stress

All Out

If you lived with me in college, whether as a roommate or a more general housemate, you may remember a recurring Saturday afternoon scene. Maybe you entered the house, coming back from the library, and encountered a pair of black marching shoes strewn across the hall. Further in, spats and wool socks, then a horse-hair sporran, then the signature yellow and black kilt, unspooled, stretching toward a figure lying face-down on the floor, hopefully in the correct room, occasionally not.

That was me after almost every football game in my college career. Some of it was a goof, sure. Despite my generally low self-esteem and tendency to go catatonic when over-stimulated, I've always been flamboyant. I like putting on a show, making reality a little more colorful and story-worthy. And ya boi loves some attention. I mean, I self-published a book and maintain a blog that is 90% me talking about myself (the remaining 10% is me complaining about cartoons not being gay enough).

A lot of my post-game collapse sequence, however, was real. 

I played tenor drums in the College of Wooster marching band. Imagine a set of five toms arced in front of your hips, held there by a stiff metal harness that distributes the considerable weight (often heavier than the snares or bass drums on the line) to your lower back and shoulders. With five (or more) drums to work with, the music for tenors can get complicated and showy, and as part of the drumline, it is mission critical that you don't donk up your performance. When all else fails, the percussion has to be there, consistent, timely, and precise.

The prototypical tenor player is tall and muscular. AKA, the tenor players on either side of me in this photo:

Exhibit A

Exhibit A

Notice my expression? I'm wearing some variation of it in every photo I have of me marching the tenors.

Exhibit B

Exhibit B

Though it may seem indiscernible from a "taking a moderately strenuous dump" face, that's my "oh wow, this hurts so bad I'm kinda worried I'm going to die on this astroturf" face.

For me, that pain could be debilitating, which was why I'd drag myself back to my dorm and strip down as quickly as possible before my muscles could stiffen up and trap me half in, half out of uniform. 

Then I'd lie down and wait for the hurt to stop and the exhaustion to pass. Sometimes in the middle of the floor in naught but my undies.

This isn't a "pity me" story. I wanted to play those drums. I chose to put my body through that, because I loved performing, and being part of that group of musicians. 

And all that suffering? That's the standard by which I measured my worth.

Because it wasn't just marching band. Everything I did, whether it was creative or academic, had to completely drain me, or I wasn't doing enough. My philosophy was that if I had energy to spare after completing a challenge, that meant I hadn't given my all, and if I hadn't given my all, then I hadn't done my best work, which made it subpar. Unacceptable.

I've been thinking about this lately because while I've mostly eradicated that philosophy from my head, remnants remain. I passed a small licensing exam recently, one that I'd spent a lot of time studying for and fretting over. The week leading up to the test, I essentially reread all of my course material, which was time-consuming and brain-numbing and what was the point of reading it all before if I was just going to read it all again?

Every night, lying in bed, I'd tell Kelsey about my fear that I wasn't working hard enough, that I was going to fail the exam and make a fool of myself and never succeed at anything again. I'm sure she loved having the same dang conversation every night.

After finishing the exam, I had to sit in my car for a few minutes, waiting for the shaking and nausea to pass. I drove home in half a trance, and my brain turned to mush for the rest of the week. I was proud, but not just of passing. I was proud that I'd fought so hard that my brain couldn't manage basic math the next day, despite being able to calculate the blend of interest and principal in the sixth payment of a 30-year mortgage for the test.

What a dumb thing to be proud of.

I passed the test with plenty of points to spare. I didn't have to worry and cram in such an all-consuming manner and leave myself intellectually out of commission for a week. I wasted energy. I exacerbated my anxiety, which in turn affected other aspects of my physical health. I wrecked myself for a test on a subject that I actually know pretty well. 

The problem with always giving your all is that you have nothing left by the end, and that may be well and good for the occasional game or performance or project, but it's not sustainable when it's applied to every aspect of your life.

It's so easy to feel like you're not doing enough these days. The world seems like it's in shambles, social media instantly informs you of the accomplishments of your peers, and it can all feel like too much to shoulder. 

The thing is, you're allowed to take care of yourself, and sometimes that means giving "some" instead of "all." It's not your job to be perfect, and you're not doing anyone any good by running on fumes alone. It's not a point of pride. It's a flawed way to view your worth.

You can't give your all when you're all out.

So next time you're face-down on the floor in a state of partial undress, think about what you gave to get there, and whether it's worth it. And take a heckin' nap while you're at it. You look exhausted.

It's the Stress-Stressiest Time of the Year

This photo of me dressed (at my insistence) as the Mouse King and wielding a rolled-up paper sword because I was forbidden from having actual toy weapons still accurately describes how stressed-out the holidays make me.

This photo of me dressed (at my insistence) as the Mouse King and wielding a rolled-up paper sword because I was forbidden from having actual toy weapons still accurately describes how stressed-out the holidays make me.

The wedding happened. It was a thing. I am a married woman. I'm a married woman who went on a honeymoon to Williamsburg, VA with her wife. Ain't that something? Maybe I'll actually write about that someday. 

#Fresh2Death on the James River

#Fresh2Death on the James River

I expected to feel different, but honestly, nothing has changed. Which is a good thing! Kelsey and I are very happy! The biggest differences have been the tripling of my health insurance premiums and the fact that I can introduce Kelsey to people as my wife now. Not that I've had much opportunity for that. And also not that I've felt socially comfortable enough to do that in every circumstance. 

Consider this situation: I met up Kelsey at Panera Bread, where she works, so we could grab a discounted bite to eat and then run some errands together. While we were sitting at a table, debating what to get, one of her coworkers approached and started chatting her up. Then the coworker noticed me.

"This your friend?" she asked.

"This is my wife, Abi," Kelsey replied.

We could see the gears clinking and grinding in her head. "You're girls. Boys marry girls and girls marry boys."

"Or whoever," Kelsey said, the edge of irritation in her voice apparently lost on the woman.

The conversation then progressed fairly normally, which is lucky. The coworker was friendly, and I think maybe a bit lower-functioning, and probably hadn't had much exposure to actual gay people. Maybe the encounter has broadened something for her. Or maybe she thinks we were joking. Whatever the case, I don't think she intended any animosity or judgment. 

But that conversation could have gone so differently. I think of the night Kelsey proposed to me, and the man who went out of his way to tell us, "THAT AIN'T RIGHT" as we enjoyed a romantic carriage ride. I think of the times when I debate on how to bring up Kelsey to strangers. Like when I had an electrician come to check out some funky wiring, and I was trying to describe something Kelsey had experienced to him. If I were a guy, it would be easy for me to just say, "My girlfriend heard a pop, and the light went out." But as a girl, talking to a stranger, am I jeopardizing my repairs by admitting I'm in a lesbian relationship? Am I jeopardizing my own safety?

Most of the time, no. Most, but not all. One poisoned piece of candy in a bowl of safe candy. 

Wowzers. We have veered offtrack here. Do you see what the holidays do to me? In case you doubt my neuroticism, here are some sources of recent stress:

  • The aforementioned tripling of my premiums.
  • Within a week of coming home from Virginia, both puppies became sick. And while a rational person might have waited the illness out, we made the mistake of doing online research and convincing ourselves Billie and Binx were on their deathbeds. $300 and a few ground turkey and rice meals later, and they're suddenly the picture of health.
  • I have about 90 million thank you notes to write, which is a wonderful problem to have, but I'm worried that my pencil-taped-to-a-squirrel's-tail handwriting will make people doubt my sincerity. 
  • I'm starting a program to get my Certified Financial Planner designation, despite having 0 collegiate financial background and a deep fear that I'm intellectually inadequate and am wasting oodles of time and money.
  • I might be making a website for a small business owner?
  • Because my wallet is suffering a $300 vet bill deficit and I have 0 time, many Christmas gifts will be homemade, but with desperate swiftness. I'm already realizing I've bitten off more than I can chew.
  • I'm increasingly concerned about the league of cartoon supervillains that our president elect is inviting into our government, and am barely able to stop myself from brawling with every well-meaning but oblivious friend on Facebook about it.
  • Roomie Cade woke up to discover our cat, Jasper, chasing an actual, non-cartoon mouse through her room the other day. Cade threw a box at it for a while, but that approach failed for some reason. Jasper politely followed her prey around for a while, but wasn't cat enough to exterminate it. The mouse ran over Kelsey's foot, which was an exciting start to her day, and she cornered it in the linen closet. But the thing Houdinied it out of there and into another closet, where I tried to do the humane thing and trap it in a box to throw into the freezing cold so it could die slowly and alone, as nature intended. But I missed and crushed the mouse with the side of the box, traumatizing everyone in the room except for Jasper, who had completely forgotten about it and was blissfully taking a dump. Also Aphrodite/Tad Cooper the bearded dragon, because (s)he has little to no regard for the lives of others. We then chucked the corpse into the trees and sang: "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when..."

Whoa. What did I tell ya? Absolutely scatterbrained. 'Tis the season!

The list could go on, but I can see it spiraling out of control. The holidays are great, but I need a holiday from the holidays! It's time to find some stress-relief activities and try to enjoy the snow while it lasts. May your days be cheery, bright, and painless as we close out 2016! I'm rooting for you!