The War on Wine

My good friend Tia once told me that progress is not constant upward climb, but a series of peaks and valleys, dark places and fresh starts, but continuous, as long as you don't stop. Today is-yet another-of hundreds of fresh starts. I stand once more at the starting line of sobriety.

Why, you might ask. I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not dysfunctional. I'm active and fit and healthy and motivated. But, I'm not all I could be. When I ingest alcohol, I break my muscles down. I turn healthy cells into lipase cells, that I then have to fight to turn back into healthy muscle growth. I break down healthy brain function; I invite poor decisions, under utilize the small amount of time given to me on this earth, and deceive those who care about me most.

Here is to the dust I'm brushing off myself once again. Here is to the falling down, the breaking, the mistakes, the heartache, the regret, the resulting motivation, the starting over, and the non-existent finish line.

Why be good, when you can be better?
Why be effective, when you can be exceptional?
Why be drunk, when you can be sober?

Ready, set, run from mediocrity.

Pumpkin, You're Great

As someone who can comfortably down an entire pumpkin pie in a day, it has been the product of much mental energy to create such a pie as would prevent a personal caloric Armageddon. To clarify, I do not eat an entire pumpkin pie in one sitting. However, replacing all three daily meals with pie is not entirely unheard of. Pie with a side of eggs? Sure. Pie with a side of veggie burger? Why not. Pie with a side of salad? Absolutely. 

Four or five pies later, I believe that I have a success. A pie, the entire caloric dent of which is equal to the dent made by a single slice of traditional pumpkin pie, complete with protein, fiber, complex carbohydrates, and a healthy dose of beta carotene. Quite simply: suitable to substitute for any and all meals on an given day for any number of days in a row. Attention trending health sensations:  I have discovered the new superfood. This beautiful pie is also fantastically free of unidentifiable "fat free" or "sugar free" substitutions that are code name for chemical shit-storm.

Being in my own apartment, I have thoroughly enjoyed the freedom to cook and eat and make a mess of anything and everything that I like, and, lately, what I like is pumpkin pie. Today, I purchased Stevia in the Raw to substitute naturally for the sugar, silken tofu to substitute for part of the eggs/condensed milk, and lite coconut milk to add just a hint of creaminess and decadence, while simultaneously hydrating my hair and skin.  I also added a tablespoon of cornstarch and two tablespoons of EnerG Egg substitute to take care of the little pool of liquid that I found in the center of my last pie. 

And, Voila, success. I shall now consume pumpkin dessert at an unprecedented rate, with minimal guilt. The holiday season may come and go, but the training season never ends. In the spirit of GO BIG OR GO HOME, I will have my pie, and my protein too.

Go now, love.

I pray
That love, like death, will come swiftly
Take my feet from beneath me
And catch me in its arms
So that I shall never have to wonder
That it is love.

I pray
That love, like hate, would make me brave
Erase all contingencies
And cause my soul to leap
My heart to fight, my lips to scream the name
Of this one love.

I pray
That love, like God, will never leave
My heart, though romance fail me
I will not die alone
But know that a lifetime was worth the fall
To be, to love.

Product Perfection

By nature, I am a highly productive person; so productive, in fact, that I tend to render myself ineffective by pursuing perfection in too many directions at once. Perfect runner, perfect bodybuilder, perfect budgeter, perfect student, perfect employee, perfect daughter/sister, perfect friend, perfect ex-girlfriend, perfect homeowner, perfect book reader, perfect chef, perfect drinker, perfect leader, perfect peer, perfect fucking product of fucking perfection.

Some of these things might not even seem as though they can be something perfect. Perfect book reader? Yes; with just the right taste in material, and just the right amount of time set aside to absorb and learn without wasting any time, one can be a perfect book reader.

The funny thing is, my perception of perfection is constantly changing as my world view changes. Therefore, it never really exists, and it just as unattainable. Perfect drinker? Some weeks that's a perfect taste in wine, others, the best martinis, expensive vodkas, local brews, high-end cocktails; most of the time though, sobriety.

Certain things are the kryptonite of my intended productivity, however, and they get me. Every. Single. Time.
Perfect employee? Let one more customer pour half a cow's worth of cream in his coffee and then dare to tell me it's cold.
Perfect runner? Fear of mediocrity, resulting in minimal recovery time and maximum occurrence of injury.
Perfect chef? The skinny obsession.
Perfect student? Throw me some BroScience Life Youtube channel.
Perfect book reader? Thinking about all the other productive things I should be producing while productively reading a book.
Perfect budgeter? Sales. Ironic.
Perfect ex-girlfriend? A heart made of flesh.

Why is perfection imperfect?

If there is one thing that I could wish for, to accomplish or have gifted to me, in this life, it would be balance. A reassurance that the good counteracts the bad; that the good and bad are clearly defined, and that through the attainment of balance, vision of a clear path would open before me.

The beauty of life is that there is no balance, there is no perfection, but only striving. It is through the constant effort to better myself that I find the most fulfillment, and the most agony.

To starve, or to pour one's creative essence into delicious, life-sustaining food?

To regimen, or freestyle?

To study, or to learn?

To document, or to live and never remember?

To socialize, or to optimize?

To critique, or appreciate oneself in all one's imperfection?

To love, or to refrain from the accompanying pain through logic and stoicism?

Perhaps the most draining, baffling, ever nagging and back and forth question in my mind is this: does love lead to mediocrity?

Self love means that no further attempt at perfection is needed, therefore, why run? Why eat clean? Why get one's nails done or hair refreshed, or pay attention to the fit and color of one's clothing?

Love of others means that there is no changing them; you love them, and you love their flaws as a part of them. Does this mean that the friends you surround yourself with are then no longer motivating? Or one's life partner merely an addition to the monthly food bill?

What perpetrates the illusion of control? That by influencing any one mechanism we can alter the future outcomes of our lives? To an extent, we can. But, so can everyone else, and through the influence of a hundred million varied agendas, life becomes predictably unpredictable, and perfection is sacrificed at the altar of reality.

Where is the balance?
Where does perfection end, and life begin?

Top #15 Reasons Why I Shan't Reproduce (Taken from the perspective of a 21 year old recovering babysitter)

Top fifteen of the bazillion reasons why I will probably never reproduce:

1) Vaginal botox is not currently a thing.

2) I would have to take at least nine months reprieve from drinking wine; possibly repeatedly.

3) Diapers are more expensive than crack.  (Thus, cracks are more expensive than crack.)

4) Some people say, "But having kids to do the chores is nice". Do you realize that by the time children are old enough to be remotely useful, you will have done approximately 107,333,499x the amount of chores that they would be able to accomplish before they (hopefully) decide to move out.

5) Calculated by the increasing rate of technology integration in young children, by the time I have kids, they'll want the current version of an Ipad by age 2.

6) There are already plenty to go around. For the record, and to disprove any notions about my being a complete ogre, I love children; as long as they are returnable.

7) I'd catch myself lying about mythical "holiday" creatures, and stealing the spotlight from my own time, effort, money and lack of sleep resulting from preparing for early morning egg hunts and cinnamon bun scented paper shredding disasters.

8) It wouldn't be fair to my siblings, as my offspring would be naturally cuter, smarter, more respectful, more talented, and just generally superior to theirs.

9) If I never actually have kids I won't have to prove the theory stated in #8.

10) Sleep is totally not overrated.

11) Strollers are not beneficial to negative splits.

12) I'm pretty sure that I also never want to be a grandmother; and that seems rather unfair to the desires of my children.

13)  If my ankles are swollen, it better be because I ran a damn ultramarathon.

14) There is not an adequate insurance policy to cover my navigating the type of equipment that I have witnessed by mother pilot through Sam's Club in order to feed myself and my siblings.

15) Finally, if my kids are anything like me, which science recommends that they will be, they may very well outrun me and eat all of the chocolate.


 

No White Flag

No one wants to hurt. No one wants to be seen hurting, and no one is born with the wish to hurt others. The flaws of life have created the occurrence of pain. Unforeseen experiences come upon on, and before a breath is drawn, our lives are changed. Permanency is constantly overestimated. Like “q” and “u” together, “forever” walks in step with “until”. Often we anticipate pain in one capacity, and are blindsided when it arrives by another means. Because feelings are the glasses through which we interpret life, we often depend upon them. Because we see qualities similar to ourselves in people, we relate and become endeared to them. Influenced by people and by feelings, we envision the road map of our lives. 

Marching staunchly onward toward a set of goals, we fail to see the beauty in the happenings that refuse to keep time to our rhythm.  Suddenly, the music box is shut, and we have no beat to follow; only awkward glances toward the hand on the lid. Feelings are fickle, people change, and life maps are written on an etch-a-sketch. 

To walk alone is not easy. A hundred hands will gladly reach out to guide you; as they do, they bump you, and balance is further compromised. Oftentimes, the first hand seen is grasped, but take inventory of yourself. If the path you stand on was ever truly yours, it is there still. If the hand you once held was closing doors before you could reach them, grasp the knobs. If walking becomes impossible, plant both hands firmly on the floor and simply move forward. 

There is no shame in change; there is only shame in keeping your eyes shut. There is no shame in tears; life’s color can be seen through water. Keep your hands up, but never clenched. Shake your etch-a-sketch; let no one snatch it from your hands, let no one scrawl a definition upon it. Sweep constantly the broken pieces away from your feet; let nothing trip you. 

Independence is not isolation. Love is intentional, as is the absence of. Pain is progress; in whichever way you choose to show it, hurt for yourself alone, not for any other soul. Love and white flags be damned; there is plenty enough time in later life for domesticity. This is no cry for help; this is a damage assessment to remind the heart that nothing less than epic adventures, or significant betterment of oneself should ever sway your feet from steps which bring a smile. Master your own mediocrity; true love, in whichever capacity your soul needs to receive it, will surely follow.