Old Crow Medicine Show - Wagon Wheel (Rare Version)

This is for you, Oz.

Here we go...well me, anyway. ::ahem:: here I go.

First let me start by saying that my brother and his girlfriend left yesterday for Puerto Rico (:grumble grumble:), leaving the apartment to my sister and me for the next week. And therefore, as solace to myself for not getting to go swim in the ocean and eat a bounty of fried plantains, I'm writing this post at his computer in his fancy computer chair with a very sweaty I-just-finished-working-out-and-haven't-yet-bothered-to-shower arse. 


Muahahaha! 


Anyhow, yes! I've just completed a wonderful, gut busting work out. And although it hasn't been my first (I got the OK from my physical therapist to starting working out again about a month ago and have been using there gym, but they were at war with their landlord over rent and have since moved and I haven't been able to go so, here I am at home instead), it is the first in a routine. Yes, I said a routine meaning this isn't the first nor will it be the last. 


Since before the accident - because as much as I'd like to blame it entirely on that, it isn't true - I've kind of slumped into this lethargic state of being. Well, as far as my health is concerned. I've been through all this before after my first year of college. After gaining a whopping 45 pounds (apparently one freshman 15 wasn't enough for me, I needed 2 more to boot), I busted ass and lost the weight and then some. Granted, I had 24 hour access to an amazing pool, gym, and yoga classes. But I did it. And I stuck with it, too. 


Up until I graduated. 


Then I was out on the pavement with a car full of boxes and no idea what to do next. So I started couch surfing and trying to patch together some semblance of a balanced life. Aside from a short stint managing a Bikram yoga studio (where I'm now black listed for quitting :sigh: FML), no job stuck and so with it no income to get a decent place to live. Clearly my priority wasn't to work out, let alone eat right. As long as I was eating, I was happy. 


Well, after over two years of this, my previous hard work went to shit. I tried picking up again when I felt things had calmed down, only to give up and blame it on something aside from my nonexistent will power: I was tired, I hurt (granted, I had hurt my back just before my senior year at work giving me a nasty case of sciatica that still pops up once in awhile), and the best of them all, I didn't have enough money. I hated how I looked, more so when I visited my family and had my growing love handles pinched followed by a negative cluck-cluck from my mother, but didn't have the drive to do anything about it. So I didn't. 


Then October 18th happened. We know that story.


After my first physical therapy appointment, I pulled over on the way to a meeting for work and cried. I cried because I was frustrated with the overwhelming pain that I thought would never go away. I was scared that I'd be weak like this always. And I was disgusted at how far I'd let myself go. Now, let me not be too over dramatic. I wasn't by any means obese, but I knew what I could be and not being that, I hated myself. I had worked so hard just to let a bump in the road like graduating college and getting into the thick of the real world stop me. Even in that dark moment, when my self deprecation was running riot in the streets of my brain, I couldn't find the power to pull through and say enough. Instead I went to that meeting and probably had two cups of sugary coffee followed by a spread of baked goods.


So why now? I don't know. I can't exactly remember what my lowest point was at the end of my freshman year that finally goaded me to put on a pair of spanx and hit the stair master. Either way, something has clicked.


And so I say no more! No more telling myself I can't. No more eating whatever the fuck I want because I can. No more sitting around on a beautiful day, even if it is Saturday and those little turds take it out of me during the week. NO MORE!


It's been a hard year for me, but so what? We know that story, too. But that can't be an excuse anymore. So today, I started a 2 day cleanse of sorts. It's not that master cleanse, I'm not trying to starve myself, it's more a jump start. A new beginning. 


I've done my homework, looked into a few different things and I'm going to see how this goes. It isn't about losing the weight (although it will be nice to fit into my old jeans again), it's about being healthy. I've never been skinny, nor will I ever want to be. But I want to feel like if something were to happen again, I wouldn't be just starting from ground zero. I mean, how much of a wake up call do you need when you hear from your doctor that your recovery would've been a lot faster/easier if I'd been in shape before the accident? There are a lot of things out of my control, but this doesn't have to be one of them.


I know March is the month of march to fitness. Well, I'm going to let April be my kick start. I'm going to be fair with myself, but I won't take it easy. I'm going to dedicated myself to this, just like I do to my job because now it's about giving back to me. I'm going to be strong for myself. It won't be easy, but it will be worth it. 


I'm ready to be proud of myself again. I'm ready.

Nearer My God to Thee (for 9 cellos) - The Piano Guys

Slightly cheesy, but totally worth it. If you haven't checked these guys out on youtube, go do it now. 

Quick Write

Sitting here, in the dark quiet

of an empty room, I rest my head among

the stars I myself have created.

Little imperfect green things that dance

along the poorly painted 

dark blue accent walls that face East.

And I remember

that although there is so much time behind me,

there is still so much ahead

I have yet to capture.

Mold. Create.

So much that I cannot begin

to anticipate 

what I will ultimately become.

With the rain hum drumming outside,

curling itself along the window above my bed

before 

dropping

into the desolate streets below, I know

I know that my dream giver still waits for me.

Her voice calling softly from

some place I have yet to see but

whose existence I will never dare question.

And all at once

- among the pain and unknowingness -

I let myself breath.

I am at peace.

Necessary Changes

I've realized over the past few weeks that I've kind of slowly slipping into this frantic state of mind that overpowered me before I got my current AmeriCorps gig. 


Indecision. My my, what a terrible thing indecision can be. You might think to yourself: hmm, it sounds to me like you have a lot of wonderful choices. Quit your bitching. To which I may respond, "touche, sir/madam." Because that is very true. I have had in the last year alone some life altering experiences that in turn opened up a completely new realm of possibilities for me. The biggest being that I am now qualified to teach overseas. 


But these last 8 months have also done something else too. For one, I've pushed myself past a number of previous physical and mental boundaries I've had. I'm not quite sure who of you out there on the intranets have stumbled across these postings of mine and how many of you know what AmeriCorps is or the breadth of what its volunteers are expected to do during their term of service (And no, that isn't me being a snooty bitch. I've gotten everything from "Ameri-what?" to "Oh, so you don't have a college degree? Are you on parol or something? I mean why else wouldn't you have just take a normal job?" when asked. And yes, by people who live in America.) but it isn't easy work. Is it rewarding? By all means, yes. Is it fantastic? 99.9% of the time, yes. But it's no fucking stroll in the park. 


And in that 99.9% percent of the time (and I'm sure during that .1% too), I've realized that I love this. Sure it pays like shit, and I work long hours but it isn't forever. In fact, my term is up in just a couple of months. 


So again begins the indecision. 


I have too many bills now to be able to go a month without work like before, so I've started thinking ahead. I applied to an old camp I worked at to be an assistant director, but pulled out after the first interview when they admitted they couldn't guarantee that if I were offered a job, it'd be that one. Ugh ugh, no way am I working with a bunch of 18-year-old frat boys who just get sauced on the weekends and come in hung over Monday morning. Not my scene. 


I also applied to Reading Partners, a rad literacy intervention program based out of Oakland and that I help tutor with once a week at my Elementary school. The biggest differences in our approach to helping boost literacy comprehension skills in 1st through 6th graders being that (one) they have a set curriculum that they follow where we make ours up based on our classes individual needs and what studies show is the best approach and (two) they work with students one on one instead of a classroom style setting of 20 students. I've found that not only is the one on one situation easiest in engaging students - obviously they can't cut up or act out - but it's also the most rewarding and successful approach. I really became close with the two students I work with (one insists on holding my hand as I walk him back to class), and I can see the difference I'm making. Not that I don't with my students now, but it's a lot more muddled with well where does my help end and the day time teachers begin? Granted I'd technically be an AmeriCorps member again if I got offered/took a job with Reading Partners, but I think it be worth it! I have my first phone interview with them on the 29th of the month, so keep your fingers crossed. 


My supervisor at my current job has also dropped hints that he wants to put my name in the running for a promotion which would mean a salary position and job security which be utterly amazing. No new details on that not to mention hiring wouldn't begin until around July. Plus I've learned the lesson of not putting all my eggs in one basket a long time ago so I can't get stuck on this idea too much for now. 


But then I get this creeping reminder. I think to myself over my 8 am cup of coffee: psst, hey, you're almost 25. I gasp and choke and maybe a get a little teary eyed. 


25. Jesus, when did this happen? I feel like I blinked blowing out the candles on my 20th birthday cake and suddenly jumped to this exact moment. What happened to those prying questions at graduation "well, what are you going to do now?" and thinking who gives a shit? I have the world on a string and I'm going to take it full force! Obviously that didn't happen so much. In fact, here I am in a bedroom that I'm sharing with my younger sister. I don't own any furniture or pots and pans, half of my belongings are still in boxes, and I have less than 1000 in my savings account. What am I doing? Can I really subject myself to another year of mediocre lifestyle choices because I just can't afford anything? I wipe the impending tear from my eye when it hits me. 


Just leave the states. Christ if I'd labeled all the times in this blog I've brought up that idea, I would probably feel entitled to change its name from YParaBorinquen to I'mOutBitches! But seeing as how I have the amount of experience necessary now to get into a good school with good pay and my parents are in the market to lease a car so they can dump their old ones, it may just work out. So I'd wait tables for awhile, save a ton of money, and just bounce. Go move to Costa Rica and live in a small town where I could wake up and go paddle boarding in the morning or read Love in the Time of Cholera in a handwoven hammock. 


I guess I still have 2 more months to really weigh what it is I want to do. 


What that may be, who knows for now. Just have to keep on keepin' on.

I definitely need a ginger ale. That was kind of an epic fail.

Oh, the morning after question: why, WHY did I feel the need to drink that much Fernet? (Fernet can be interchangeable of course, but the same sentiments apply). Only to be followed by the question: why, WHY CAN'T I SLEEP IT OFF!? 


Stupid grown up job has me on some retarded internal clock that I can't shut off, therefore I'm still up at 8 and decide it's probably in my best interest and those around me to shower and scrub the perpetual booze smell off me before stepping out and running errands. 


In the mean time, I'm going to sip my Canada Dry and relate to you the kind of epic fail portion that titles this post. 


It seems that in my growing late age, I've become that person. You know the one I'm talking about. The person posted up at the local watering hole alone, sipping on whatever their weapon of choice is, casually glancing at their phone or the game that's on so as not to seem completely and utterly unqualified for company and just sitting. That's it, sitting. 


[Note: In my defense, my sister and her friend were supposed to meet me but bailed after realizing they were already too intoxicated to walk the 3 blocks to the bar and join me.]


And so there I was, staring at the silent TV while eavesdropping at the soon to be one night stand unfolding next to me thinking half thoughts of "Wow, did he really just say that? Did she buy it? Yep, she bought it." and "I really shouldn't skip that interview tomorrow but I don't know if I could really endure another summer campy kind of summer, and I know they aren't going to give me the assistant camp director position so why bother...." when down plops joe schmo next to me. He orders a drink, takes a look around to size the now dwindling 12:45 am crowd and nurses his beer. 


Knowing his intentions are clearly to start a conversation but waiting to (a) not seem entirely desperate and (b) find his easy in, I start counting to myself.


1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, 4 Mississippi, 5 Mississippi. All the while, my eyes trained on sports center. Something about the A's come on, I temporarily lose track of counting. 


"Don't tell me you come here just to watch sports?" Joe Schmo finally finds his in. Dammit, what was that? 20 seconds? Why did I let myself get distracted?  


"No, I came to get a drink with my sister but she couldn't make it." I say into my shot glass, sipping off the top before reaching for my coke.


"You were pretty convincing there for a minute. I thought you were an A's fan by the way you were following along."


Oh, God. Not this conversation. Anything but this conversation. I raise my eyebrows as confirmation of his statement rather than continue down the path of "let's talk baseball stats."


I fold my hands over the bar and go back to eavesdropping. 


"So, whatcha drinking?" Schmo tries again. Even in the half yell, half jute box noise filtering around the small bar, I can't hide my sigh and I hear him chuckle. This isn't going very well and he knows it. He curses himself in Spanish. Hmm, so white boy knows Spanish? I call him out on it.


"Aha, so you're Spanish then."


"Mmm, not quite. Not from Spain. And were you trying to guess?" 


"No, I mean you're Hispanic." 


I cringe. 


"Latina. I'm Latina." In the haze of my boozed up state, I disregard how pompous that sounds and shrug. 


"Where from?"


"Guess." How I love this game! 


"Give me a clue, say something."


I point to the trash can. "Zafacon." I check if that registers. Nope. I point to the orange juice on the back bar. "Jugo de china." Still nothing. I scratch my head and think. 


"Amarillos." I say, careful to place the accent on the "ll" in our notorious "j" way.


"I give up." Schmo replies, dumbfounded. I sigh again, this time louder. 


"We are the greater of the lesser Antilles, and the lesser of the greater Antilles. Our home is a mere 100 miles by 35 miles, and yet we have some of the most diverse landscape. Mountains, desert, beaches, rain forest." I muster in my best impersonation of my mother's thick accent when it is she comes across another foreigner and feels the need to boast.


Schmo's eyes are glazed over, his mouth slightly agape. I feel like I'm in a terrible Disney movie. 


"I'm Puerto Rican." He's just another moron who thinks the island is next to New York or Alaska or somewhere nowhere near the Caribbean, I think. I finish the rest of the shot and suck in my lips at the sting of alcohol before dousing my mouth with a swig of coke. 


The conversation is dying, I contemplate if I want to sit next to him through another shot or head home. Booze wins, I order another shot. 


"My girlfriend worked on Vieques trying to win rights for the families there." I nearly fell off my stool as I spun around to make eye contact with Schmo. 


"What was that you said?" I heard clearly, but I'm elated to know that not only is he not trying to pick me up, but that we might actually be on to a good conversation.  


"After all the bombings and stuff, she went down there to help try and figure out how to clean the water and get people treated."


It seems that now my mouth is agape. 


"What do you think the solution is?" He asked, casually taking a sip from his beer while settling into the worn cushion whose stuffing is spilling out along the duct tapped seams. I take the whole second shot in one go as I think about what to say next.


For nearly an hour we sat, arms flailing and hands pounding the bar in a passionate display of who has wronged who and how we move forward. The bartenders turn off the TVs and start sweeping up popcorn, the frequent patrons button up their coats and head out into the cold Temescal night. It was time to go home. I shook Schmo's hand feeling less inclined now than before to call him that. I dip out through the front door and pull my cardigan closer before starting the walk home. 


After block 1, as the buzz started to wear off I realized how much of a bitch I had been. Who was I to judge someone who lived 4,000 miles away from a place and consequently knew nothing about it? Shit, I don't know anything about the issue that plague Montana, or Alabama, so does that make me any less than a person? It's easy to realize how passionate I am about my heritage (obviously), but why should I snub my nose any someone who doesn't take part in that same passion? 


Jesus, am I becoming a hipster now? Only instead of fixed gear bikes and beards, it's a country. A place. My home. The greater of the lesser Antilles, and the lesser of the greater Antilles!


I didn't even catch the guy's name.


I looked in the direction of the King Fish before calling Lopez from the box to let me in and huddled close to the door waiting for the click.