Trying to Get my Mojo Back, Part 3

It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me: I have body issues.

As a teen, I absorbed all of the toxic messaging of the 80’s and 90’s, with its hyper-focus on BMI, the “obesity epidemic,” and how many calories were in fats versus carbs and proteins. I remember looking around my high school classes, and realizing that there was only 1 girl heavier than me. And once I got to college, surrounded by college sorority girls, I was told that I was cute, but I was never told that I was beautiful. It was clear to me that college girls were hot. I was not. I was smart, competent, reliable, available. I was not hot.

And then…a career teaching high school has me surrounded by girls at the fetishized age. I am surrounded always by 16 year old girls, before childbirth and life and menopause destroys their abs and draws lines down their legs and wrinkles their decolletage. Surrounded by the “perfect female form” that is not even yet an adult.

In my teens and twenties, I used to define myself by the male (and female) gaze. Only if I could get that slight smile, that look up and down followed by a narrowing of the eyes and a quick jerk up with the chin —an unspoken but clearly communicated “whassup” of approval— only then did I know that I was attractive. But that kind of neediness and reliance on others was harmful —is harmful— not only to me, but also to my relationships. Needing approval from others who will always eventually desire someone else smaller, firmer, younger —it’s toxic. And it’s just fucking wrong. 

My physical attractiveness has fuckall to do with the gazes of others.

Our collective obsession with thin and fit and even curvy* has moralized weight, as if those who are thin and fit (and curvy*) are deserving of their size because they’ve worked hard for it, while the rest of us clearly are gluttonous, lazy, self-indulgent piles of lard.

But thin people aren’t more virtuous because they are thin. They don’t work harder. They don’t eat less. They don’t deserve more admiration because they won the genetic lottery. Thin people are thin because they are predisposed to being thin. They are not morally superior. And they are not more beautiful.

It’s taken me 49 years of never being thin enough —never being fit enough— and a summer of listening to the podcast Maintenance Phase and realizing how much of the toxic messaging I have absorbed in my lifetime…it’s taken me 49 years to say the quiet part out loud: What if this is the size that I am for the rest of my life? What if I am never again a size 12? How do I figure out how to look in the mirror and see a beautiful woman looking back at me?

So that’s part 3 of trying to get my mojo back: trying to remember what it’s like to feel attractive, and to finally know that I am beautiful. But instead of relying on the compliments of others, the number on the scale or the number on the back of my jeans, I want to find other ways to measure. 

Photo by Aleksander Vlad on Unsplash

I want to slowly run again, working intervals into a daily routine, moving because it feels good to move. I want to climb the stairs and feel powerful instead of winded. To feel the muscles in my thighs working, the strength in my calves, the tendons and ligaments working together in strength. 

I want to increase my lung capacity and lower my resting heart rate. I want to stretch and find flexibility instead of judgment in my movement.

But most importantly, instead of finding approval in the gazes of others, I want to find it in my own gaze. I want to look myself up and down, a slight narrowing of my eyes. A Mona Lisa smile smiling back at me. A slight nod of the chin. 

An unspoken energy vibrating in the air. 

“Whassup, girl. You look good.”

*Curvy = bigger, but still without rolls or wrinkles. Like J. Lo or Beyonce.

Trying to Get my Mojo Back, part 2

Hey, there! I'm back! 

If you wondered where I've been, I've been in my front yard taking deep breaths and a lot of naps. Although I would consider my COVID case to be mild, it still kicked my ass for about a week and a 1/2. But, I'm coughing less, I'm less out of breath, and I'm heading outside to mow the lawn here in a few. All this to say: if you are following my "get my mojo back" journey for inspiration on how to do it, getting COVID is the opposite of what you should do. 0/10 would not recommend.

So, what's my Mojo, you ask? It's just me. Finding me again. Feeling okay in my own skin. Relearning how to love the things I used to love. Relearning how to look in the mirror and see beauty. Relearning how to fill my lungs with air and feel accomplished. Trying to learn some self-acceptance.

My journey this summer to try to find myself again has 4 parts to it: Reading, Writing, Moving, and Cleaning. And my goal was to dedicate 30 days (non-contiguous) to to the journey. COVID took me out on day 18, so I've got a long way to go and not a lot of time left. 

And now I'm going to admit to my life-long struggle with cleaning.

I grew up in households where moms maintained the cleaning, and where daily and weekly kid chores were the norm. Weekly, I scoured the bathroom sink. Why? I still am not sure. Like, doesn't the toothpaste just clean it on its own? Regardless, that was one of my chores. Dusting was another. Folding the laundry and doing the dishes were also on my task lists. 

These houses were always spotless, as were the homes of my grandparents.

But here's the thing: these houses also had a cleaning lady who came in a couple of times a month for $25/hour and did the big stuff.

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash

I have never had a cleaning lady. And my own kids don't chore.

And so, some things in my household get done: I pay the bills, buy the groceries, cook the meals, fold the laundry, clean the toilets, wipe down the sinks, do the yardwork and gardening. Michael vacuums the carpets and sorts and washes the laundry and unplugs the shower drain on the regular. Helena waters the plants. I'm trying to convince Sam to fill the bird feeders and scoop the cat litter. The trash gets taken out and the dishwasher gets unloaded by whoever is annoyed by it at the time.

But the other stuff? The decluttering and the dusting and the mopping of floors? It just doesn't happen. Ever.

I don't have time during the school year to do this stuff. I have too much on my plate as it is. And I also don't have the money to hire a cleaning lady. It doesn't make financial sense to take on another freelance job just to pay someone to mop the floors.

So, this summer, I have 30 days to get it done.

So far, I've deep cleaned everything in the main bathroom except the floor. And I've gone through all of the stuff in the pantry and refrigerator, and thrown out outdated stuff and donated the stuff we just haven't eaten in the last year. Two huge trash bags of stuff have gone out, and I actually (temporarily) know where everything is in these 2 rooms. I still have to clean out all the kitchen drawers, where crumbs have overtaken the silverware drawer, and where paperclips and coffee grounds have invaded the "cooking implements" drawers. And I still have to mop the damn floors.

Next up, the living room and storage area. Sports equipment and art supplies for days. Everything must go.

And finally, my own bedroom closet, where I am determined to actually purge 6 sizes worth of clothes that no longer fit. 

I wish I had time to sell all the stuff, but I don't. 

I wish I had time to Marie Kondo it, but I don't.

Instead, I'm shoving clutter into trash bags, I'm mailing bags of clothes to ThredUp so I can get 20 cents back on the 1000s of dollars I've spent, and I'm wiping surfaces down with a Clorox wipe and calling it good.

My house will never stand up to the standards of my moms, but I swear it's going to be cleaner around here by the end of 30 days. 

Less stuff. Less clutter. Less dust. Less guilt.

As soon as I mop the damn floors.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 101

I've been trying to figure out exactly where and how I contracted this virus. 

I wasn't careful out in California. My goal was to make it there, enjoy every minute, and let the chips fall where they may. I purposely didn't wear a mask on the plane home (I announced) because — if I was going to catch it — if I hadn't already had it at some point in the last two years — then this next week was the perfect time to get it.

And so, here I am. Thanks, foreshadowing. You're swell.

To be clear — there were others on the plane who masked the entire time who also got it. And there were even more who were unmasked all day every day who are magically in the clear. I don't actually think it was the plane. I think it was the public bathroom in San Francisco. But it also could have been a random cough by a passerby anytime, anywhere. It could have been just simply in the air. 

Sometimes I wonder if it's all security theater.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

Even so, I sequester myself outside from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., coming inside only to pee, get the kids out of bed, or find something to eat while I hold my breath in the kitchen. The other 12 hours I sit on my bed, watching Netflix on my computer propped up on a laundry basket, or try to sleep. It might be security theater but it also might not be and I'm still going to trust the medical professionals and science.

I don't feel particularly good, but I don't feel particularly bad. I'm vaxxed and boosted, and I'd been exposed 1000 times before in my job and in my own home, so I'm sure I've got a pretty high immunity to this asshole. Mostly, I'm just tired. Climbing the stairs makes me out of breath. My back is sore, both to touch and to move, like I got in a good workout whilst also getting sunburned. I've got a cold, but it's more annoying than horrible, making me cough at inopportune times, making me sound like a smoker, making my nose run — not enough to blow, just enough to endlessly wipe on my disgusting sleeve. 

And I feel guilty. Guilty that I wasn't careful around my mom. Guilty that I had a long, joking (unmasked) conversation with the pharmacist and my son at the counter, arguing about the metric system, before I came home with my 8 free COVID tests and immediately tested positive.

And I'm bored, but not so bored that the exhaustion fades away enough for me to get the mulch down and weed the garden. I'm bored enough to feel put out that no one can hear me in the house unless I call them on the phone, and I just need to make sure that they took the pizzas out of the oven. I'm bored enough to scroll through my email, but not bored enough to overcome the malaise and respond. I'm bored enough to pull up a crossword puzzle, but I'm too tired to actually do it.

And I know that I am so very, very lucky. I am so privileged to have an outdoor space to sit, to have had access to vaccines, to have had this week of vacation time with very little on my plate, and to have a partner who will step up and take my daughter to practice and my son to get his glasses fixed, even if he also has to ask me how big to chop the onions, as if I have an actual recipe for anything I cook. I still make the coffee for him after he goes to bed, although I am careful not to exhale.

I am one of the lucky ones. Over 1,000,000 people have died in our country alone. I have no underlying conditions. I'm healthy and relatively fit and only just pushing middle-aged. I'm vaxxed. I'm middle class in a middle class community. I'm white, with a history of health and longevity and prosperity in my genetic makeup. 

This will just be an inconvenience, and then I will get on with the rest of my life.

And so...I am annoyed. I am bored. I am not feeling 100%. 

But yet, I am totally fine.

Trying to Get My Mojo Back, part 1

Part 1: Relearning How to Read

If you've been following me at all on Facebook, you know that I've been posting about my own 30-day challenge — a challenge to get my mojo back. Merriam-Webster defines "mojo" as "a magic spell, hex, or charm; magical power." And my mojo is gone.

One magical power I used to have, a lifetime ago, is that I used to be a reader. I read voraciously as a kid — under the covers with a flashlight, sitting on the floor by the christmas lights, in a tree, in the barn, down by the river. I read any book I could get my hands on —The Narnia series, Rebecca (both Maxim's first wife, and also of Sunnybrook Farm), Little Women and Little Men, Harlequin romances with the sexy scenes Sharpied out by my Oma, The Thorn Birds, the entire Love Comes Softly series, the books in my Grandma's bathroom (next to her secret cigarettes) that would fall open to the sexy scenes if you laid them on their spines.

I used to love to read.

But then I went to college and had to resort to reading CliffsNotes to make it through the reading lists of my classes while also trying to maintain relationships and work 30 hours/week. When I did read, it was to try to connect with my future husband, to read what he loved, so that I could love the things he loved (spoiler: it didn't work). And when I became a teacher, even that reading disappeared, replaced by panicked-reading of the books I had to teach, milk creates of journals, reams of research papers and personal narratives and short fiction stories where the protagonist always dies in a car crash on the way to prom.

Two decades ago, when we were all children, I was in a book club. Sometimes I read the book; sometimes I didn't. Usually I was speed-reading the night before our book club meeting, desperately trying to finish, so that I could both drink wine and talk about the book the next night. But book club petered out, as book clubs do, when people got married, had kids, moved away, got other jobs, got other degrees.

And now I need reading glasses.

For the last decade, I've vowed to read at least 2 books every summer, at least 1 book on winter break. That's it. That's all I read. I don't even enjoy it anymore, the eye strain and the terrible metaphors and the terror of finishing a book, knowing it will be over soon and I'll never see those people again. Over the last decade, I've fallen in love with The Poet X, East of Eden,and There There; I read Holes because my son said it was the greatest book of all time, I tried to read All American Boys and got bored, and I read scores of books as I changed schools and changed grade levels and changed curriculum. But each book was a chore, a task I had to force myself to do, a job.

So, this summer, I am going to try to get my mojo back. I'm going to try to rediscover the joy of reading. I'm going to try to read because I want to, not because I have to. I'm going to try to read books I've wanted to read, books I've impulse bought, books that have been suggested to me, books with the sexy bits still intact.

So far this summer, I've read:

The Orphan Keeper — A good book, not a great one. The true story of an Indian boy, kidnapped, sold, then adopted in America, I was hooked on his story, the story of resilience of a little boy trying to navigate a system he didn't understand. And then the boy ended up in America, adopted by a well-meaning family who had no idea that the boy had a family back in India, and I wanted to keep reading...until the book skipped a decade and suddenly the boy was a man. I wanted to learn about how he survived American middle school, how he navigated high school, how he bonded (or didn't) with his adoptive family, but instead the book skipped all that, and focused on his return to India as an adult. I wanted the story of the child.

Americanah — Just go read it now. You're welcome.

Oranges are Not the Only Fruit — Love, love, love. I love this quirky little girl, her obsessed mom, her imagination, her unique perspective on the world. I wanted to read it again as soon as I put it down. I wanted to look it up on Sparknotes, afraid I was missing something brilliant, and I wanted to not care that maybe I misinterpreted something because this was the book I read and this was what I got from it.

So far this summer, I've put down and walked away from:

Funny in Farsi: A Memoir of Growing Up Iranian in America  — I wanted to love this book. It came highly recommended, and I tried, for about 40 pages. And then I realized that I was dreading the book, skimming pages, trying to finish...and that's no way to read a book. I hated the narrator, hated the way she talked about her parents, told her funny stories that, to me, felt more mocking than loving. I wanted to read her experiences like I read Amy Tan, with awe at the beauty and pain at the tension, but instead I was skimming it like Foxnews.com, just trying to get through it and make sure I don't miss something in the narrative, but hating every word on the page. Finally, I put it down and walked away.

We Want to Do More Than Survive: Abolitionist Teaching and the Pursuit of Educational Freedom — I'll come back to this one. I want to read it, and I'm learning a lot, but I don't want to think about work right now, and this book forces me to think about the students in my room, and how to be the best teacher that I can be for them. Right now, I don't want to think about the students in my room; right now I want to relearn how to love reading. Right now, I don't want to think about the enormity of my job; right now, I just want to read.

I have many more on my list this summer. I still want to read:

A Dream About Lightning Bugs: A Life of Music and Cheap Lessons. — I love Ben Folds. I've listened to his life story in music. Now I want to read it in prose.

Murder on the Red River — A student recommended this. Unlike the other recommendations I got this year (Anna Karenina?? Just, no.) this one seemed worth a shot. Plus, I really liked the student, and it's a genre I don't usually read. I'll give it a shot.

The Long Walk — I hate horror but I love Stephen King's writing, and I was promised that this one wasn't scary. I started it last summer and had to put it down when school started. I want to pick it back up again.

Firekeeper's Daughter — I bought this last Christmas as a gift to myself, and then another one was gifted to me this summer. I've been waiting for the right time to read it, a time when I won't be interrupted 100 times an hour, a time where I can just read it cover to cover, even in a single sitting if that's how I want to read it. I plan to take this one camping, when I can be off the grid, laying in a hammock or on the beach...and I can just read.

You Can't Be Serious — I read somewhere that this was a great read. I'm hoping it is.

There are another 45  "I want to read" books on my "want to read" shelf...but for now, I am trying to learn how to read for pleasure once again. I am slowly building reading stamina, slowly trying to beat back the guilt of sitting and doing nothing for hours at a time when I should be cleaning or working or paying attention to everything and everyone else in my life — and I recognize the irony of putting "Relearn how to read for pleasure" on my to-do list — but right here, right now, I just want to get my mojo back, and rediscover my love of reading and my ability to get lost in a book.

Today, I wrote.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Tomorrow, I'm going to read.

Imposter Syndrome

They see me as the expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie is here with a writing workshop for you and she’s going to teach you how to write for college.” 20 eyes look at me resignedly…they don’t really want to be here. They are tired. They don’t really want to write. They’d rather be somewhere else. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. I am the expert of nothing in this space. And yet, here I am.

I didn’t sleep well last night. I am exhausted. I heard the rain, felt the thunder. Couldn’t get the song on auto-repeat out of my head. My fitbit says I got 4 hours and 5 minutes of sleep. How do I reach 10 kids I’ve never even met about “college writing” and get them interested in something? I wouldn’t be interested in that workshop, not then, not now. I have no idea what I’m doing in this space. I’m not even sure I know anything about how to write. I’ve always been nervous before a new school year begins —Can I hook them in? Will they think I’m funny? Will they trust me enough to go on the journey with me? Do I have what it takes?— but this is even worse. I have 3 hours to reach 10 kids.

I am an imposter.

They see me as an expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie from Chippewa River Writing Project is here to lead Write Across America activity today.” Oh dear. I can’t get my sound enabled, my mic is a hot mess, there’s a dump truck driving down the road and the lady next door decided to choose this moment to mow her lawn. I have my doctorate in ed tech and I’ve been running zoom meetings for years and today I can’t figure out how to enable co-host, how to get the video to play with sound, and how to get my neighbor to pick more convenient times for her yard work.

I am an imposter.

I tell them I’m a runner. I have a running girl tattooed on my ankle. Just 3 years ago, I hit 1064 days on my running streak before I broke my ankle. I was heavy then. I’m heavier now. I still list “runner” on my bio, but I know that my occasional slow jogs aren’t much. I probably couldn’t run much more than a mile right now. But I stubbornly hold on to that title. I am a runner. I am a runner on back roads in the country, where no one will see me, no one will judge my form. I hear their voices in my head…”awww, look at that fat old lady trying to run.” 

I am an imposter. 

“You’re such a great mom,” they tell me. I look at them out of the corner of my eye…if only they knew. My daughter didn’t come out of her room yesterday, even though her Nana was there to visit. My son hung up on me when I called him, mad that I’d ruined his summer by following his doctor’s orders and forcing him to go to physical therapy. They don’t know how to do laundry, how to do dishes. I hide nothing from them and they know about the world…but they don’t know how to make pancakes or mow the lawn. They drop the F-bomb every third sentence, even in front of Nana, when they should know better. They argue with me about everything. They are smart and passionate and compassionate and active and they were on their phones for 14 hours yesterday.

I am an imposter.

I wonder what it would be like, to see me through their eyes, the people who think I know what I’m doing. Am I smart? Mean? Fat? Old? Cool Mom? Weird? Lazy? Driven? What do they see?

Would I like me?

I think, through their eyes, that I might be kind of bad-ass. That’s a strange thought…me as bad-ass. But I think maybe that’s what they see.

I think, through their eyes, they might see me as strong and capable. As unique. As a pretty woman who doesn’t look bad for her age. I’m sure that the first thing they see is my weight, but what if it’s not? What if the first thing they see is my heart? What if the first thing they see is my soul?

I think that, through their eyes, I might be okay. I might be an expert. I might be capable. I might not be an imposter.

I think that they might be kinder to me than I am to myself.

Our Country 'Tis of Thee

We are not a Sweet Land of Liberty. We never have been.

I want to find the will to celebrate our country, but it has been a difficult few years around here, a difficult few weeks. 

States’ rights to force birth now mean more than a woman’s bodily autonomy. 

We have more rights to own a gun than we do to own our own body. 

We’ve lost the division between church and state; we now uphold a man’s right to publicly pray to a Christian god on center field with his high school team at a public school football game under the guise of free speech. Guns and Prayers. 'Murica.

18% of the country controls 52 senate seats.

It’s hard to find things to celebrate today. 

Highland Park, celebrated home of Ferris Bueller and Kevin McAllister, tried to celebrate today, but another white guy with a gun (or 4) decided that, once again, people needed to die. A Fourth of July parade turned to chaos when 7 people were murdered and another 45 were wounded by a white guy with a gun.

Purchased legally, of course.

This was what the Founding Fathers wanted, right?

Liberty and Justice for All.

If I hear Lee Greenwood sing his anthem one more time, I might vomit. Because, until I know that I’m free — free from being murdered at a parade by yet another guy with a gun…free to take care of my own body as I see fit…free to love who I want and how I want...free from being murdered in my classroom…free to speak the truth in that classroom about the history of our country and the institutionalized racism and misogyny that continues to destroy us all…

Until I know that I am free and that we all are free — I am not proud to be an American today.