And true/I tend to follow in his stride/Instead of side by side I take his cue

November is a funny time to be thinking about street harassment. Normally by this time of the year, I'm shrouded in so many layers and rushing so quickly from building to building in an attempt to note freeze to death, that I get basically zero attention on the street. This November, has been unseasonally warm. While warm weather in November is generally lovely, albeit alarming given global warming, it does have unfortunate side effects.

I tend to judge cities based on the amount of street harassment I experience there (Geneva, you are lovely; San Francisco, you are not). It shapes and colors who I am in the world in ways that I hate. The price you pay for being a woman in public grates on you.

Relatively recently I started flying again, after being out with a hip injury. Usually Drew and I fly together, which cuts harassment to zero (which I appreciate even as it infuriates me). One class a few weeks ago, though, Drew didn't fly, so I was going home on my own. I fly in booty shorts and fishnets, which I suppose comes across as sexier than I mean. I fly in these cloths because I like them, though, not for the male gaze or whatever. I like elaborate patterns on tights, I like how they are grippy on board and make me feel safer, I like how they make me feel like I'm dancing in the air, I like how they make me feel like a real flyer.

During this particular class, I brought back misses (turning to the net), my takeoffs felt good, I caught legs off of the THIRD RISE without fear. Flying is scary for me, flying is intense personally growth work. One of my current projects is literally getting more confident in my abilities, since one of my main coaches decided that's one of my main challenges as a flyer. I dig so deep as a flyer, and it's so empowering and overwhelming. After being out with painful, boring, time-consuming, expensive PT, flying feels like even more of a triumph especially when it's a great class. So, I was still flying high after this class. It was warm out, I put on my knee-high fake leather boots and a wrap, and walked to the metro.

And I got so much crap. One guy asked for my number, got angry when I wouldn't give it, followed me to the metro station, and only left me alone after I entered the system. Yes, I get it, booty shorts, fishnets, boots, but why can't I dress how I want? Why do men assume a right to comment on my body, to police my presence in a public space because I'm wearing something that has nothing to do with them?

Street harassment robs women of so much. Our ability to feel safe in public, to go where we need to go when we need to without fear. Of money (the cabs I take to avoid being out after dark alone). Of basic humanness and politeness. I don't respond sometimes when people are just saying hello or being friendly, because if I respond to the wrong person who isn't just being friendly, it's so much worse. I try not to feel my moods in public, since when I'm happy or smiling to myself, it can be so much worse. I second guess what I wear, even though it often doesn't matter.

I don't have any conclusion to this. I just feel like venting and being sad about it.

And if we make it till then/ Can I ask you again/ For another ten?

Days 1 and 2 of Kondo-ing

I am procrastinating getting started. Not because I don't want to do it, but because I am worried: what if nothing sparks joy? People always tell me that I never seem sufficiently happy about good news. Maybe I don't actually have emotions, in which case this is not going to go well.

********

I am sitting in a pile of clothes when Drew arrives home unexpectedly early. I can hear Marie Kondo screaming "no!" (one of her main rules is that you should do this process in isolation so that others don't sway you), but I ask Drew if it's all right if I keep my pair of jeans even though they don't spark joy. Drew agrees one pair of jeans is the sort of thing you may need at some point (citing the fact that I brought them to Punta Cana, though I didn't actually wear them there; dubious, but he's agreeing with me, so let's go with it). Marie Kondo is really screaming now, I'm sure, but I happily fold them vertically.

                                                                            ********

I stumble out of bed and groggily join Drew in the living room. He's much more awake than I am. I stare off into space for a few minutes before demanding "do those snack bags bring you joy?" referring to the box of disposable snack bags that is for some reason sitting in the center of our mantle. Drew sensibly suggests we just put them away where they go in the kitchen rather than worrying about their joy bringing abilities.

********

Does this Jungian analysis of Nancy Drew book bring me joy? Do you really have to ask? Of course it does.

********

Alice comes in screaming with her cat toy. Her glare clearly says "lady, this has the potential to bring me a ton of joy if you would just cooperate." 

I want to die/ Knowing I/ Had a long, full life in your arms

I've decided to Kondo the f**** out of my apartment. I've been wanting to do something like this for awhile, but I recently actually read her book (yes, yes, yes, I KNOW. It's not on the list; I managed to get behind again on my progress and the year is almost over, etc.; I've been on international travel for work and when this happens I treat myself to non-fiction. I'm reading Love & Math, too).

Anyway, I'm so very excited to try. I'm not a minimalist, so I don't think I'll do it to the extent she'd want, but that's fine. I'm pretty good at accepting myself as I am in most ways.

I'm going to chronicle this overtime, so I don't lose the details of the experience. I'm currently still traveling, so I can't start yet. Instead, I've been reading articles about people's experiences Kondo-ing their own place. Generally the reviews are positive (though, I'm not sure that's reflective of how this would actually play out for people on average; there's a lot of selection bias going on here to start combined with people wanting to believe they did a good job of it, etc.). 

That said, I've been shocked by how much people deviate from her directions, and so casually. She's quite clear on the importance of starting with clothes, people; why are you starting with your books? Why are you refusing to pull everything out on the floor?

I am sure that once I start I will regret being so judge-y, since I'm sure that I will be even worse. 

I stand on a precipice/ I struggle to keep my balance/ I open myself/ I open myself/ One stitch at a time

First, read this. It is required pre-reading before this piece; or at least pre-skimming.

Setting aside the obvious (I’m not even sure I’m an athlete, and I’m definitely not an elite one), this piece spoke to me so much. When I first read it, I felt like someone was describing what I went through with my trampoline backdrops. Backdrops are just what they sound like, jump up, lean back, land on your back and protect your neck; keep bouncing up and down on your back in continuous backdrops, bounce back to your feet, or use it to bounce into another trick.

They are basic, they are easy; even for me, they were easy. I took to backdrops easily. I quickly used them for other skills. Then, one day, with no warning, they terrified me. I would bounce up and down forever, unable to lean back, break the angle, and land. I could still do perfect bullet drops off the trapeze, but on the trampoline I’d stall and panic. My coach, Thomas, spent hours with me on them, essentially going through all the steps outline in that piece. Now, I do backdrops again without a spot, but fear still lurks.

Moreover, I still block. I block in static trapeze on doing cradles in the ropes. Essentially, from standing on the trapeze, you grasp the ropes the trapeze hangs from, one in each hand. You pull yourself up into a ball, invent so your butt is above your head, extend your legs out straight and tag the ropes for extra support, and then finish by arching your back. It’s a very stable position.

Again, this is a basic move. I do it in hands (rather than hanging by the ropes, Drew does essentially a knee hang, and then I hang from his hands and tag his arms), I do it hanging on the bar without any fear ever. I’m cleared to do it without a spot. I’m cleared to do harder, more complex, more dynamic moves without a spot. Yes, it is a high move. Anymore I’m probably about 12’ above the ground when I complete the move. However, even when my coach William would lower the bar to just barely above the ground it scared me.

I’m getting through it, though. It used to be that we’d do a mount where Drew boosts me up to the bar, and then I’d stand on the bar with my hands gripping the ropes, and just freeze, telling myself I’d go when the flying instructor (classes run concurrently) said “hep” to the student they’re working with, but then not. William would eventually say “you’ve got this, Jenn,” and then I’d dutifully start the move (because you’ll do things for your coaches you can’t do for yourself). Now, I can start without that verbal push. I’m working less on doing the move, and more on not being afraid to do the move; it’s not scary once I start, I know it’s not scary. As it gets less scary, a new move takes its place as the source of aerial fear. I’ll always be facing demons and climbing these fear mountains as long as I do aerial.

When I talk about my fears and how that’s part of aerial for me, people always ask if it’s working, if I’m getting less afraid, if it’s worth it, if I’m able to apply this work on fears to other aspects of my life (as though it isn’t worth it if it only applies to trapeze). On the one hand, my life has improved immeasurably because of trapeze. Of course it’s worth it.

But on the other hand, even if it hadn’t, even if all of this was confined to the world of trapeze, it would still be worth it. Working on these fears, working through blocking, has shown me a fundamental truth about myself: I am someone who faces these demons and climbs these mountains; it’s part of who I am.

I grip and she grips,/ And faster, we're sliding./ Sliding and spilling, and what can I do?

So, book 700. This isn't exactly a milestone, exactly. That won't really happen till 750 in about six months. Though, this may be the first time I'm celebrating a milestone, albeit a small one, at the right point.

It's hard to believe I'm this close to being 3/4ths of the way through this project. I should feel more celebratory than I do. I mostly just feel strange (that may not be the fault of the list project, though).

In some ways, the most dominant thing about this project is how very long it's been going on at this point. It's seen me through so many changes, so many different eras of my life. It's been the one constant through upheaval and change. Anymore I often wish that I was just done with this, but sometimes the thought of being done almost makes me sad.

I've been thinking a lot lately about change and moving on, how you know when to do it, how you do it at all, and I'm sure that's coloring my thinking significantly. Normally I'd just be excited to still be making progress.

Just the typical facts of a typical life in a town on the Eastern Shore/ I thought about what I wanted/ It wasn't like that at all/ Made Carolann a cute baby sweater/ Thinking "I can do better than that"

Addendum to my last post:

Drew read it and told me that I should not count those two books toward my reading goal for this year, since I didn't read them this year. Technicalities, people. I pointed him to the line about how I get to make the rules for this project.

However, I actually did read two more books in June, so I guess I got to 50 whichever way you want to slice it. Now to get organized again and get to that 700 goal.

We build a treehouse,/ I keep it from shaking--/ Little more glue ev'ry time that it breaks/ Perfectly balanced,/ And then I start making/Conscious, deliberate mistakes.

Unbelievably enough (no, seriously, I really don't believe it), I am caught up! I am ahead! I've read more than 50 list books this year so far and June is NOT YET OVER! Let's all pause for a moment and let that sink in.

I don't really know how I turned this around; I got more organized which made things easier (reading is almost easier than dealing with getting the books, so streamlining things helps a lot). I also read some really, really short books. Still, given how far behind I was, it's kind of amazing.

I suppose one key point that I should acknowledge is that I'm counting two books that I had read a long time ago (like, 1984, which I read ages ago) and had failed to log. So one could argue that I didn't actually catch up; additionally, many, many of my milestones have been noted incorrectly (e.g. the book I thought was the 500th was actually the 501st, so go figure).

Fortunately, since I make the rules for this little project, I get to not really care at all. I am incredibly untroubled by the incorrectness of those milestone celebrations and I am more than happy to count those two books for this year.

At a more macro scale, I'm at 689 books for the project. I really, really want to cross that 700 threshold. I'm most excited for crossing 750 and being in that final 25% of the project, but I feel like 700 will also feel like a tipping point.

I guess I can't believe you really came/ And that we're sitting on this pier/ See, I'm smiling/ That means I'm happy that you're here

Recently I did the conditioning test at the rig (still conflicted about things, but doing that test on that particular day made me feel strong and triumphant, so I'll take it). I wouldn't say that it was anti-climatic exactly, but at the same time as I've written before, getting to pull-ups felt like something that just suddenly happened.

In some ways, getting stronger is very nice. I like feeling strong. I like doing pull-ups. I like being able to do pull-ups. I like being able (well, less unable) to base someone doing back balance in static trapeze. I like feeling strong and brave and being able to cradle in the ropes up high (for me) and being able to finally, finally fly shoulder stand and feel calm and controlled and strong (hahaha, it doesn't really take strength). I like the confidence that comes with being stronger than I need to be for things that used to be hard. I like how I feel safer attempting static now.

And yet.....

I also recently went to the doctor; I make it a point to never weigh myself. It's not good for my mental health, and I really try to just focus on having a healthy relationship with food and exercise and my body, and that's enough, thank you very much. So I hadn't known my weight in a year. And I weigh about 3lbs more than last year.

Optimally, it would be great for that to not matter. Objectively, it shouldn't. Knowing what I know about muscle density versus fat and how much muscle I likely gained given the training regime I've been doing for the past five months and the strength gains I've seen, I know that I've likely lost around 5-7lbs of fat and weighing more is actually progress to being fitter.

And yet.....

I'll probably never feel that way about weighing more. I was going to write "and maybe that's okay," but I don't know, I guess maybe it is and maybe it isn't, and meanwhile I'm just trying to focus on the positive. I am stronger and braver and maybe for now that's enough.

I could never rescue you/ All you ever wanted/ But I could never rescue you/ No matter how I tried

Since I've not been reading as much as I should lately (#storyof2015 #failingatlife), here's a some random thoughts on another topic.

First, I should preface this story by explaining that my brother Josh and I are not time travelers from the future post-zombie apocalypse world, nor did we grow up in a survivalist cult. I really can't explain why we both have this same quirk.

But, for whatever reason, Josh and I both take an oddly post-apocalyptic/under siege approach to our daily lives (Josh collects machetes). This worked well when we lived together, since my apartment is made for this kind of thing. My father describes it as favela chic, and passersby tend to assume the place is abandoned (it's also dirt cheap, huge, and in an amazing DC neighborhood that lets me walk to work).

While living together, Josh put up tinfoil covered cardboard pieces to block out the sun using dowels, we made a similar contraption to block an odd crawl space off, cut up old shirts to use as dishrags (and stock-piled these shirts, I know other people do this but we took it to a new level), attempted to use only the clean trashbags that our laundry came back in and not buy any, had minimal furniture, and made makeshift plumbing fixtures to address some (serious?) issues there. Duct tape is our friend.

Now, I live with Drew, and I'm coming to realize that Josh and I may not be normal. Whenever Drew wants to call a plumber (for chronic issues I barely notice anymore), my first reaction is to see what Josh thinks. This is because I know he'll back me up. Our motto was "never let a stranger or casual acquaintance or friend in the apartment." Drew, being less off kilter, has probably stopped trusting either of us on this sort of thing.

Part of it, for me, is that I'm fascinated by how we adapt and can come to see anything as normal. For example, after one year with my iPhone the internet stopped working unless I was on wifi, though I have a data plan. However, if I make a call out it will briefly let me access the internet. So, I just make calls out all the time (to 611, not to real people), and I've been doing that for a year and a half, the majority of the time I've owned the phone. I've stopped noticing that I do that. Isn't that amazing? At first it was so annoying! Now it's still annoying, but I've come to almost believe that's what it takes to get online with your phone. Whenever I get a new phone, I'll spend the first few months making unnecessary calls out and feeling amazed. Then, I'll get totally used to it. Brains are so weird

Now, Josh and I aren't exactly the same. He would not put up with this phone thing for this long, I don't think, and I'm not living in a supply closet on a futon on the ground. However, a similar instinct/preference runs through us. Combined with my affinity for art deco, this led to a really odd apartment when we lived together.

No one can give you courage/ No one can thicken your skin

Some mistakes are more forgivable than others, I suppose, and in the scheme of things, this is a minor one. But, anyway, I read my 666th list book. I was planning to be deliberate and intentional with this one, to pick something befitting of being the book of the beast, as it were.

But, instead, I just forgot all about that and read Diary of a Nobody for it, which in no way fits with book of the beast. It's also pretty boring, not really all that fun, and I'd say largely skip-able, unless you're into satirical novels of the late 19th century.

It's particularly irritating to me that I did this, since I'd actually been on a cult kick lately, similar to that one time where I read about 10 books about murder all in a row, except this time it's randomly a whole bunch of books about cults in various forms (Drop City, She, Super-Cannes, The Plumed Serpent, among others; it actually started to get weird, since I didn't set out to do this as a theme or anything; of these, I highly recommend Super-Cannes). Really, any of those would have been a better choice than Diary of a Nobody.

In other news, I've read 31 books this year and I AM FREAKING OUT. I mean, it's not totally and completely impossible that I'd get to 50 in the next seven weeks, but I think that we can all agree that it's pretty unlikely. GAH.