¡Marianísima!

I had barely finished toweling off the cold bay water after my swim from Alcatraz to shore when the first person asked “So, what’s next?” It kind of irritated me.

I wanted to simply enjoy the moment, revel in the fact that I’d just jumped off a ferry near The Rock and swam all the way to shore.Why were people asking, “What’s the next challenge?”

Before the swim, I told myself that if I jumped off the ferry and managed to swim a few strokes, that would equal success. Yes, in this instance, I set a pretty low bar. Of all the challenges I’ve taken on – a marathon, a triathlon, other races – this felt the scariest. I didn’t want to muck my head up any more with pesky expectations of finishing.

A few strokes in, I flung my hands in the air and cheered, “Success!” Then I kept moving…and in my head, I kept singing “Just keep swimming.” Yes, music from “Finding Nemo” (and a song from the musical “Barnum”) kept me moving. When I wasn’t singing, I was thinking, “I’m actually doing this…I’m doing something I’ve always dreamed of doing…Ugh, it’s choppy…I’m not moving…Just keep swimming…Wow! How many people get to see the skyline from this perspective?” It felt for a while as if I weren’t moving, then before I knew it I was halfway there. Somewhere along the way, I lost my friend Cheryl, but I knew the kayakers would keep her safe, so I just kept swimming. The kayakers, by the way, were overwhelmingly nice, wonderful, supportive people. They cheered, they said kind things, they put me back on course when I’d veered left, they offered to let me rest, they helped me to feel safe in what is a generally thought to be an insane endeavor.

Anyway, I blather. I finished. I was happy. I am happy. I drank beer and ate hot dogs with my cheering family and friends. They made the day exceptional; having them there made the celebration that much more special.

I don’t know what’s next. When I asked my friend Patty, “Sheesh! Why do people keep asking me that?” She said simply, “Because that’s who you are. You’ve always got something you’re working on.” When you put it like that, it’s not so pressure-filled.

Hmm…I’ve still got weight to lose. And I’ve always wanted to write a book.

My friend Jenny says that you should have a goal dress, and that it should be anything but black. I offer up my new goal dress.

So cute & sexy!

I have no occasion to wear said dress, but I’ve no doubt I can find one.

My other short-term goals are to complete nine open water practice swims between now and my Alcatraz swim, and to lose 12 more pounds (for a total of 25) by September 20, the day of the Heart Walk. If I can say “I’ve lost 25 pounds,” I will feel as if I’ve really accomplished something.

On January 1, I resolved to “climb out of the basement,” to get out of the plus-size department and into normal clothes.  Now that we’re halfway through the year, it’s a time for a status-check.

Well, I am mostly out of the basement, but now I’m in clothing limbo.  That is, most of the stuff in the big-girls departments doesn’t fit me anymore.  Yay, right?  Not exactly, because the “regular clothes” don’t fit me, either.  I’m smack between sizes.  Pants either hang off or cut off my circulation.  I’m down to only two pairs of work pants, and a couple of skirts/dresses.  I feel stranded on this plateau.

The good news: I’m smaller than I was, and I actually weigh what my license says!  I’ve had several compliments lately.

Now, for the remainder of the year, I’ve got to stop focusing on the numbers on the scale, and focus on the goals: feeling better, being healthier, and living more vigorously.  In fact, those are good goals for the remainder of my life.

I’ve been dreaming of going back to school, but there’s an awful lot of expense and stress involved in being a graduate student – not to mention the fact that I’ve been there, done that.

What fuels my dream of school is not some grand plan for my life, or some mad passion for a subject matter, but really a love of learning.I want to take a smattering of different subjects – to feed my desire for knowledge, and then move on when I have had enough.In graduate school, you’re required to hone in on one subject, digging deeper and deeper, and nothing right now calls me to study with that kind of intensity and singularity of focus.I want to learn it all!

The Master’s Degree I need is an MDS – Master’s in Dilettante Studies.(Yes, I made that up.)Some of the classes will be academic, others artistic.Here’s my initial study wish list: mosaic, drawing, economics, photography, creative writing, jazz appreciation and history, dolphins, art history, calligraphy, glass blowing.

I could place out of the following MDS requirements, because I’ve already taken them: wire jewelry making, stained glass, photography 101, Art in the Prado Museum, Italian 1, Mediterranean Cooking.

The Phys-Ed component of my study plan is all about fun.I took an awkward stab at belly dancing, and am still working on water polo.An intensive swimming workshop or some one-on-one coaching is on the horizon, and possibly another dance class.

Really, what I need is another free night per week and a community college catalog!

I don’t mean my car that flooded; that’s ancient history. The cursed car is my current car.

You may remember a few months ago my registration sticker was ripped off.  Finally got the replacement, and put it on my car.  Not a week went by, and what happened?  No, the sticker wasn’t stolen.

The very Honda decal was ripped off my car.  What…?  People are crazy!  And please, don’t tell me it fell off.  There is no way it could have just fallen off.

Most major department stores place their large women’s departments far away from any windows.  Some hide the fat girls down in the basement. Seriously.  Farthest corner on the bottom floor, that’s where I have to go to find clothes.

My goal for the new year is to climb out of the basement!

I’ve joined with some friends on a mission to make some healthy lifestyle changes.  Yes, I want to wear smaller clothes and look better in them, but I’d also like to have more energy and a lower BMI.  My immediate goal, as some of you have heard before, is to lose 10% of my body weight.  I won’t be punishing myself with any weird crash diets, as I know that the key is “Eat Less. Exercise More.”  Sounds simple, but it is REALLY hard to put into practice.

This evening at 7:15 p.m., it was 42 degrees (felt even colder), and I jumped into the local outdoor pool to play water polo.

Incisive neighbor: “Wow the ER is nothing like on TV.”

Doctor: “Yeah, we’re not all good-looking, and nobody’s having sex in the closet.”

That exchange took place while I was sitting on the ER bed, waiting for a tetanus shot and anticipating stitches. It was the first time I’d had stitches (not including surgeries), so I asked the doctor if I could watch. I managed to watch for a couple of stitches, but then the combination of my cut-open finger, the blood, and the needle going through my skin became just too much to bear.

So what the hell happened? It happened so fast, I couldn’t tell you. I was shaking a bottle of salad dressing, it slipped out of my hand, I tried to catch it. Next thing I knew, I felt some pain. I looked at my hand and saw a cut. Then it started bleeding. A lot. I’m proud to report that I had the presence of mind to put a towel and some pressure on my finger, and to turn off the oven and take the food out. I thought I’d wait a second to see if the bleeding would stop, but when I removed the towel, the depth of the cut freaked me out. I knew I would need stitches.

I knocked on my neighbor’s door and she walked with me to the firehouse. The guys were happy for a diversion, but they wouldn’t stitch me. They gauzed me up and offered an ambulance. Instead of sirens and melodrama, I let my neighbor drive me (in my car; of course the one neighbor who was home doesn’t own a car and hasn’t driven a stick-shift in a long time) to the ER. Luckily, Tuesday in Burlingame is a slow night, and the gauze was already blood soaked, so I moved to the front. A few x-rays, a couple of shots, and five or six stitches later, and I was almost good as new. Well, except that I look like Frankenfinger.

(BTW, after the firehouse, I went back into apartment to get insurance card, etc. I went back to the sink and figured out that the salad dressing bottle hit a pyrex bowl in the sink, breaking the rim. I don’t know if a shard came up and stabbed me, or if my hand slipped down over the jagged edge. All I know is ouch. The med tech said that besides power tools, glass cuts are the worst. Oh, and I know that my neighbor is a sweetheart. I owe her cookies.)

As jaded as I can feel at times about politics, and as much as I am reticent to talk politics, I get totally excited when I go to vote.  Today will be historic no matter which presidential candidate wins, but every time I vote, I feel lucky and grateful to live in a country with free elections.  I can just breeze in on my lunch hour, give my address to the sweet volunteers, and proceed to privately register my vote!  I don’t have to fear for anything, I don’t have to bribe anyone (or be bribed), and I don’t even have to tell anyone for whom or for what I voted.  That’s not something to take for granted.

And though my parents’ votes pretty much cancel out mine, I have them to thank for my love of voting.  They used to take me with them when they voted, back in the days of the big ballot booths, with the curtain and the giant voting swtiches.  Dad would let me pull the switches: “That one” and “Now that one.”  He’d double-check his votes and let me pull the final lever that tallied them all in a big clatter and swung the curtain open like magic.  It was all so fun and mysterious, even though I didn’t understand the power of voting then.  All of that goes with me when I go to the polls, and though it’s just a little table now, it has that same aura for me.  No absentee ballot!  I want to feel the power of the polling place, see my fellow citizens taking part of the process, and get high on democracy.

Amen.