My Path

A Written Self-Portrait

Today I'm thinking about the person I have become. The people in my life, the children I gave birth to, the man who married me, the environment I can finally call my own; I took these things for granted for so long. Every day, I appreciate each and every one of them. Especially when I think, I almost lost them.

When I was little, I thrived on the attention my parents and older brothers gave me. I would jump through hoops to please them, if they wanted me to. This formed me, but only for a part. The biggest part, as it turns out. Years later, I found myself trying to please others, and in doing so, placed myself at the very bottom of my list of priorities. The part of me that didn't accept this behavior got pushed further and further back, until it finally rebelled.

What happens when you deny a part of yourself? I can tell you from experience, it doesn't go away. It doesn't even diminish. It grows stronger. And things that get stronger can sometimes take over, which is what happened to me. When things were steadily going wrong in my life, and in my mind, I looked to everyone and everything else for an explanation. All along, the answer was skin deep, only I was scared to death to look beneath the surface.

I allowed the part of me I didn't want to know surface. It wasn't a choice, it was a necessity. I was suddenly confronted with a side of myself I didn't know how to handle, so it began handling me. I started to forget everything that ever meant anything to me. In order to get what it wanted, this 'other' side of me systematically began removing those things, leaving a stripped frame in its wake. It was like I was being remote-controlled, but at the same time, I was well aware of the consequences of my actions. But awareness was, like everything else that belonged in the realms of reality, pushed aside to be dealt with later. Hopefully never.

But never wasn't an option either. I was someone's wife, someone's daughter, someone's mother. I saw people slowly disappear from my life; friends became strangers, my children became a nuisance, my loved-ones got stabbed in the back, by me. I denied it, I ignored it, I persisted. And then I collapsed.

It took a long time before I felt strong enough to fight and win myself back again. It took therapy, it took medicine, and it took patience. I had to figure out why I wanted to win myself back at all - was I worth it? What was so special about me, anyway? I thought I was weak, pitiful, spineless, useless. Worst of all, I had no respect for who I really was.

Change is so easily taken for granted. Something not right? Just change it! This is next to impossible when it has to be a fundamental change, a hard-core, deep down 10,000 leagues under the sea kind of change. I had to do more than just change, I had to reinvent myself. I had to pick and choose which attributes I could keep, and which had to be disposed of. I wrote things down, I screamed out loud, I cried. The next day I would burn the words I wrote, take a vow of silence and condemn myself for crying. It was a long and arduous process, and it's a continuing process. I face it every single day.

It's difficult and it hurts, and it's worth it. I am developing one of the most important traits a person can have: integrity. It's a trait I've always admired in others, a trait I always felt I lacked. I am proud to say, I don't now. I don't believe it's something you're born with, it's something you need to earn.

I don't regret the choices I made in the most difficult period of my life till now, even the really stupid ones. That would be like saying I regret the path I chose that led me to this moment in my life. I can't change that path any more than I can change the color of grass. The choices I have made were sometimes destructive, sometimes involuntary, sometimes impossible. The path I chose is my path. When someone new steps onto it, I share my path with them, since they are now a part of it as well. No shame and no acting. Not any more.

Before me lies a multitude of choices, paths, directions - I am perched in the bow of a tree as countless branches spring out around me. I can take my pick which branch I choose to venture out upon, and it will be a positive choice. A good choice.

So Shoe Me.

When a woman is planning a trip somewhere, she faces a major dilemma: which shoes to bring? Don't ask me why this is a problem, I am a woman. I don't know any better. It must be a flaw in my biological development since I'm pretty sure Neanderthal women didn't have to sort through their heels, flats, wedges or sandals before they set out on their survival trek through the Ice-Age.

I have at least twelve pairs of shoes that I find essential to everyday survival, which I suppose could bring, but only if I left one of the kids at home... So how I am going to do this, is beyond me. I think I might need professional advice and I need it now. Hello, Google. I type in: 'woman packing shoes'.

First up: Rick Steve's Europe: Packing for Women
Okay, I am very sceptic about this one. A man writing about how women should pack?! I'm expecting to read 'Jeez Louise, woman, pick a pair and just pack it!' But apparently this article is written by a couple of tour guides, who are women. Okay, let's see what they have to say:

Bring one pair of comfortable walking shoes. Mephisto, Ecco, and Rieker look dressier and more European than sneakers but are still comfortable. For a second pair, consider sandals or Tevas in summer, or dark leather flats in winter (can be worn with opaque hose and a skirt to dress up). Before you leave home, walk several miles in any footwear you'll be taking to be sure they're broken in.

Mephisto? Rieker?! Leather flats?! Opaque hose?! Ok, I don't even own stuff like this. And the last thing I'm concerned about is looking European. I live in Europe for pete's sake, everything I own is going to look European anyway. This is clearly not going to help me.

Next: OneBag.com
I like the sound of that, although traveling with one bag is an inconceivable notion, considering I am the mom-traveling-with-two-toddlers-and-a-grumpy-ass-husband type, not the sexy-single-who-even-looks-hot-on-her-passport-foto-traveling-with-one-bag type. There's a lot of info on shoes, I'll sum up:  
Breaking in a new pair of shoes on a trip is unwise.
Dammit. There goes my excuse to go and buy new shoes instead of having to choose between the ones I already own.
Also, learn to tie your shoelaces properly: more than half the shoes I see are tied incorrectly, using some form of unreliable slip knot...Visit Ian Fieggen's Shoelace Site, and take the time to learn how to do it more effectively.
Will you look at that! I had no idea I wasn't tying my shoes properly! Lucky for me, I do not own any shoes with ties. Better study that site before I teach my kids though... Till then, I'll just swear by Velcro.
For most people, shoes (which are bulky, heavy, and dirty) represent the biggest packing challenge. Try to find a pair that works with everything you're taking.
A pair that works with everything I'm taking?! Do you have any idea what I'm taking?! I don't even know what I'm taking. And what if I buy new clothes while I'm there? How will I know the shoes will match something I don't even own yet?! What if my shoes break while I'm there and I have to get new shoes? How will I find shoes that will match all the stuff I took?
Omg, I need to calm down.
Women will find narrow heels to be problematic on cobblestones and when trekking uphill (despite the observation that plenty of Parisiennes traipse for blocks while wearing stilettos); modest wedges and chunky heels are more practical.
As much as I long to be a cobblestone-traipsing Pariesienne on stilettos, I thank God, I own wedges. Very modest wedges. Many pairs of modest wedges, to be exact. Come to think of it, I only wear wedges. All I own is wedges. Okay, all I know is: I need to bring wedges.
Wedges.
Check.

Next up: Packing for a City-Getaway
These folks start off on the right foot:

Limit yourself to four pairs of shoes. Sounds impossible, doesn't it? It doesn't have to be if you choose wisely.
Alright! Now you're speakin' my language! Four pairs! I'm allowed to bring four pairs! Woohoo!
Bring at least one pair of stylish walking shoes. I suggest Italian designer Tods' moccasins or Puma sneakers.
Okay, the last time I wore moccasins was when I was twelve, and I still have a hard time finding them stylish... I am very anti-sneakers as well. This could be a problem. 
Always bring a great pair of pumps or an evening shoe. The obvious choice is the classic pointy toe black pump but red always works well.
Well obviously, pointy, black and uncomfortable is the way to go when your suitcase is already full of extra diapers and kids' clothes and you've got a 15 pound limit to stick to. Does this even advice apply to me? I mean, any evening activity I plan on doing on this trip is sleeping...
...In the summer, a chic pair metallic sandals or ballet flats are suitable. And just FYI, if you are the type of person who cannot resist wearing heels, do yourself a favor and invest in some wedges, which provide much more support than stilettos.
I've actually got a pair of metallic sandals! They're not wedges though. Fortunately, this article has more positive news about wedges! I am so good with the wedges! Except, now they're telling me to invest in a good pair. Suddenly I am convinced all the pairs I own are crap. I should invest. But OneBag.com told me, I shouldn't break in new shoes on a trip. Uh-oh, I've got a whole new dilemma now.


And finally: Anne Garber's Travel Savvy: Packing Tips for Women
Anne keeps it short and sweet:

Take comfortable shoes. You will not have a good time if your feet hurt. Three pairs of shoes are the maximum for most trips: one to wear and two to pack. Include good-looking and comfortable walking shoes or sandals, more dressed up shoes for dinner and social events, and sport or athletic shoes.

Okay, so even though Anne doesn't go into the specific benefits of wedge-wearing, she has the best advice so far. Three pairs it is then. The rest of her article is jam-packed with good packing tips. Anne really understands me. She goes on to say:

Packing can be a stressful process. As all your worldly belongings are crammed into one suitcase, panic sets in, you run the risk of forgetting your travel documents, and you have yet to master the art of avoiding the crumpled and creased look on arrival. For those who aspire to reach their destination relaxed and in perfect order, here is how to manage packing with perfection.

I'm not expecting to meet packing perfection this time, seeing as the possibility of forgetting my travel documents is indeed a reality, and arriving at my final destination without looking all crumpled and creased is simply an impossible feat. But I can live with that. My husband and kids won't care if I look like a wrinkled, bloated slob when we arrive, neither will my parents who will be waiting on the other end to pick us up. (They saw me when I was born, which can be argued as my worst 'bad hair day' ever.)

I figure: for this trip, as long as my shoes wedges look good, I look good.

My Mobile Internet Has Low Self Esteem

My internet connection has an inferiority complex. Whenever I want to do something online - update my website, post something on my blog, send an e-mail to my family - my internet connection suddenly feels unworthy and promptly disconnects itself, booting me from the system and anything I was in the midst of doing.

Mobile internet should be mind-bogglingly fast by now, it's the 21st century for crying out loud. How hard can it be to get a decent internet connection in a civilized, modern country like this, if it isn't broadband?! Just because I choose not to live in an overcrowded, polluted stink-hole of a city doesn't make me any less entitled to decent rate of kbs per second!

I'm tempted to think some kind of conspiracy is going on - mobile internet-users must be considered the pond scum of society and therefore should not be allowed the privilege of a stable connection. I bet the feds have a dart board with a picture of mobile internet-users on there which they hurl darts at during their coffee break. 'Damn those mobile internet-users', they probably say.

There! It did it again! As I type this, my internet connection is going, 'I'm not worthy! Just disconnect me now or I'll disconnect myself! I'll do it, I swear!' It's not kidding. It disconnected. Again and again, I have to deal with my internet connection bailing out on me. How do you boost the ego of an internet connection anyway? I suppose I could caress it a little, and say nice things like 'Your USB plug looks extra shiny today' or perhaps encourage it by saying something like, 'I know you can make it to UMTS today - you've done it before!! Come on, show me you've still got it baby!'

Maybe my internet connection is just tired. It has been working overtime lately. Especially since I started blogging. If I listen really closely, I can almost hear it pleading with me, 'Aw, give a guy a break. Let me sleep in, just a couple more minutes...please...' Or maybe it's just having a mental breakdown. It's simply negotiated its last connection and just can't take it anymore!

Poor thing. It has no choice, it just has to put out. Without it, I am disconnected from the world as I know it. As much pressure as that puts on my internet connection, it just needs to shape up and get connecting. I am saying it right now: 'No excuses anymore, mister. Um, did I mention how pretty you look today...?'

What I Look Like

Have you ever tried drawing yourself without a mirror? I did. It is the weirdest thing. You'd think you'd know your own face well enough to be able to draw it flawlessly, but my memory has obviously left me in the lurch. I tried to draw a self portrait every day the last four days in a row to see how close I could get.

Friday
Ok this looks a lot like me. I wear my hair up all the time and it's always stringy no matter how often I shower, so that was easy. Wow, I sure look perky!

Saturday
I got a little cocky after yesterday's almost perfect self-portrait. This time, I tried to draw the entire portrait with a single continuous line. End result: I don't know who this is, but it is NOT me. 

Sunday
Trying one with my hair down... Is it me, or is it Steven Tyler?

Monday
Trying one with a hand to sneakily obscure the rest of my features so I wouldn't have to draw them... failed attempt.

Conclusion: I found that it is friggin impossible to draw myself without a mirror and have it look anything like me, except maybe on a Friday.

Set Up the Guest Bedroom, Here Comes Cousin John.

So it's been over two years since my last post. After giving the big wet french kiss of life to this dormant blog, my very first topic will be the inevitable physical result of my first pregnancy. Now how's that for a re-birth?!

Here's the story:

This morning I was rummaging around in my underwear drawer for that one piece of clothing I swore I'd never own. That's right: The Granny Panties.

You know you're officially out-of-the-running when you actually prefer Granny Panties to any other kind of undergarment. Those black lacy ones, the tiger-print thong, and yes, even that semi-transparant pair with the lacing up the back all get pushed aside in search of the ultimate undies. To my husband's utter dismay, these days, they've got to be big, they've got to be butt-ugly and they've got to be caucasian-colored. (I won't say 'flesh-colored', since there are about a million different colors of flesh in the world - these ones are made to match the flesh of a pasty-white person with a vitamin D deficiency, IE me.)

So when was the moment that I started to prefer Granny Panties over the more attractive - and most certainly more uncomfortable - kind? I remember it precisely: it was in the exact same week that Cousin John came to stay.

Cousin John and I are not exactly related, but we are stuck together for eternity. You see, Cousin John is my hemorrhoid, the prize souvenir of my first pregnancy. My husband and I decided to personify it by giving it a friendly name, which for some reason made me think the excruciating pain would be easier to bear. Only problem was, Cousin John was not friendly. He was a pain in the ass.

Cousin John always arrived unexpectedly and had the worst possible timing. He never called beforehand, used up all the toilet paper and overstayed his welcome on at least three separate occasions. My husband not only had to compete with him for my attention, but he also managed to remain celibate for the duration of Cousin John's stay, for which I am eternally grateful. I tried to confront Cousin John with the problem, and eventually he did go away, but before long he'd turn up again via the back door, peeking his head round the corner and going 'Heeee-eeeere's Johnny!'

Another reason why we named my hemorrhoid was so that we could discuss it freely around other people without making it painfully known why I had been sitting on a child's inner-tube all evening. It would sound something like this:
Husband: 'How's Cousin John doing?'
Me: 'He wants to dig a new hole in my backyard.'
Husband: 'Hmm. That's not good.'
Me: 'I know, I told him I already had one.'
Husband: 'What's he going to do with all the dirt?'
Me: 'Probably make more piles...'

So only my husband and I could comprehend the encrypted meaning behind these conversations about Cousin John. No one had to know about my embarrassing visitor and when people asked why I moaned so much and scrunched my face up and turned bright red every time I tried to sit down, I just told them I was sure I was about to go into labor. That usually shut them up.

It's been over two years since Cousin John last showed up, but he left his mark on my very existence. Although I'm pretty sure he's gone for good, I have to rule out even the slightest possibility of his unwelcome return. I will eat the fiber, I will drink the water and I will don the Granny Panties once again. Today, and forever more, I'm left with a drawer full of unmentionables that I will never wear and an sudden craving for laxatives.