:

The annual conference now brings together the world’s most fascinating thinkers and doers, who are challenged to give the talk of their lives (in 18 minutes).

18 minutes. The great equalizer. From the theremin player to Al Gore. From Richard Dawkins to They Might Be Giants. That’s all every speaker gets to share their accomplishments, their goals, their dreams. They share laughter and joy. They share tragedy and sorrow. They share stories of hope and ideas that will change the world as we know it.

I was introduced to TED about a year ago sitting in my apartment. Someone sent me a video on happiness. Growing up, my dream was to go to Princeton, but I knew deep down I was never smart enough. It was after watching this video that I realized what I was missing — engaging professors. Passionate mentors. And that is when I got hooked on TED.

It is absolutely no surprise to anyone who has ever met me that I think I’m kind of an idiot. Now, please, please do not take that as a fishing expedition for compliments. I know I’m smart. I’m smart-ish. But I happen to surround myself with people who are smarter than me. And while they push me to be smarter and think harder about big things, they often leave me in the intellectual dust. My humor compensates for my lack of comprehension, education, accomplishment. I am never bored. We do word games at dinner. We discuss politics at brunch. We do crossword puzzles at donut shops. But mostly I follow along. It is only in the safety and security of my womb-like, sterile, suburban apartment, away from the imagined, falsified, only-exists-in-my-mind-and-I-know-that “judgment” of my peers that I educate myself. It’s where I feel smart.

The TED talks have introduced me to concepts that I have never been exposed to, and have shown me solutions to problems I never knew existed.

There have been a few talks that have truly stood out to me. One is Clifford Stoll. If you ever wanted to see inside the mind of a genius - completely stripped of its skin and bone and social norms - you should look no further than this video on everything. His frenetic talk speaks directly to the matter of the future. That possibilities are limitless if you put your time and trust into the youth.

The second talk that has truly stood at to me was Dave Eggers talk on his “Once Upon a School” project. Here, he talks about the idea that “at risk” kids who are given 1-on-1 attention from an adult every single week thrive academically. They like the challenge. They want to succeed. It’s the adults that seem to thwart their efforts. So he set up a tutoring center in a store front and started changing lives…

And tonight I watched a short video - just 5 minutes - that opened my eyes just before I cast them shut for my night of sleep… or at least what has been passing for sleep lately. What struck me most about the talk Dean Kamen gave was the humility he exhibited while discussing what could be one of the most profound technologies of my generation. Dean Kamen, a man you may never have heard of, was approached by the military to create a prosthetic arm that can function exactly as a human arm - pinching, twisting, turning, sensing heat, sensing pressure… 21 degrees of freedom from shoulder to finger tips. The technology didn’t exist when he was approached in 2006. In 2007 he went to Walter Reed to show the arm, conceived when the technology didn’t exist by a man who had enough world-saving projects on his plate, to a number of vets, young vets, “kids”, who had come back to the Land of the Free, Home of the Brave, with a few arms less than they had left with. Dean Kamen who has created a piece of machinery that will revolutionize prosthetics for generations to come spent the majority of his talk discussing the soldiers, not his accomplishment. He told the story of a soldier who he showed the arm to who said, ‘I’m lucky.’ You see, he was right handed and lost his left arm. Lucky, he said, because he kept his dominant arm. And as he pushed back from the table, he revealed that he had lost both legs.

I guess with all the pain and suffering I saw in Boston this weekend, it reminds me that there is always hope. There is hope out there. And there are people, humble people, the smartest people in the world, making great strides every day to ensure that those of us who are willing to make the changes we want to see in the world have the technology and the support to see them through.

About 3 yeas ago I went on a diet. It worked. It was a long, slow, arduous process that ended up with me weighing less. That’s really all it did. Made me smaller. It also fucked me up in the head in too many way to describe here now. But I gave up a lot. I gave up my best friend: food.

And now, now that everything is confusing and intense and stressful — now that I need a best friend around me at all times to comfort me and take my mind off of everything I can’t control, I went right back to my friend.

I’m slipping. And I’m eating. I’m eating a lot and I’m eating wrong and I’m not exercising. I’m eating because I’m stressed. I’m eating because I’m scared.

I just needed to share.

Why do we, as women (because I like to completely overgeneralize), choose to sabotage relationships/situations rather than just ending them? Can we really not deal with the consequences of our own decisions? Do we really need to pass the buck in order to save our own fragile egos?

“Not a sermon, just a thought. “

5 minutes later update: I realize why I we do it. It’s to keep people at a very safe distance. A happy distance. A distance where we never have to get to know anyone or let anyone know us. And so no one gets hurt. Which is just plain dumb. I’m working on it, I swear.

One of the biggest criticism my Most Recent Ex had of me (he’s doing really well, by the way, and I go up to see him on Friday!) was that I wasn’t fun. Now, had he been more balanced in his assessment of my funness (”balanced” isn’t something he’s real big on), he’d have maybe said I’m “differently fun-ed”. Special in my fun-ness? Or maybe he’d say that I’m not a risk taker. But he wouldn’t say I wasn’t fun. Because I totally am.

Last night, for instance, I had a really fun night. After work and the gym, I headed home for a random-as-always dinner of leftovers. I flipped on the TV and sat disgusted by my 413 options. So, I flipped open le-laptop and started cruising my buddy list. I spotted an away message that was peculiar - co worker who usually goes offline after work had put up an “I’m bored” status message. I knew what I had to do.

The “status message” is the suburban batcall. It’s the “cry for help” of our generation. I figured it may have been left up from work, but I gave it a shot anyway. “Are you really bored?”

“Someone to talk to!!!” Yes!

She was bored. She had reached the end of the internet. It was 9:00 on a Monday night. Do you know what that means??? DUNKIN F-ING DONARS! Luckily, the local Dunkins is also a Baskin Robbins, and my weakness (for real) is ice cream. Again the Ex would say, I don’t really get ice cream. I get whatever low-carb, low-sugar, low-cal crap they have on hand. But who cares! We made plans to meet in 20 minutes looking as inscrubnito as desired. Before I left, I threw the remnants of a botttle of white wine into a coffee-sippee-cup-travel-mug and hit the road. See? I can be a rules breaker! (And yes, I worried about almost the entire time.)

We sat and ate ice cream and laughed and talked about work stuffs. We drank wine from a pastic sippee cup and flirted with the ugly guys that sat down next to us. Ok - that was just me. It was a harmless, but totally awesome, night out in suburbia. Ya know, while I might not be spontaneous all the time, sometimes I am “up for it.” If you catch me without time to think about it too much, I’m as spontaneous as anyone.

I am super fun.

I guess the moral of the story is, I find fun in the little things. I don’t need elaborate plans or grand gestures. I don’t need long trips and expensive toys. I need a few bucks, a baskin robbins, and a sippee cup and I’m set. It helps that I know some of the best, funnest people around.

Everyone keeps saying he’s “in good spirits”. He’s “fine”, whatever that means. The surgery went “well”.

All these words that used to mean so much just seem to be words now.

I talked to him. Hi, darlin.

“Spanky!” He sounded rough. And drugged. But definitely himself.

I didn’t waste time. I had heard from B that he wore out quickly on the phone.

I told him I almost came right away. He said I should have. I told him I’d come as soon as possible. He told me I better. I asked him if he’s hitting on all the nurses. He said only most.

That was actually one of the questions flying around our friends. “So, do you think he’s hitting on the nurses yet?” The answer only 2 days after the accident was a resounding “yes!”. I pity those nurses. He puts on a good game. And in a few days when he’s back on his feet (prognosis is good, apparently), they are really in trouble.

I booked my flight as soon as I hung up with his sister. A quick trip this time. I’ll go back if I need to.

Thank you all for your well wishes. He’s gonna be “fine”.

The last hour of my drive back from Philadelphia is a blur. The fact I made it home at all is a feat.

I don’t like writing about people I know when I also know they read this blog. But I need to say this. I hope it’s ok.

The call came from K. I knew it had to be something important because calls from K are usually plan oriented, not really “hey, what’s up?” She had news. My most recent Ex had been in a motorcycle accident in Boston. “Pretty messed up” was what I remember her saying, although to be honest I don’t remember much.

Car. Bike. Broken. Vertebrae. Hand. Hospital. Sister. Mother.

After a brief, disjointed conversation we hung up. I called his phone knowing someone would answer. I hoped it wouldn’t be him. His sister picked up and I introduced myself as “His friend Jane.” It as simpler that way. I was next on the list for her to call.

MRI. Surgery. Back. Arm. Nerve damage. Hospital. Rehab. Months.

We hung up. I started crying. Big tears. Ugly tears. Tears that blended with the rain pouring down as I made my way down 95. I called my mom. I called my dad. I called E and A and E again. I started planning a trip to Boston. I started planning it all in my mind but my thoughts were even clouded by the tears.

I could see him lying in his hospital bed, scared. But laughing. Because that’s what he does. He’s a terribly patient.

I’m sick. Come up to Boston to take care of me.” No - I can’t. I have Passover with the Family in Philly. “Oh, come on! I’ll come to Philly then.” No - You can’t. I won’t have time to see you. “Fine. Maybe I’ll take a ride this weekend to clear my mind. It’s going to be beautiful.” Yes! You need it. Go ride. You’ll feel better.

A blurry hour later I arrived home. I checked my e-mail to see if there was news. I check facebook to see if there are updates. His status message broke my heart:

“…is going for a ride…maybe go see the ocean!”

I am a do-er, a plan-er, a fix-er, a mother-er. I can do none of that. Not from here. The Cultural Contributor told me not to go. To wait. He has who he needs now. He’ll need me more later. He is the vinegar to my oil. We work so well together if you shake up the relationship enough. He has been a good friend, a dear friend, a best friend. If it were me in the hospital, he’d be here by now. I know he would. He’s that kind of guy.

I know, however, that the CC is right. Now, he’ll be too knocked out to know — too drugged up to care. I will be there for him later, when the novelty of his condition has worn off and his new friends go back to their lives. I will be there when he needs me most. Or I’ll be there tomorrow if I get that call.

Every time life knocked him down, always got back up. Kicking and screaming most of the time, but he always rose above. And this time, too, he will rise again. But this time… this time he’ll ride again. I know he will. He has to.

The Decemberists had sung their last whiny note, and the night (oh, the night!) deserved more. Driving down 495 at speeds only known at that time of night, I was unable to change the CD. My only resort was radio.

I started flipping*:

<judge jane>

1. DC101 - Pretender, Foo Fighters

2. 98 Rock - Stupid night guys.

3. The Globe - Commercial

4. Hot 99.5 - Ashlee Simpson’s new whatever

5. Mix 107.3 - Commercial

</judge jane>

Nothing was appealing. So I circled back through.

9:51 pm. DC101. Dead air.

The silence filled my car. Instead of flipping through, I sat there, waiting. 15 seconds later, I actually turned up the volume — did my radio break?

And then… and then… I listened.

I listened to the forced, projected silence. The silence that was as prescribed by commercial radio as all the bad music and advertising that I had flipped through before.

1 minute. I thought - Could this be the end of DC101? Could this station have met the same fate as HFS? I looked at the time again - 9:52. Not significant. The song before - Pretender. Not significant. They’d have gone out with a bigger bang than that.

2 minutes. Hmm… I wonder if the DJ will get fired. Don’t they daisy chain the songs? Isn’t prophet pretty fool-proof?

3 minutes. Still silent. Dead air. Anticipation mounting. Then…

9:54: Power chord. AC/DC. Back in Black. And it was over…

I flipped the station but continued to think about the fact that I had just listened to a silent radio station on purpose for 3 minutes. I didn’t just sit in silence, no. I actively listened to the silence. It was loud. It was full. It was a non-relaxing, thought-provoking silence.

And then I got back to listening to crappy radio on my crappy broken car-stereo in my crappy suburban town.

*Whatever. Are you brave enough to share your pre-set radio stations?

Last weekend was my dear friend’s bachelorette party. We did requisite bachelorette party things including this check list/scavenger hunt thing. There were piggyback rides from strangers, money placed into bras by doormen, multiple shots taken in rapid successions, dancing dancing dancing, and of course male strippers…

The boys entertained themselves while the girls played on the town. And played we did. But this weekend was their turn. They headed back out of town to do things legal only in other places (or something), so naturally the girls had to stay home and be good little girls while the boys were away.

Or not.

After an afternoon of shopping and knitting, then dinner with my moms, the three girls headed out with one mission: Margaritas. Lots of them.

We ended up at our local bar, mildly drunk, and giggly… so giggly. It was empty so we grabbed three seats at the bar and ordered our next round of margaritas. Half a drink in, two gentlemen walk in. I have no idea what I said to get their attention, but they took two seats at the bar right next to us and introduced themselves. Well, the first guy introduced himself, the second guy threw down a trading card.

So, he tells me his name and says he’s a professional poker player and I kind of stare blankly at him. I wasn’t sure what the appropriate reaction was.

1. “Wow! You, so cooooool. Can I have your autograph?” (That didn’t work in the end because he had already signed the card)
2. “Hmm… I hate poker. How are you at black jack?”
3. “That’s nice. I’m a blogger. And I’m going to write all about your douche-i-ness.”

I think I actually went with, “Really? I thought he was a baseball player. Comedian?”

So, I’ve never been good with the whole “star struck” thing. I know that when you meet someone famous you’re supposed to be a blathering idiot and get all googly-eyed, and ask for their autographs, and call all your friends, etc. etc. etc. I tend to not do that so much. What I do do is just kind of talk to them like I’d talk to anyone I know (never a great idea considering I tend to make bad jokes that my friends get but really no one else ever does… and by “my friends get” I really mean they humor me and laugh anyway).

My friend had her own brush with fame (real fame) a few weeks ago. She met Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner and the ghost of their kid (yeeeaaah - she explains). These were actual famous people. I met a not-that-great professional poker player drunk of my ass at a bar. And thought he was a baseball player. Or something.

I guess I was just thrown off my the trading card. Who does that? I guess my recommendation to all the famous people who read my blog - don’t give trading cards to girls you meet at bars in an attempt to impress them unless you’re, like, a baseball player… or a garbage pail kid.

So, tell me about your brushes with fame! Who was the last “famous person” you met? Were you as fucking awesome as I was?