Trainer: "Be brave, don't be shy. BE BRAVE!! Be your inner wildebeest!!!"
...I don't think he actually knows what a wildebeest is.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
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Sunday, March 16, 2014
Grey Sky Blues.
I've lived my entire life in the Northeast. As much as I enjoy the variety that having four seasons brings, winter has a disproportionate share here in New England, or at least it feels that way. Right about mid-February, all my winter appreciation is spent. I'm tired of dirty snow banks, the slush and ice, the stupid optimists who keep insisting, "Spring is coming!" and most of all, the amount of time I spend inside, breathing recycled air.
As my mood reaches surly bear level, the country itself levels one more blow at me: Daylight Savings Time. Oh, how cruel it is! Just when I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, by which I mean the sun in the morning, before I go to work, I'm quite literally plunged back into darkness. It sounds pretty pathetic that an artificial adjustment in schedule could have such an impact, but it takes me weeks to recover.
I start sleeping All. The. Time. When I'm not shutting out the world via sleep, I'm probably stuffing my face with every carbohydrate-laden food known to man, being completely oversensitive to small upsets, breaking out in full body eczema (is it the stress or the aridity?), and then scrounging in my cabinets for more carbs to eat at my kitchen counter (mac & cheese, you are the devil). When I descend fully into March Madness, the whole thing devolves into a vicious cycle of self-hatred, where I not only enact all those behavoirs, but deeply hate myself for doing so at the same time. I know it's coming every year, so you'd think I'd be prepared by now, and the truth is that it's insidious, and almost always upon me before I'm aware. At that point, I'm usually sunk deep enough that its a struggle to claw my way out - but I have definitely developed some coping mechanisms.
Exercise. This is #1 because it has been the most effective way for me to not be a sad sack of crap from February - whenever Mud Season ends. On top of those delightful chemical releases, I always feel a very lasting sense of self-worth and accomplishment when I set a fitness goal (non-scale, typically) and meet it. Last year I was training for the Tough Mudder, and I think it was probably my best winter yet. This year, I don't have a good long-term goal, so I've actually been a bit de-railed in recent weeks. Luckily, those endorphins are instant feel-good feedback, so it's been a pretty easy transition back.
Diet. Sadly, the carb cops don't pull up and shout, "MA'AM. STEP AWAY FROM THAT LOAF OF BREAD. PUT DOWN THE PASTA AND THE CHEESE, WE'VE GOT YOU SURROUNDED." Eventually, though, I do remember the connection between what I put in my body and how it feels, and I try to shift the balance by stocking only the good stuff in my cupboards, and being meticulous about actually sitting down to eat meals. At a table. I might miss the mac at first, but eventually vegetables and good sense win out. (And, yes, the wine helps.)
Meditation. I regret that I am not more consistent in my practice of this - I've got a busy mind, prone to overdrive, and I bet that a routine of meditation would help me stay balanced. But, I never seem to turn to it until I'm desperate and that is usually when it's hardest to do. I have a mental image/memory that helps: it's summer, and I'm on a ridge in a coniferous forest. The sun is coming through a break in the trees, and I'm surrounded by saturated color; red-brown bark, straw colored pine litter, and a hundred greens - from the lightly grey-hued lichen to the rich verdant moss and needles. I'm sitting on the the forest floor, in a soft pile of needles. The warm scent of resin rises all around me. Sometimes I can't recall the feeling of the sun warming my skin, but I never forget that smell (which, incidentally, might protect us from climate change) and it always brings me peace.
The recent spell of warm weather (by spell, I mean the past two days) has definitely lifted my spirits. Also, it looks like syrup season has finally begun (sap flows best with warm days and cold nights) and who can be sad, thinking about pancakes? Eventually, perhaps, the solution to all of this will simply be to move somewhere a little less arctic, but for now, I'm surviving.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
It ain't easy bein' green... Or smooth.
...Lucky for me, I'm rarely either.
It all started with a box of pears, a fruit neither N nor I can muster any enthusiasm for. Typically, my answer for extra fruit is always the same: smoothies.
Ah, the smoothie, modern food's gift to women. Because, let's be honest, sometimes chewing is just too much effort. Once the exclusive territory of fruit, dessert and booze, now it's anything goes! As long as there is kale. Don't forget protein powder, chia seeds, raw, organic almond milk (not ACTUALLY milk), and did I say kale? Kale makes everything better. And, who could say no to sucking all your nutrition down a straw?
Sarcasm aside, I do like smoothies. I also see the allure of the green or thickie smoothies. Kind of. Remember back in elementary school, when you'd pool your loose change to get the weird kid to mix all kinds of foods together on his plate and eat it? There was a reason that was gross. These supposedly high octane, miracle smoothies often get a little too close to that memory for me.
But, back to the allure. The everything-but-the-kitchen-sink smoothie recipes seem to promise some magical nutrition alchemy. Get an entire healthy meal, stave off naughty cravings, fuel beastmode workouts and fit into size four jeans all by sucking down what amounts to lumpy juice, prepared in just minutes in your food processor. It's like we're one step away from The Jetsons, where we receive all our food in pill form. But, that doesn't sound nearly as attractive, does it? We get pleasure from more than just fueling our bodies - there's enjoyment in the mechanical and sensory aspects of food, and throwing it all together kills that for me.
I've tried green smoothies, and they don't leave me feeling superhuman. In fact, I find myself mostly annoyed that there are bits of kale stuck in my teeth. And, being one of those folks naturally blessed with an enjoyment of greens, I think I'll take my kale next to the protein on my plate, not blended with it.
So, what are your thoughts about smoothies? Any favorite recipes? I tend to go with whatever fruit and dairy I have on hand, but I like this basic recipe from Monica at The Yummy Life, as it gives you a good idea of what proportions of stuff to use.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
The Year of De-Clutter
I am not an organized person by nature. This would undoubtedly shock most of my coworkers, among whom I have the reputation of being an anal neat freak. While my soul craves clean lines and vast uncluttered surfaces, the reality is that I have worked hard to train myself to become habitually tidy. I accomplish this very successfully at work, thanks to routine. At home, the results are a bit more varied, but I'm still learning. I'd like to share some of the basic habits I've found at the core of any kind of organization, particularly of the personal kind.
1. Own less stuff.
In theory this one is pretty simple. Clutter is made up of stuff. The more stuff you have, the higher the likelihood of clutter. In practice, this is the most difficult part, which leads me to...
1.1 Find meaning in people and experiences, not possessions.
This is a mantra I repeat to myself, over and over. I tend to invest sentiment in my possessions, and that makes them a part of my story - so that giving them up feels like giving up a piece of myself. I just need a reminder that throwing away an ill-fitting t shirt is not going to make that trip to the Grand Canyon any less wonderful or real, which allows me to....
1.2 Weed through stuff regularly.
I have a mental pile for things I notice that I have not used in recent memory. If I do not find myself using it in a defined length of time (usually a month), I let it go. I've read of others who actually make this a physical space, a basket or shelf in the home, close to the door, so shepherding it out is that much easier. Of course, getting stuff out is only half the battle, you also must...
1.3 Choose stuff judiciously.
Use caution when buying new things; do you already own something that would fulfill its function just as well? This will sound like sacrilege to some of you, but two feet can only wear one pair of shoes at a time. For a given season, how many different types do you really need? Gift receiving can be a hurdle here, too - get over it. How likely is it that Great-Aunt Mary is going to stop by and demand to see that totally fug serving platter? Don't even allow unnecessary items like this to settle in your home; recycle, regift, thrift, or junk immediately.
2. Keep stuff where you need it.
Okay, you're thinking, none of this is exactly surprising, why am I reading again? I found that the key to being organized is mostly made up of things I already knew. It was the ways they were applied that were a discovery. Obviously, you're going to be less likely to put something back in its proper place, the farther and less accessible that place is from where you are, so...
2.1 Define spaces in your home for specific functions.
If you eat in every room of the house (totally guilty!) you are going to have to pick up dirty dishes in every room. If you only ever eat at the table, dishes are only going to have to be gathered from one place, when you go to clean them. This goes for every other type of activity. The bedroom is the most spartan room in our apartment - I only use it for sleeping activities and clean clothing storage. It is the easiest room to clean, because the stuff in that room stays in that room, so even if things are out of place, it is a simple matter to put them back. I live in an apartment with five total rooms, so the rest of the house is pretty multi-functional. I am careful, however, not to let those functions overlap much. I work and craft in office and entertain myself in the living room. That way, craft supplies do not have to be schlepped back to the office, and books/movies/iPad schlepped out to the living room. This makes applying #2 much easier.
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| Less stuff = better sleep! |
3. Develop a routine. Stick with it.
Probably the most eye-opening thing I ever read was this blog post: http://www.home-ec101.com/clean-it/weekly-chore-schedule/. I knew I needed a house-cleaning routine, but I didn't really know what that entailed. Inevitably, I would let messes build, until they hit a critical mass and then tear around trying to do it all. I took the schedule Heather provided and modified it somewhat for my needs. The first two weeks were rough, because it felt like I was cleaning ALL the time. And there were times when there were other things I wanted to be doing. It got better, and the first month really clarified points 1 & 2. I would waste less effort if there was less to clean, and the process of putting away was more efficient.
Write the routine down, so you have a visible reminder of what you should be doing. Being a creature of technology, I also put these as repeating tasks in my google calendar, so regardless of where I am in my crazy schedule, I don't have to remember today is Wednesday to remember today is bathroom cleaning day.
4. Rinse and repeat.
All three of the above are ongoing processes, and I'll be the first to admit that I am not perfect. There are always elements out of your control (significant others, work, life events...etc), and it can be extra difficult sticking with the above when life happens. However, the balance is shifted when you commit, and getting organized and staying there becomes much easier if you're always trying to be in that mindset. Before, on a "messy" day, it would take me hours to straighten things out, and now it is usually less than one.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Self-Discipline
Have you ever felt ambushed by circumstance? Like, you sleep through your alarm on a day that you are supposed to be in work earlier than normal, scramble together to get in on time, and stay later than usual, anyway. You come home to find out your significant other has made plans with friends, BBQ take out, and hard cider, and by the time that's finished, you have to get in bed to get up early again the next day!
It feels like everything is conspiring to make sure that you don't do the one thing you really don't want to do - in my case, spending twenty minutes with Sadist Supreme, Jillian Michaels. Right when I'm at my weakest, I think, 'You've been really good lately - you probably just need a recovery day.' That seductive siren song from the organ residing in my headspace is tough to resist - when my brain is telling me I am being rational, where else am I going to look for evidence to the contrary? The truth is, on Thursday night, I wasn't right - the evidence lay in my body, in the fact that after hours of wrestling with myself, I finally just did it. And, I didn't collapse, or suffer any injury, or really come out of the experience with any detriment to my person. Unfortunately, I lost that same battle on Friday. It wasn't fate or circumstance that led to me skipping out - it was, plain and simple, me.
This, the mental game, is what really attracts and repulses me about fitness. Obviously, the abs are a nice side perk, but unlike some, I'm not in this for major weight loss. What I really want, more than a hot body or smaller pant size, is the ability to tell my body what to do without my brain getting in the way and mucking things up. In the face of discomfort and boredom and pain, I want to be able to say, 'I can keep going, I am still breathing, my limbs are still moving - it's not time to throw in the towel yet.'
Self-discipline of body really translates to self-discipline of mind, and that transcends fitness into all aspects of life, whether it is food, work, or studies. The tricky piece of this business is, how does one achieve that? How do you train your mind to go along with your body when you are trying to push the envelope? For me, it's nothing innate - I can see how much more flexible my boundaries have become since I started running a year ago, and that is purely practice. I ran, even though it hurt, even though I was tired, and after months, I felt like I broke through a very real barrier and I was suddenly exponentially capable of so much more. I want that same kind of epiphany with strength training, but I am struggling a lot more to get there. Maybe it is more outside my experience, or I want it less; it's hard to say.
This feeds into this blog, because I am the sort of person who excels overall when I am succeeding at one thing. When a single piece of my life falls into place, it seems like everything else does, too. The downside, of course, is that I have a tendency to shut down when one thing goes really wrong. If I'm going to be kicking my own butt in the gym, I might as well be doing so on this blog, also.
Every time I post an entry, I wonder why I don't sit down and do this more often. I don't, of course, because I won't publicly display a piece of half-assery, and it takes effort, concentration and time to do otherwise. Concentration, effort and time are my brain's arch-nemeses. So, here is a little shove outside my nice, comfortable, lazy slug zone - I am going to keep telling myself to not believe everything I think, and not give up.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
WTF is this, the 12 Days of Crazy?
On the first day of crazy, there was insanity, an asiaaaan in a dance crew:
This middle-aged asian guy walks up and asks me the time, and then launches into the most ridiculous story about how he was in a dance crew in the 1980s at the start of rap, and how he is getting back into it. I did not know whether he was looking to impress me or recruit me for his new group. Unfortunately, he recently had a pacemaker put in, which apparently has two unjoined parts that must touch at all times - which he illustrated by jamming his index fingers together over and over.
He told me that because of his pacemaker, he could not do anything other than floor moves, but that he "do thing that women like." I was not brave enough to ask what that thing might be - also, I was having a hard enough time keeping a straight face as it was. I kept thinking, "So this is what happens to those poor Asian 80's actors (think Long Duk Dong ala Sixteen Candles). Luckily, before he got the nerve to ask me to join his hip hop troupe, I was able to escape.
On the second day of crazy, there was insanity, drunk friendly lout:
"HEY GIRL!" In my mind, being hailed that way by complete strangers is usually associated with crazy or stupid. An arm was thrown across my shoulder, and I was hit by the smell of the inside of a toilet in a singles bar at new years. Mmmm, Eau'd cheap booze and desperation.
As I turned to look into the yellow eyes of the grizzly, smelly dude accosting me, I sighed, suspecting that we were going to be new best friends at least until my bus came. In a rambling, incoherent narrative, Mr. Inebriate explains how he took the bus to Lebanon to buy some wine - a precious substance, which apparently cannot be found in the bustling town of Enfield (pop. 4582)?? He passed out in the middle of the ride and woke up in Vermont - where the cruel bus driver forced him to hike across the state border into Hanover, where once again, he passed out, this time on a park bench. Unlike the bus, where being drunk and unresponsive is okay, Hanover is the home of prestigious Dartmouth College, where it's only okay for the students to be drunk and unresponsive. So, New Lush Friend was hassled by the police, who dragged him off to jail. There, he narrowly avoided prison rape (amongst the hardened criminals of Hanover, NH) and was sent to the hospital.
Most of his storytelling was spent describing the indignities he suffered at the hands of my institution's medical staff, which mostly seemed comprised of repeatedly asking him if he was intoxicated. "INTOXICATED? INTOXICATED!!" He bellowed, as if this was the single most ridiculous idea he had ever encountered, never mind the fact that the fumes rising off of him were beginning to strip the facade we stood in front of. He also threw in some advice about getting diseases - mostly, that I shouldn't, but if I did, I shouldn't mess with them, heck, I shouldn't EVEN TOUCH THEM. Every few minutes he would remind me that his buddy Rick, who I repeatedly denied any knowledge of, was dead. Apparently poor Rick dared to touch his disease, which certainly begs a few questions I don't think I need to pose here.
Of course we were traveling on the same bus, and my buddy promised to stick close and sit RIGHT next to me so we could continue our scintillating conversation. I may have, at this point, had some kind of contact drunk going on, but I was unable to devise a way to get rid of him. I figured if he tried to follow me home like some kind of soused puppy, I would throw myself on the mercy of the bus driver. Luckily, he bid me a pleasant good day, merely reminding me to "beat my boyfriend with a stick to keep him in line."
I can only hold my breath in anticipation of the batshit insane personages who will harass me tomorrow, but first, I think I need a bath and or flea dip...
This middle-aged asian guy walks up and asks me the time, and then launches into the most ridiculous story about how he was in a dance crew in the 1980s at the start of rap, and how he is getting back into it. I did not know whether he was looking to impress me or recruit me for his new group. Unfortunately, he recently had a pacemaker put in, which apparently has two unjoined parts that must touch at all times - which he illustrated by jamming his index fingers together over and over.
He told me that because of his pacemaker, he could not do anything other than floor moves, but that he "do thing that women like." I was not brave enough to ask what that thing might be - also, I was having a hard enough time keeping a straight face as it was. I kept thinking, "So this is what happens to those poor Asian 80's actors (think Long Duk Dong ala Sixteen Candles). Luckily, before he got the nerve to ask me to join his hip hop troupe, I was able to escape.
On the second day of crazy, there was insanity, drunk friendly lout:
"HEY GIRL!" In my mind, being hailed that way by complete strangers is usually associated with crazy or stupid. An arm was thrown across my shoulder, and I was hit by the smell of the inside of a toilet in a singles bar at new years. Mmmm, Eau'd cheap booze and desperation.
As I turned to look into the yellow eyes of the grizzly, smelly dude accosting me, I sighed, suspecting that we were going to be new best friends at least until my bus came. In a rambling, incoherent narrative, Mr. Inebriate explains how he took the bus to Lebanon to buy some wine - a precious substance, which apparently cannot be found in the bustling town of Enfield (pop. 4582)?? He passed out in the middle of the ride and woke up in Vermont - where the cruel bus driver forced him to hike across the state border into Hanover, where once again, he passed out, this time on a park bench. Unlike the bus, where being drunk and unresponsive is okay, Hanover is the home of prestigious Dartmouth College, where it's only okay for the students to be drunk and unresponsive. So, New Lush Friend was hassled by the police, who dragged him off to jail. There, he narrowly avoided prison rape (amongst the hardened criminals of Hanover, NH) and was sent to the hospital.
Most of his storytelling was spent describing the indignities he suffered at the hands of my institution's medical staff, which mostly seemed comprised of repeatedly asking him if he was intoxicated. "INTOXICATED? INTOXICATED!!" He bellowed, as if this was the single most ridiculous idea he had ever encountered, never mind the fact that the fumes rising off of him were beginning to strip the facade we stood in front of. He also threw in some advice about getting diseases - mostly, that I shouldn't, but if I did, I shouldn't mess with them, heck, I shouldn't EVEN TOUCH THEM. Every few minutes he would remind me that his buddy Rick, who I repeatedly denied any knowledge of, was dead. Apparently poor Rick dared to touch his disease, which certainly begs a few questions I don't think I need to pose here.
Of course we were traveling on the same bus, and my buddy promised to stick close and sit RIGHT next to me so we could continue our scintillating conversation. I may have, at this point, had some kind of contact drunk going on, but I was unable to devise a way to get rid of him. I figured if he tried to follow me home like some kind of soused puppy, I would throw myself on the mercy of the bus driver. Luckily, he bid me a pleasant good day, merely reminding me to "beat my boyfriend with a stick to keep him in line."
I can only hold my breath in anticipation of the batshit insane personages who will harass me tomorrow, but first, I think I need a bath and or flea dip...
Thursday, May 5, 2011
50 Years of Spaceflight
I never wanted to be an astronaut. Let’s be honest, if I’m chicken-shit when it comes to roller coasters, I didn’t see myself strapped to forty tons of rocket fuel blasting to the outer reaches of our atmosphere, past all hope of rescue. Then, there were all these math requirements, and I’ve never been too fond of numbers, either. Despite all that, I have a bordering-on-obsessive fascination with manned spaceflight. It’s difficult for me to understand how anyone wouldn’t be interested in humans flinging themselves out of our planet’s grasp, never mind the exciting science they perform while doing so. Today, America marks 50 years of manned spaceflight, only a few days after Russia has done the same. The difference between us is that our anniversary feels like a closing, rather than just a milestone in an infinite progression of achievement. There are only two flights left on NASA’s shuttle manifest, and no solid plans for a new program to follow. There is no national outcry, no tears shed over the passing of an era of American innovation – I would be surprised if the shuttle program died little more than a quiet death, fading into the annals of history.
It should be enough that somewhere out there, someone is continuing to explore space. The Russians will still be launching Soyez rockets, and some of them will even carry Americans. The ISS will continue to orbit, and innovations in spaceflight will march on, but in significant way, we will be left on the sidelines. I am rarely a nationalist, but I am proud to be part of a country that is driven to push the envelope, ask big questions, and be capable of producing the technological feats needed to answer them. I know that there are valid concerns out there about the viability of the near-obsolete shuttles, the cost, and the inherent risks to human life, but that’s not what this is about. The lack of interest in the loss of this program smacks of the pervading apathy the American public has toward science in general. Since when, as a nation, did we lose our curiosity? Why are the only questions we’re interested in asking anymore about what so-and-so did today on facebook, and who won on Dancing with the Stars? Does there need to be a death involved for us to feel a sense of tragedy?
For me, I will always remember standing at Banana Creek, filled with wonder, watching those forty tons carry seven measly humans into the vast expanse of blue sky and beyond.
Related Reading
It should be enough that somewhere out there, someone is continuing to explore space. The Russians will still be launching Soyez rockets, and some of them will even carry Americans. The ISS will continue to orbit, and innovations in spaceflight will march on, but in significant way, we will be left on the sidelines. I am rarely a nationalist, but I am proud to be part of a country that is driven to push the envelope, ask big questions, and be capable of producing the technological feats needed to answer them. I know that there are valid concerns out there about the viability of the near-obsolete shuttles, the cost, and the inherent risks to human life, but that’s not what this is about. The lack of interest in the loss of this program smacks of the pervading apathy the American public has toward science in general. Since when, as a nation, did we lose our curiosity? Why are the only questions we’re interested in asking anymore about what so-and-so did today on facebook, and who won on Dancing with the Stars? Does there need to be a death involved for us to feel a sense of tragedy?
For me, I will always remember standing at Banana Creek, filled with wonder, watching those forty tons carry seven measly humans into the vast expanse of blue sky and beyond.
Related Reading
Saturday, January 15, 2011
The Lotion Dilemna
I have ridiculously sensitive skin. I can glance at a bottle of scented detergent in the store, and watch the rash creep up my arms. I even have a crazy white streak through my hair that originates from a skin condition. So, every winter, I resign myself to looking like shit for the next six months (I live in New England, so that might actually be an understatement on the length of the season), and feeling literally less than comfortable in my own skin. My skin gets patchy, itchy, red and gross, and a few years ago, I developed a form of eczema that looks like a raised circle, mimicking a less palatable skin condition. My GP's answer, after losing interest when it became clear it was not ringworm? "Put some lotion on it."
So, I have half-heartedly slapped on greasy cetaphil and thick aquaphor - and when I feel fancy, Aveeno - in the hopes of hydrating. Truthfully, my adherence to a routine has been less than faithful. By the time I finish bathing, teeth brushing, mouth washing, face scrubbing, hair taming, and contact applying, who has time to moisturize before I have to throw on clothes and run out the door? And god forbid, if I want to put on some makeup! Then, the same deal at night, only this time, it's getting in the way of something really important: sleep.
This year, my eczema came back with a vengence, starting at my hairline and laying waste as it marched in to the center of my face, leaving destruction and scales in its wake. I suppose I could make a vow to dutifully apply lotion day after day, but as mentioned in the last post, I'm not a resolution-maker, and damnit, hard work is not the American way! Furthermore, I believe in the power of technology!
Surely Modern Science has come up with a solution to my problem?
Off to the drug store I ran, to find myself faced with an ENTIRE AISLE of choices! Having not shopped outside of my plain old standbys for quite some time, I was overwhelmed. No longer does lotion just moisturize and scent, it must have some additional purpose. Either I was being firmed, or de-wrinkled, or tinted, or de-toxified... and by the time I was through reviewing these choices I was beginning to have some serious worries about crow's feet, cellulite and poisons that might be additionally marring my already dry skin! Clearly, I needed to take a closer look, and let me tell you, I timed myself, and I spent 23 minutes in that aisle studying lotion bottles. I could see the pharmacists eying me with terror, bracing themselves for the inevitable stupid question ("Which one of these will fix the herpes?"). Lucky for them, I'm already a scientician.
In all honesty though, while I have great faith in the quality of life improvement research can bring us, I have no patience for psuedoscience.
This was the worst offender of them all - and I expected better from a company generally selling the most basic of skin protectants (white petrolatum). It promises revolutionary "Stratys 3," a patented complex which claims to penetrate ALL layers of my skin. What does that even mean, I wondered. The three attached to stratys - a word very similar to strata, or layer, made me think of the three basic levels of skin, the epidermis, dermis and subcutaneous. I really don't think I need to be moisturized all the way down to my hair follicles, and I'm not even sure that's good for me? But maybe they meant the first three layers of the epidermis, the strata corneum, licidum, and granulosum. Clearly I needed to do further research. Back at the great Gazoogle, I poked around for the product information. On vaseline's promotion site for Sheer Infusion they claim,
"Stratys-3™ is an effective patented moisturizing complex, combining three powerful ingredients that infuse and suspend moisture across all layers of skin*-- the top, the core, and deep down. "
Ooooh, the deep down! Tharr be monsters!...or just really gross dry dead skin cells. But, what's up with that asterisk on skin? Perhaps they're going to enlighten me on just what they mean by these layers! And they do, even in appropriately scientific terms:
* stratum corneum (surface skin)
B-but, but - that's just the very uppermost, flattest, and deadest layer of the epidermis! So you're telling me that after all this hyped up, multi-layer moisturizing avowing quackery, you don't even reach below the VERY FIRST STRATA of the top layer of skin?! For fucks sake, Vaseline.
... I bought a bottle of Aveeno and called it a day.
So, I have half-heartedly slapped on greasy cetaphil and thick aquaphor - and when I feel fancy, Aveeno - in the hopes of hydrating. Truthfully, my adherence to a routine has been less than faithful. By the time I finish bathing, teeth brushing, mouth washing, face scrubbing, hair taming, and contact applying, who has time to moisturize before I have to throw on clothes and run out the door? And god forbid, if I want to put on some makeup! Then, the same deal at night, only this time, it's getting in the way of something really important: sleep.
This year, my eczema came back with a vengence, starting at my hairline and laying waste as it marched in to the center of my face, leaving destruction and scales in its wake. I suppose I could make a vow to dutifully apply lotion day after day, but as mentioned in the last post, I'm not a resolution-maker, and damnit, hard work is not the American way! Furthermore, I believe in the power of technology!
Surely Modern Science has come up with a solution to my problem?
Off to the drug store I ran, to find myself faced with an ENTIRE AISLE of choices! Having not shopped outside of my plain old standbys for quite some time, I was overwhelmed. No longer does lotion just moisturize and scent, it must have some additional purpose. Either I was being firmed, or de-wrinkled, or tinted, or de-toxified... and by the time I was through reviewing these choices I was beginning to have some serious worries about crow's feet, cellulite and poisons that might be additionally marring my already dry skin! Clearly, I needed to take a closer look, and let me tell you, I timed myself, and I spent 23 minutes in that aisle studying lotion bottles. I could see the pharmacists eying me with terror, bracing themselves for the inevitable stupid question ("Which one of these will fix the herpes?"). Lucky for them, I'm already a scientician.
In all honesty though, while I have great faith in the quality of life improvement research can bring us, I have no patience for psuedoscience.
 |
| Exhibit A. Vaseline Sheer Infusion: Moisture. Redefined. |
This was the worst offender of them all - and I expected better from a company generally selling the most basic of skin protectants (white petrolatum). It promises revolutionary "Stratys 3," a patented complex which claims to penetrate ALL layers of my skin. What does that even mean, I wondered. The three attached to stratys - a word very similar to strata, or layer, made me think of the three basic levels of skin, the epidermis, dermis and subcutaneous. I really don't think I need to be moisturized all the way down to my hair follicles, and I'm not even sure that's good for me? But maybe they meant the first three layers of the epidermis, the strata corneum, licidum, and granulosum. Clearly I needed to do further research. Back at the great Gazoogle, I poked around for the product information. On vaseline's promotion site for Sheer Infusion they claim,
"Stratys-3™ is an effective patented moisturizing complex, combining three powerful ingredients that infuse and suspend moisture across all layers of skin*-- the top, the core, and deep down. "
Ooooh, the deep down! Tharr be monsters!...or just really gross dry dead skin cells. But, what's up with that asterisk on skin? Perhaps they're going to enlighten me on just what they mean by these layers! And they do, even in appropriately scientific terms:
* stratum corneum (surface skin)
B-but, but - that's just the very uppermost, flattest, and deadest layer of the epidermis! So you're telling me that after all this hyped up, multi-layer moisturizing avowing quackery, you don't even reach below the VERY FIRST STRATA of the top layer of skin?! For fucks sake, Vaseline.
... I bought a bottle of Aveeno and called it a day.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Mirror
I am not a resolution maker. The idea of resolutions is always tempting to me, but I know myself too well. I'm better off tackling small goals building up to a big change, than to make some dramatic promise on an artificial "new beginning," which I will inevitably break and disappoint myself with. Still, it's hard not to think about your body when the rest of the world seems riveted on that exact subject. It doesn't help that the gym becomes so crowded in the month of January that I avoid it like the plague, exacerbating the issue.
I have little shame in admitting that through my childhood and teenage years, I was a dork. In college, I consciously forced myself out of my socially inept shell, and became the considerably more outgoing woman that I am now. I don't regret this, but a sad truth of adulthood is that you begin to see nearly everything has a tradeoff. Encasing my inner nerd in a better-groomed, more confident package was no exception.
I shed my absolute devotion to jeans and t-shirts, and discovered that curly hair can look something other than frizzy, if you care for it. I learned how to put on makeup, shop for clothes, even flirt with boys! Over time, this developing awareness of how others viewed me changed how I viewed myself, and not in a positive way. Much to my constant disgust, somewhere along the way, I developed vanity, and more particularly, a terrible body image.
I do not keep any full length mirrors in my apartment. An initially accidental lack has become quite intentional over time. While occasionally inconvenient, I consider this absence to be enormously beneficial to my psyche. These days, I rarely find myself looking in a mirror with satisfaction, and worse, I can't help BUT look. I wonder if my skin is too red, my hair too frizzy, my nose big, my tits floppy, my arms flabby (am I developing a paunch?) and the list goes on and on. And while a very small, still sane portion of my mind registers that none of this probably has any bearing on reality, it sure does a number on my self-esteem.
On an "ugly day" I find myself desperately wishing that I could go back to the days of being able to look at my body with something like objectivity. True objectivity would require some standard of beauty separate from culture, which is impossible. But, as an awkward kid, I was able to look at myself and make statements like, "My knees are knobblier than most," or "My hair is more brown than X's" without assigning value to that observation. My appearance had no tie to my self-worth, and in retrospect that seems enormously appealing.
I can't turn back time and go back to the days of blissful ignorance, but I could happily compromise. I want to be able to see my body, realistically, and face what I am, what I look like, without shame or disappointment attached. I want to be able to make the best of what I have, without constantly wishing for something else. I have no idea how to get there.
I have little shame in admitting that through my childhood and teenage years, I was a dork. In college, I consciously forced myself out of my socially inept shell, and became the considerably more outgoing woman that I am now. I don't regret this, but a sad truth of adulthood is that you begin to see nearly everything has a tradeoff. Encasing my inner nerd in a better-groomed, more confident package was no exception.
I shed my absolute devotion to jeans and t-shirts, and discovered that curly hair can look something other than frizzy, if you care for it. I learned how to put on makeup, shop for clothes, even flirt with boys! Over time, this developing awareness of how others viewed me changed how I viewed myself, and not in a positive way. Much to my constant disgust, somewhere along the way, I developed vanity, and more particularly, a terrible body image.
I do not keep any full length mirrors in my apartment. An initially accidental lack has become quite intentional over time. While occasionally inconvenient, I consider this absence to be enormously beneficial to my psyche. These days, I rarely find myself looking in a mirror with satisfaction, and worse, I can't help BUT look. I wonder if my skin is too red, my hair too frizzy, my nose big, my tits floppy, my arms flabby (am I developing a paunch?) and the list goes on and on. And while a very small, still sane portion of my mind registers that none of this probably has any bearing on reality, it sure does a number on my self-esteem.
On an "ugly day" I find myself desperately wishing that I could go back to the days of being able to look at my body with something like objectivity. True objectivity would require some standard of beauty separate from culture, which is impossible. But, as an awkward kid, I was able to look at myself and make statements like, "My knees are knobblier than most," or "My hair is more brown than X's" without assigning value to that observation. My appearance had no tie to my self-worth, and in retrospect that seems enormously appealing.
I can't turn back time and go back to the days of blissful ignorance, but I could happily compromise. I want to be able to see my body, realistically, and face what I am, what I look like, without shame or disappointment attached. I want to be able to make the best of what I have, without constantly wishing for something else. I have no idea how to get there.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Worry Stone
I recently re-discovered a beautiful smooth river rock, meant to be a worry stone. I forgot how soothing and effective it can be to pace back and forth, absently turning the stone over in my hand. I apparently also forgot what a klutz I was. After the third time dropping the worry stone on my toes, I had quite forgotten whatever my initial woe was.
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