Hormonal Ranting

Two truths and the lie you keep telling yourself.

- Mel

As a teenager, a peer told me that I would never be a cheerleader. Because of my un-popularity, the team (and ADULT coach, wtf) saw to it that I never made the junior high squad despite my background in gymnastics and dance and that I was MORE THAN CAPABLE to be one. It took me a few stupid years in that school, but once we tried out for the high school teams (which were three merged junior highs) I was one of ONLY TWO that made it on from my school. I was quite proud of that middle finger I invisibly showed off when everyone who made the previous three years perfectly terrible then wanted to be my friend. Because rejection, especially as a kid, can manifest in many different ways (and I was already receiving quite a bit of that in other places, too). I proceeded to excel in cheer even in my new high school after I moved/transferred (which came with it a whole NEW SCHOOL of mean girls), and went on to cheer in junior college which was one of the most fun memories of my life.

I was good enough. I knew it. And I showed up. Again and again.

But that is never the end of the story, is it?

As a young adult, starting out on my hopeful career of working in TV sports production, an older male colleague at one of my PA gigs warned me that I would never find a job. Whether this was his own personal narrative and negative disposition of opportunities within the industry or your everyday generalized misogyny (because look, all I saw were men around me), I believed him.

So I gave up my dream.

Or did I?

Why is my fire alarm going off? (No, seriously, why.)

In the background of these stories, however, is that when I transferred high schools during my sophomore year, the transition was difficult. Though, yes, I made the cheerleading team, I was also the only senior cheerleader not to make homecoming court. I was also a runner. A runner who LOVED cross country and track (100 and 300 hurdles!) and at my new school I was overwhelmed with finding out that the athlete in my event made state her freshman year. Instead of training with her as a way to get better, I saw it as “I’ll never be that good” and never even tried out for the team. This feeling was a running highlight for me for most of my remaining teenage years and far too long into adulthood.

Funny thing, I fell in love with running again another two decades later.

I returned to college 20 years after leaving high school for graduate school with a focus specifically IN THE FIELD OF SPORTS. I guess I never let my dream of working in sports die. It just looks a little different than it did from my dreams two decades ago. To be honest though, I was fairly directionless for most of those 20 years – frequently bored, unchallenged, dropped in and out of several different colleges (finally finishing my undergrad at age 36).

As a kid, I wanted deeply to become a writer. I wrote short stories all throughout elementary school, transitioning to poetry and journalism in high school (I even started a horror book based on a crazy dream I had in my teens). As an early adopter of blogging in the early 2000s, I feel as though that part of my identity has lived on. I tried to “monetize” those dreams into a web copywriting career upon losing job-after-job in the tanking recession of working in the real estate boom-and-bust. I had a few bylines in magazines, and it worked well for a while… but that’s the funny thing about turning a passion into a full-time job. Because I still love research and writing – and now have the specialized knowledge in a particular field, I consider if things might be different if I try that again.

But then there is the other part of my childhood where I learned how to program on computers (my first, a Commodore 64). I was in my elementary school’s computer club learning command prompts (on early Apple) and going to science fairs trying to figure out how to build the “behind the scenes” stuff of computer games. I remember also learning dBASE in high school and learning HTML early to build websites (in computer lounges at school that remained locked and very-nearly inaccessible). Despite not having a lot of luxuries growing up, I always had access to computers. Going to dad’s meant playing around on the Commodore; mom eventually bought us a Tandy. I received a desktop computer for high school graduation in 1995. I have never not owned a computer of my own since.

My life has often been distracted by many paths of interest, which might be why it seems that I have never really been a “career person.” There really is no hardline beginning and end to this story, aside from maybe being OK with not having a 5-year or a 10-year or a lifetime career goal wrapped in a single identity. Maybe it’s OK to have multiple careers in one lifetime. Because: do we really ever know what we want or who we are? And how those things might change from experience and age? How can you weave passions and interests from childhood and beyond into where you are today? Also, when was the last time you gave yourself permission to change and explore something new – or revisit a former part of your identity that you never fully realized?

Extra Reading:
Manage your energy, manage your life (or something) {via Pocket} Because WOO BOY, I am exhausted by career paths. I feel like energy management is the IV I regularly need to tap.

I did a cartwheel and it hurt my hip and this is what I hate the most about getting older.

- Mel

Cartwheels are the best.

No, THE BEST.

When spring hits and that fluffy green (allergy-inducing) stuff develops on open fields – or when a large empty carpeted hallway opens up from your hotel room/elevator – it’s Cartwheel Time.

Cartwheel Time (CT) has been one of my favorite pastimes since I could master fine motor development. CT started sometime before I actually took up gymnastics but lasted well after I quit the sport and morphed into my cheerleader identity that took me into my 20s and jived well with my Cruise Director (aka: Life of the Party) persona that celebrated CT sometimes at 4am in the parking lot of a Taco Bell.

Ahem.

I coach a group of girls through Girls on the Run and we encourage any and all means of moving with the goal of always moving forward. There are a couple of girls who enjoy breaking up their run/walks with cartwheels. I like this very, very much, and I decided to participate this week since I’m back running-without-injury again and enjoying the heck out of this weather.

During spring break, I had my first assistant coach-ship with a local soccer non-profit camp where the girls (outnumbered by both adults and boys) had NEVER SEEN AN ADULT DO A CARTWHEEL. Naturally, that, too, called for CT.

I experienced an Achilles injury that same week of camp, which is probably coincidental, but I’ve come to find out that it stems from an underlying instability with my hip. At the time, of course, I had no idea how these seemingly un-relatable things were connected. And 7 weeks of physical therapy later, here we are:

Hurting myself with cartwheels.

And yes, my PT said, “maybe you should not be doing cartwheels rn.”

When I say “hurting” I’m not talking about a legit injury, but my hip flares up and when I did a cartwheel last week I couldn’t walk immediately after (and not because I kicked myself in the face or anything). My hip has been angry with me since we had to start regularly doing things like Single Leg Glute Bridges and Banded Monster Walks to make it stronger. It’s a sort of tough love situation where my hip needs to be told to “simmer down now” during certain forms of activity and remind us how we’re in it for the long haul.

I turn 41 in, like, 10 days. I no longer care if I have big boobs. Being untanned is acceptable. I give zero fucks about my un-dyed grey hairs. Facial peels left my face glowing for a whole three weeks and basically reverted back to where I started only $300 broker. Where is this going?! Look, I don’t really care if I’m a fast or slow runner (only that I can run!) or if my VO2 Max is optimal for a 19-year-old (it is, so OK I’m kinda braggy and this is awesome). But cartwheels… not being able to do cartwheels because my hip hurts is the saddest of sads for my aging body.

No. No more birthdays. Please.

- Mel

It’s less than two weeks away from my 36th birthday, and I’m having another identity crisis. It’s like a one-part identity crisis and one-part hormonal meltdown really.

I don’t swear (here) too often, but… HOW THE FUCK AM I TURNING 36?!

Working my way from 35 to 36 hasn’t been too tragic. You know, “Meh. Another birthday.” once I finally got over the last one. I mean, you want a tragedy, you should have been around me when I was approaching 35. Woof. But the closer my next birthday gets, the more I am absolutely. freaking. out. Again. Me, the person who used to LOVE birthdays so much that she celebrated for an entire month.

I’m questioning everything in my life: past choices that I can’t even change if I wanted to (a to-do list of life redos, if you will), relationship ghosts and friends who suck (from a wtf happened kind of perspective), why I can’t find work (am I unmotivated, unexperienced or uneducated?)… sexuality stuff (typical day-in-the-life of a 30-something female with raging hormones). Why I spent so much on my credit card last year to make myself feel better about turning 35? Ugh. I’m both reminiscing too much and hoping for too much. EXPECTING too much. Paying too much in interest. Repeat: questioning everything. Which is destroying my psyche and my mojo. I feel off balance and that All of the Things are amiss.

I am pissed at the world because of it. Because of getting another year older. Or because I feel like my life is unraveling right now because of being older. Fuck. I don’t like being angry. But I’m angry.

To say I need therapy is an understatement.

I had an ultrasound. And now I’m depressed.

- Mel

At some point in a woman’s life, she will have an ultrasound. This is a common practice for pregnant women, but also to determine medical reasons why someone cannot conceive. But, as a non-child bearing (or desire to have them) lady, I never imagined that I’d be in that exam room… with a physician-assisted dildo up my birth canal.

Sure, I can make light of it now, given that there’s seemingly NOTHING WRONG WITH ME. But last week, when I (the doctor) was looking for answers. And I had NO idea what I was in for. Thankfully, a friend enlightened me to the words TRANSVAGINAL on my script. It means exactly what you think it means.

I had a series of tests: pelvic, hormonal blood work, pregnancy testing, and aforementioned ultrasound (two ways!) with no real answer. My “problem” is scanty or non-existing menstruation (My period has been irregular since fall 2011; only having one REAL period in August of this past year). Birth control could be to blame… inconclusive (until I decide if I want to “try” going off it to see if it is, in fact, a happy side effect.) I’ve been on some form of pill since I was 17 — this particular brand for almost 4 years — but then I started experiencing severe pain and pressure in my abdomen. Cramping with no bleeding. Really severe mood swings. I was scared… and after the appointment, depressed.

I can’t explain the depression, but was told from several people that it’s normal when anticipating test results. I’ve been in a certain funk and mood that still remains a week later. I’m talking it out with my significant other, which helps to have someone listen to me vent and ramble (oh, I’m sure he appreciates hearing ALL about the random ways my body hates me… not). But I’m still struggling to understand WHY or WHAT I’m feeling.

We don’t talk enough about the difficulties and emotions associated with infertility and menstruation disruption or possible early menopause that all sadly occur to many 30-somethings. WHY DON’T WE?! I’d really appreciate some of your thoughts and feelings in the comments, so we all can commiserate about our experiences and emotions in one place.

Birthday Milestones & Growing Up

- Mel

It’s not my birthday, but someone close to me is celebrating her 30th — or “Dirty Thirty” as she termed it — and I was invited to the shindig… in Vegas.

The only city in the country I never want to step another foot into.

I’ve been twice — the first, in my late 20s, on a sisters vacation during Halloween. It was a blast and perfect for four siblings in various stages of relationships (me = single). The second, was my birthday celebration. Number 32 (me = newly coupled with the guy I remain with today).

That 32nd birthday there was spent practically by myself, after friends who frequently travel (there and otherwise) backed out of the adventure plans. I had a couple friends there to party with, but they stayed in another hotel, further down the Strip, and I constantly felt like a fifth wheel. They were from Denver; me, living in Ohio at the time; and they also left a day earlier than me, so I drank by the pool alone for my last day of vacation. The one girl who took all the pictures of that trip NEVER SENT ME PICS. Never tagged me on Facebook. Lame.

I seriously made the offering to acquiantances I partied with to “just fly here; the room is already paid for!” And yet, no takers. I was in aforementioned-happy relationship, but desperately wanted a “friends trip” (I’ve still never been invited on one, which depresses me); I even invited the boyfriend out with me at the last minute (he couldn’t go).

It was one of the loneliest vacations of my life (this, from a person who traveled to Europe by herself). And, sadly, I learned a lot about friendships surrounding that incident. That one trip essentially changed my life in a completely different way I imagined. I was in my 30s, and it was time to grow up. And I did.

So, when I hear of people going to Vegas for some big Life Event or Age Turning, I make that face.

Or something…

I have no desire to return to this City of Lights. It’s probably not Vegas’ fault, but I hate it there. I mean, truly loath. I associate it with so much negativity — and I refuse to have that sort of energy in my life. Let’s be frank here too, I’m definitely not into that sort of club scene anymore (not even close) and somebody reaching the Big 3-0 milestone seems SO. MUCH. YOUNGER. than where I am right now (yes, I said it out loud! feel free to smack me!).

So much different than what I am now.

Gah. Have you reached that point in your 30s where you feel so much *gulp* older? Do you have a city that you refuse to return to, for one reason or another?

Nov 9th & 30-something half birthdays

- Mel

You know what’s worse than turning 35?

Turning 36.

No, I’m not kidding.

35 is still in the middle (even though you’ve just skipped to the next age demographic); you’re no closer to 30 than 40… well, not until the day after your birthday if you’re a Glass Half Empty type of 30-something. Alas, the hump: you’re officially in your mid 30s. Mid-effin-30s.

AND THEN YOU HAVE TO GO AND DO THINGS LIKE MAKE 5-YEAR-PLANS WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND AND THINK ABOUT BEING 40 YEARS OLD.

Yes, all caps and bold. And *puke*

Today is my half birthday, and I’m officially halfway to 36.

I feel like I’m about to have a crisis…

Dressing according to my 30s: a rant

- Mel

I have a lot of clothes — most of which I’ve collected over the past decade (and a half). Certain pieces that I’ve clung onto for so long that I cannot rid my closet of them. Some are classics, well made, and I’ll probably be able to wear forever. Some are nostalgic (I know, EVERY stylist says to get rid of this crap now). It’s no surprise that I often get extremely frustrated at having “nothing to wear.” 

Which, if you saw my closet, is total shit.

My biggest problem is that I am 34, and I like “cute” very much. But I end up looking ridiculous. I haven’t yet found a way to style these items that don’t make me look too young or like I’m trying too hard (for what, I don’t know). Which is why 90% of the time, I wear basics: jeans, t-shirts, blazers, tanks… then dress them all up with fabu accessories (have I mentioned shoes & jewelry and my weakness?). And that can get boring.

I love to layer, but summer hates me for it (you know, the hot flashes). I also love dresses and skirts — short ones too, since I’m quite fond of my muscular (yet stark white, no tan allowed) legs, but “OMG, you’re wearing that in public?!”. I love prints, and I want to wear my floral and gingham patterns without feeling silly or like I work on a farm. I own a surprising amount of color (mostly blues and greens and interestingly, a bit of orange) because both beiges AND blacks look washed up against my fair skin tone (or is it that I look washed up?).

So, what are the “fashion rules” for women in their 30s? Apparently, “flirty” overrides “cute.” Whatever the heck that means.

Stop telling me to dress “classy” — I have no reason to. I mean, I don’t dress like a slut by any definition, but I work from home; I don’t need a closet full of polished suits and professional wear. Besides, I have 4-5 colored button-down shirts, that again, look ridiculous on me. And for someone who is only 5’4” with a longer-than-average torso, please do not suggest a pencil skirt.

Is there another side to classy attire? Is that why I also read about “sophistication” a lot? Isn’t that the same? Does that equate to investing in labels? Because I spend a lot on my designer jeans, thank you very much.

What is equally frustrating is the suggestion to “wear whatever makes you feel comfortable.” I cannot, justly, exit my apartment wearing running pants and a sports bra every day. Seriously, this is my favorite outfit in all my closet right now because I love how it looks in New Balance athletic wear (and my derby outfits). 

Perhaps my internal struggle lies with my athletic shape (or is it pear? I can’t figure it out) and that clothing is not properly made for my small size… maybe this just doesn’t match with “cute.”

*sigh* Thankfully, I have nowhere to go today…