The Treadmill: Running Against Disgust

“You can’t talk on your cell phone!”

I gave the older gentleman whose white socks where pulled up to his knees a confused look.

He repeated again this time raising his voice and sniffing at me, “You CAN’T talk on your cell phone!”

I hit the pause button the treadmill and answered, “but I’m talking with my mom!”

As part of my 2012 goals, I’m re-dedicating myself to working out with a focus on overcoming my disgust of treadmills. Given that I live in Denver and given that I’m 100% a baby about the cold (plus I have asthma, which actually doesn’t work well when running in the cold), I have had to take up running on a treadmill. My disgust for treadmills worked its way into my mind years ago when growing up in the bitter cold of northern Ohio forced me to begin running on them. There is nothing about them that appeals to me: I most often feel like the hamster that runs and runs and runs on his wheel. At least that poor guy never quite comprehends he’s going nowhere. I, however, always know that I’m headed nowhere. I am constantly checking my mileage; I find myself walking more than I run; and I swear I don’t burn as many calories as I would running outside. And, though in most things I’m highly competitive, I’m not the kinda girl who takes on the person next me as a good friend recently confessed she does. She mentioned that when someone gets on the treadmill next to her and starts going fasters, she, too, must go faster. I tend to pick the treadmill at the end of the line and only look at the person next to me if absolutely necessary like when their sweat works it way onto my arm or when their tiny body with their super flat belly that’s covered only in tight yoga pants and a sports bra is teasing me to look and be jealous, do I glance over with a look of pure disgust while thinking “cover up your ridiculously skinny body.” To me there is nothing enjoyable about the treadmill; yet, I force myself to go since another important goal of mine for 2012 is to rid my body of the Dissertation 20. Thus, four times a week at the acceptable time of 10 or 10:30, I find myself on a treadmill.

Which brings me to the older gentleman. The other day my mom asked me if I have seen any attractive men at the gym, and as I sauntered up the treadmill the next morning (in my best knock-off of Jennifer Beals’ outfit-- sexy shoulder and all), I checked out the pickings. A quick once-over told me that my only choices were three older men. Now, when I say “older” I don’t mean like 50s or even 60s, I’m talking white socks pulled up to their knees-baggy khaki shorts-with black running shoes kind of older men. Every morning I run on the treadmill and my view is blocked by the three of them reading the New York Times and Denver Post while riding the stationary bikes. One of the three has taken an instant dislike to me, which he reminds me of over and over again with death stares done over top his thick- rimmed silver glasses. Maybe it was the off the shoulder shirt that he didn’t like. The same morning I noticed these men, my mom called to check-in. Not realizing I was doing anything wrong, I picked up. Two minutes into the conversation, the older gentleman yelled at me while still riding his bike and reading his paper. After that incident, I’ve also placed my coat in the wrong area, had my Word-with-Friends volume up to loud, and accidently glanced over at him all of which has him shooting me dagger looks and loudly complaining about today’s youth. I’m just flattered he called me today’s youth. But it gets me to another good reason to be disgusted with the treadmill. I get yelled at while on it.

Reason #3 comes in the form of music. Up until very recently (like 2011), I never ran with headphones. I tend to like to think on my runs, or better yet, I like to talk and sing. Normally, I only talk and sing when running with a partner, but sometimes when I’m working through a big problem—whether it’s personal or academic—and I’m alone, I’ll talk to myself. I wrote many a job talk interviews that way last year. When I decided to start using headphones, I, of course, picked out fun and fast-paced running music. Just as I was getting use to music, my I-pod broke. I figured no problem—I’ll just use JT’s I-pod. Wednesday morning rolls around, I hop on the treadmill, throw in the headphones and attempt to start jamming out. All-American Rejects come blasting through first. Then an old Justin Timberlake song. I’ve just talked myself into actually running and not walking when BAM! an act from Don Giovanni starts. Completed confused, I switch songs. Up next is the Four Tenors. My running is complete ruined for the morning, and I spend the next 20 min walking and thinking who can work out to this stuff?!? JT’s I-Pod is riddled with a mixture of pop, rock, punk…and opera. I can no longer use the I-pod for fear of stumbling upon a slow-paced, non-English aria. Totally kills the mood for running. For several days, I wondered about how JT could work out to this weird, er, eclectic mix of music when we both headed over to the gym one Saturday morning. Gearing up on the treadmill for my long—ok, short—run, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. JT was on an elliptical conducting with one hand, holding on to the handle with the other, and openly singing whatever opera popped up. That day I learned two things: (1) apparently, some people can work out to opera; and (2) ironically, I’m not the only one that gets eye daggers thrown at them from the older gentleman.

I’m not sure if or how I’ll get over my disgust of treadmills. As long as I’m living in a cold climate, I suppose I need to. But like many things in my life, I resist the treadmill. I question its truth and what it thinks it can offer me. I internally debate over being honest with it about my real weight to see how many calories I burn (I may lie…). I mentally envision myself tripping and being thrown backward off of it and then laying on the ground while the older gentleman continues to read his paper and peddle away. And, I talk trash to it inside my head as I attempt to run, walk, run, walk my 2.5 miles (ok, it’s more like 2 miles) often calling it names and belittling it for being a machine making me sweat. There is no love lost between it and me, and when I leave I feel it mock me when I step back off it and glance at my mileage, time, and calories-burned—taunting me with it’s numbers. So as I turn to leave, I pick up my coat, hat, and gloves, and I start singing the last scene from Don Giovanni where the ghost of the Commendatore comes to drag him to the underworld, “DON GIO—VANNI!” in my best deep voice aiming it towards the treadmill and leaving the implied hostility hanging on my last note.

A New Year: A New Season

To Everything/there is a season

A year ago, I started this blog to document my last year as a Ph.D. student. Exactly one year later, I am no longer a Ph.D. student; I am a Ph.D. Success was had—I have the pretty diploma and its frame to prove it—yet it still seems slightly weird. And I wonder if that feeling will ever leave. My students refer to me as “Dr.” or “Professor” but the weirdness still hasn’t completely left. I walk down the street or into stores or talk to new people and still I wonder if I shine with “Ph.D.”—somehow I’m thinking no.

Purposefully I went to class this week with bright pink glitter nail polish. Why you might ask? Well, there’s part of me that still wants to prove that there isn’t a mold much like I tried to prove for years there isn’t mold to what makes a woman sexy (see blog post on short hair). One might think these tiny acts of rebellion would have left me by now—I’m sure some part of my mama is cringing even while she is proud at how she has raised me to be me—but, fortunately or unfortunately, they haven’t completely gone, and I sauntered into class the first week sportin’ glitter pink nail polish. Glitter is my go-to when I want to try and push the limits ever so slightly because glitter offers very specific (sparkly) images. I’ve almost come full circle with glitter: as an undergraduate I wore glitter eyeshadow to try and show that strong and independent women could and did wear make-up and could try and be—yikes—pretty.

So, one year later how has the season changed for me? What does it feel like to be able to reflect back on the last year of my Ph.D.?

A time to build up, a time to break down:

As evidenced by the blog posts throughout 2011, there is definitely a time to build and break down though perhaps more breaking down than building up, especially for the dissertation. I feel like my dissertation broke down many, many times before completion. And the break downs were hard because in order to finish you had build yourself back up--no matter how bad you didn't want to or feel like you wanted to. Also, the job market does a pretty job of building you up and breaking you down all in one massive-like swoop. Luckily, the build up had a longer lasting impression as I both finished my dissertation and got a job.

A time to dance, a time to mourn:

2011 held a lot of reasons to dance and many that even lived outside of academia. It was a solid year. The mourning that happened was only temporary and didn’t leave a lasting effect, which is the best kind of mourning. Also, I literally danced: I began to learn how to dance to Michael Jackson’s best songs via the Wii—totally awesome. Who doesn’t want to know how to dance like MJ?!?

A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together:

I’m going to use this one literally, too, and stones stand in as money for me. Somehow it seems I had more of it as a graduate student. I still haven’t exactly figured that one out. I definitely cast away more money as a grad student than I am as a faculty member. After driving the poor tax guy nuts at DU, I’ve gathered that as a member of the “real” world there are more taxes. And Denver is way more expensive than Tallahassee. And I didn’t give moving enough credit: it costs A.LOT. Like for real. I'm hoping things will begin to even out more in this new year, and I think they will.

To everything there is a season for sure, and my season is still changing and has changed over the last year. I'm still working on figuring out this club I now I can say I belong to. I'm still working on feeling like a Ph.D. instead of a poser. And I have to wonder: in 2013 will I still proudly say that I wore glitter nail polish to class. My guess is probably. If four years of a Ph.D. couldn’t shake the glitter outta me…I’m not sure what would or could.

Those Byrds—they knew a thing or two about seasons. My seasons tend to come and go with different amounts of glitter. And I'm still ok with that.

Tis the Season...

“Christmas is not a time or a season but a state of mind. To cherish peace and good will, to be plenteous in mercy, is to have the real spirit of Christmas.”
—Calvin Coolidge

***Normally my posts lend towards understanding how to access and be a part of that exclusive Professor Club and all that goes along with it. But in light of the season burning brightly upon us, I am venturing off my usual path, although, you might still see pieces of the writing instructor throughout. You’ve been warned.

Lights twinkling as the snow whips round-n-round.Skinny peppermint mochas in Christmas red cups. Sitting wrapped in a snowman blanket with a cantstopreadingit kind of book. Friends sitting beside a blazing fire sharing memories of times past while nibbling on sugar cookies. Bing Crosby crooning about the wonder of a white Christmas in a way that only he can do. Trini dressed in a fuzzy pink hoodie that declares, “Snow Angel.”Sled riding on cold snowy nights. Watching your favorite Christmas movie over and over again till you can recite it back and forth with your dad (“just remember who said it first…”).

The season is upon us whether we are ready for it or not. For me, it’s been awhile where the season included looking out my window to see the snow gently falling and the wind keeping the temperature well below my version of comfortable. I forget how to dress for this weather, especially given that most of my winter clothes have long been sorted through various Goodwill’s. Snow boots, gloves, sweaters…excuse me?!? Most of my boots are for looks only, and the other day as I was unpacking my car from the latest drop of snow (with my broom because I still haven’t broken down to get a real scraper) I was stepping in 6 in. of snow with a pair of my favorite grey suede boots thinking, “my how times have changed.” Just last year I could barely wear my favorite boots because it was never cold enough now they are impractical for my current weather conditions. I never thought I’d be back to this kinda weather. Every time I stepped outside and my breath gets taken away, I close my eyes and picture my hot, humid Tallahassee summers. I would much rather sweat than be cold.

This is my winter song for you…

Are you ready for the season? A reasonable question to be sure…except what does it mean to be ready for the season? To some it may include all their shopping done with the presents wrapped and under the tree. To others it may include their house decorated from top to bottom in winter splendor. And to others, it may just include the reason for the season (no, I’m not talking about Old St. Nick). Recently at BT, I was reminded of a writing activity that I often ask my students to do (one that has been revised from a good friend of mine): write your own obituary, and in doing so, think about the ways you might be remembered. The writing activity has many layers of meaning starting with understanding the rhetorical situation (including the audience, constraints, genre, etc.), but it also asks students to think about the context surrounding their lives and the impact they have on others (which, of course, connects back to the rhetorical situation; I do love layered assignments. Am I a writing nerd or what?!). Traditionally when we do this assignment, we don’t really push past understanding the rhetorical situation (because an understanding of rhetorical situation is key to understanding a writing situation); however, I couldn’t help seeing the connection between the discussion at BT and the assignment, and it brought me close to the season at hand.

How do you want to be remembered? And more importantly, how will others actually remember you?

I’m currently back to a no sleeping phase (which many of you know has been pretty normal for me since I was about 18), so I do lots of thinking during the hours of 12:00 am and 3:00 am. Lately, I’ve been wondering these questions and wondering if, for myself, they match up. I’d like to think they do, but sometimes a lack of patience, a lack of understanding, a lack of tolerance might creep up and taint my inward/outward appearance. How often do we let a lack of XX influence our reactions and actions towards people, animals, situations, etc. It’s so easy to do. As an educator, I really try to have a sense of understanding with my students because not everyone grew up like me nor have they been influenced by the events in my life. I am lucky to be able to grow from my students’ experiences just as they can from mine. The hard part is to not feel the need to step on their experiences just because they didn’t experience life as I have. Honestly, this could not only influence their writing identity but their personal identity and that it not what my Ph.D. stands for (though many in my field may feel it is their civic duty to influence students in their, er, proper ways of the world). Hello, my dear readers: I am an educator of writing and an encourager of establishing a writing identity that students can carry with them.

In light of the season and a version of my writing assignment, here is what I would hope my epigraph might look like:

Here lies an utterly happy woman who encouraged others with both her actions and her words, and who did so in fabulously kickin’ shoes—whether they were practical for the weather conditions or not.

As you continue on your season’s journey, I wish you the merriest of times and challenge you to live up to the epigraph leading your way.

The Kardashian Syndrome

Bad human communication leaves us less room to grow.
Rowan D. Williams

Let’s be honest: we all have little things that drive us totally and absolutely crazy. For my brother, JT, it’s getting in the car with me, and I throw my purse on top of him (I may do that on purpose…). Right now for my mama, it begins and ends with the same person. For others, it could be that person scrapping his fork across his salad plate or the person chewing, mouth open so all can see the chicken Caesar salad bits. It’s that little (or big) thing that makes you wanna open your mouth and scream while twirling around the living room on one leg and shaking your head.

For me, it’s a lack of communication. Ironically—or un-ironic depending on how you look at it—I am very open about this fact. I tend to tell people that I don’t appreciate that he/she can’t take 30 sec to email me back or 5 sec to text me back.

**Distinction: this is in reference to those people who NEVER respond back to an email or a text or who quit a text conversation halfway through the conversation. Those people.

I mean seriously, how long does a quick email saying, “hey, really busy, will email soon!” take (I just timed it; it took me less than 20 sec) that would at least let the person know that you care enough to respond. And that right there is the problem: we have become so self-obsessed with ourselves that taking moments out of our busy lives to email and/or text with friends can seem like “too” much.

Let's be honest—have you ever gotten an email from a friend and thought, “I’ll get it in the morning…when I have time” or received a text message and got so wrapped up in whatever was going on in your life that you never responded? You know you have. When did we become so obsessed with only one person: me, myself, and I?

I like to call this the “Kardashian” syndrome where a person becomes so engrossed in the moments squarely in front of them and that centered on only them that the person is unable to acknowledge that there is life outside of him/her self. I suppose the Kardashian klan might argue against my definition of self-absorption; however, if you watch any part of their TV shows, you know that the Kardashian’s are self-obsessed (anyone see the several different episodes where Kim can’t even have lunch with her sisters without texting on her blackberry?).

When dealing with someone suffering from the Kardashian syndrome, you come to a crossroads where you must decide if the friendship is worth continuing. You question how many times must you send an email, a text, another email before you are done with being walked on by a “friend?” And so, you do your best to dust off your hurt because deep down you know that a friend that lasts through the fires and glories of your life would never intentionally ignore an email or a text (or heaven forbid ignore a text conversation half-way through the conversation). The Kardashian syndrome can grab even the purest of souls, and it takes a mighty person to squash it.

Having moved around a bit, I am hyper-aware of media communication. I am blessed to have made friends at several different stages of my life, but that are spread across the country (including Hawaii), which means several different time zones. Text messaging and emailing have replaced daily/weekly phone calls, but nevertheless still keep you engaged with the person and can keep you in the know about what’s going on in your friend’s life. And sometimes receiving a well-intended text or email from a far-away friend is exactly what you need on a cold, dreary morning.

Obviously, I have made witness a frustration of mine. A good friend of mine jokes with me that she knows (!) to always answer my texts because she understands how it bothers me. But key word there is a GOOD friend. So, perhaps the actual question lies in just how good of a friend is it that can let an email or a text or both go for days, weeks, months without so much as a simply acknowledgement.

Communication is at the heart of all life: even dogs can learn up to 350 different words and commands (a fact that I constantly keep proving true with my Trini-luv). Yet, as the quote above suggests, without it, there is no room to grow or rather no way to go forward. Communication between friends takes more than one person and both parties must be willing to give up a minute or two in order to keep it alive.

So, the next time you are quick to think, “I’ll get to that when I can…” just resist the urge to let the Kardashian Syndrome take hold...and respond. Your friend will appreciate it.

The Girl with the Knit Toboggan

Today, as I sit sipping my Dt. Coke in front of a crackling fire, I shift through Piperlime’s “Top 11 Fall Fashion Must-Have’s” lingering on a MINKPINK red maxi skirt and wondering if I could pull off a maxi given the I’mkindashortthing. I then move to hiker booties with heels—totally cute. I’m particular fond of a Boutique 9 pair and Heart and Soul pair, though at $89, the Heart and Soul pair is the more reasonable buy. But I only linger on the different pieces of fall; I don’t linger for too long because then I would want to buy something.

“When I shop, the world gets better, and the world is better, but then it's not, and I need to do it again.” Rebecca Bloomwood

I love fashion. I love shopping. I have loved fashion and shopping since I was very young, and my mother is to blame. She introduced me to fabulous world of fashion with white and pink dresses that had matching white and pink socks, shoes, and jewelry. She also, year-after-year, pointed me in the direction of honing my own style by encouraging me to mix things up with things like thick hunter green flannels with dark bootcut denim or neon green Sketchers or Victorian-like black booties worn with jean skirts and/or black capris or sparkly lip gloss with flecks of glitter before any of these were considered “in style.” My college roommate met me for the first time wearing a belly-bearing green FUBU shirt and white shorts. Twelve years later, she still remembers that outfit. We all have our own individual style, even those who maintain they don’t. We gravitate toward the styles we like--those which make us feel alive when we wear them even if that means throwing on whatever is nearest to you when you roll out of bed. I strive for maintaining my own look whether it’s wearing five bold bangles (when two might have been just fine with the outfit) or bright blue tights with a short black dress. I’m not a crazy fashion-forward kinda girl, but I do appreciate owning my style, which someone once described as “sorta-but-not-really rocker chic.” I’ll take it.

“You’re a professor…you must make what like $80,000…a $100,00??”

I come from a family of shoppers: my dad, I believe, could shop me under the table. Seriously. I think this has helped me learn to become a killer window shopper. I can go into store after store and try on clothes just for fun. I tend to play a game: if I had XX amount of money, what would I buy and why. I also really love going with people as they shop because I like styling them. I like to believe that I have left a profound and positive styling effect on some of people that have come into my life. Take my cousin, J(G)S, who is president of Neenah Paper. She has to look professional from H2T daily, but I’ve seen little bits and pieces of glitz show up on her (i.e. leopard print flats or hot pink silk scarves). Or my good friend SG. She recently sent me a going-out picture where she was rockin’ sky-high black strappy sandals (she is over 6 foot and when I met her swore she would NEVER wear heels!). Or take my friend, LR. When I met her she was all about the basic color palette and hated shopping. At a graduation party, she rocked a beautiful print dress with gold heels (that she found herself!). And last, my mom, who was my muse and now lets me pick out her outfits. I tell her all the time I’m never going to let her go out of style…she’ll be the best dressed 90 year old. If this professor thing doesn’t work out, I’ve often thought about becoming a stylist. Just call me Rachel Zoe (only the real-life size. I could not eat for months and still not be that tiny).

I recently had a conversation with another graduate of FSU who had a similar thought as me: with her first “real” paycheck she was going to splurge and buy something like a Coach purse. Reality check came when my first “real” paycheck entered my bank account. I immediately called HR. The conversation went something like this…

“Uh, hi. I’m a recent hire at DU, and I think something is wrong with my paycheck.”

“Congrats on your recent hire!”

“Um, ok thanks.”

“So what seems to be the problem with your paycheck?”

“Well, there seems to be an awful lot missing from it.”

Chuckle (I wanted to jump through the phone and give him my best eyebrow arched, death stare). “Ok, well let’s take a look here…The federal tax is….”

And so on. The conversation concluded with me saddened by the reality that my paycheck would always be $1000 less that what I actually make given the amount of taxes and benefits taken out. No, there was nothing actually wrong with my paycheck. Someone forgot to tell me that once I ended my life after a graduate student (in the state of Florida), my paycheck would also reflect my real-life status. Not going to lie…it’s scarier than I thought. Also, please remember my dear readers (especially those of you getting ready to graduate soon), moving cleans you out. Moving across country even more. It takes a couple months to fully recover (I’m still in that phase). I didn’t give that enough credit either. So, you have to decide what’s most important to you and what’s not. Food wins out right now (although pop is #1, JT and I decided years ago when we first lived together that no matter how dire the situation, we would also have pop), which means no couch, TV, desk, cable, internet, or bed. When I tell people that most are like, how can you do it without a bed?!? Honestly, the bed doesn’t bother me as much as say a couch. You don’t think about how much you use a couch until you don’t have one. The couch is like the mecca of a home; it’s the safe haven that you can curl up on and snuggle with your dog; it’s where you can sip on some Dt. Coke while reading PeopleStyle; it’s the best place to take a power nap; it’s where the list-making happens. So, yes, not having a couch is worse than not having a bed. It’s the first thing that I’m going to buy. The very first.

Things I’ve learned or re-learned in the last two months about shopping, specifically grocery shopping:

1. Count your pennies and use them. I have no qualms about counting out pennies for groceries. JT got slightly embarrassed the last time we were grocery shopping, but the kind check-out lady was like, “honey, it all amounts to the same when I count it out at night.” Totally true.
2. Make a list to go grocery shopping and buy things that last a long time. We happen to be big cereal eaters—cereal taste good at any time of the day.
3. Treat yourself to something you truly do enjoy—this way it doesn’t feel like you totally depriving yourself. For JT and me, it’s Dt. Coke. We always, always have it.
4. Go through the grocery store and put everything in your cart. When you’re finished find an empty spot, and go through what’s in your cart deciding if you truly need it. We always find about $20-$40 worth of stuff that we don’t actually need.
5. Don’t be embarrassed about living on a strict budget. JT struggles with this more than I do. Perhaps it’s because I’m older, and I have lived longer, but I figure as long as we have something to eat for each meal (even if it’s a cup of Ramen) then we are doing better than a lot of people.

I like to think all my years of shopping and window shopping combined with coming from a line of shoppers has actually helped me live on a strict budget because I’m always looking for a good deal. I get excited when Dt. Coke goes on sale 3 for $9, or I find a good cheese for $4/lb.I must confess: when my first paycheck was securely in my bank account, I went to Urban Outfitters and bought myself a present. I decided that since it was my first real paycheck in my first real professor job that I could splurge ever so slightly. I bought myself this super cute knit toboggan (that’s a hat for those you not from the north) that I had been eyeing since I moved to Denver (so five weeks). It was $26 and some change. It’s no Coach purse, but buying it made me feel giddy and when I put it on, I know that it was my first purchase as a professor. I kinda like that.

Posin' or Imposin': Life's no Fun without a Good Scare

Tender lumplings everywhere/Life's no fun without a good scare/That's our job, but we're not mean/In our town of Halloween
—Nightmare Before Christmas

Leaves flirting with changing colors; pumpkin spice lattes shared as a mid-day snack; cozy sweaters worn over leggings; ghoulish figures adorning coffee tables; sparkly purple and orange lights hanging from porches; scary movie nights with friends…oh, it’s beginning to look a lot like Halloween. I happen to love Halloween because of all the festively fun things surrounding the holiday. There are so many unique gatherings that go with the holiday. When else could we go conquer the streets of downtown Denver dressed up as zombies. When else could we scare ourselves silly in a haunted corn maze. When else is it socially acceptable to pretend to be any person (dead or alive), beast, thing, or creature and randomly knock on strangers doors for candy (or in the rich neighborhoods money) or trek across town to the kickin’ party. Halloween, more than any other holiday, seems to encourage people to let it all hang out—the good and the scary—as they come together to celebrate a day where they can be anything they want to be. Halloween encourages us to put aside who we are and become (at least for a moment) imposters of some one or some thing else.

I must say that while I simply adore 99% of the celebratory things that go along with Halloween, I have never liked dressing up in costumes. My mom use to dress DT and me up in the best costumes—good enough to win prizes—but I hated it (I think I might have even loathed it as I tended to cry throughout the entire process). I’m not sure what has made me hate dressing up, but it’s followed me into my adult years. In college, J(B)P often had to twist my arm to dress up and later, while at FSU, I’d find ways out of going to the parties (one year I went to Atlanta to trick-or-treat with my young cousins…I made Trini dress up, but not me; another year I went to the Florida/Georgia game). Something about dressing up makes me inwardly cringe and outwardly become socially awkward. It makes no sense. I’m the first one to decorate my apartment (this year, it happened on September 25 just to enjoy it longer); the first to string up lights on my porch; the first to encourage watching 13 nights of Halloween; but it’s the dressing up that gets me.

While being an imposter for Halloween is an apparent challenge for me, lately, I have found myself feeling like an imposter, and I’m not sure why. In January, I wrote a post that said I wanted to stroll right in and be a part of the club—the exclusive club with a members-only guarantee. Now that I’m here, I feel like I’m still swinging on the slight peripheral. Perhaps it’s because people still mistake me for a student (I swear it’s cause I’m short as the kind woman checking my ID to go through airport security exclaimed, “YOU’RE 30?!? But you’re so short.” Hm. Because apparently once you hit a certain age, you magically become a height specific to that age. Well shoot, my magic fairy must have used the wrong wand). Perhaps it’s because my diploma hasn’t arrived to confirm that, yes, I successfully completed a Ph.D. Or perhaps it’s because I can’t get JT to call me Dr. Siss. Whatever the reason, I find myself thinking, “What are you doing, Kara. Someone is going to guess you don’t really belong in/to this club. They made a mistake.” It's really a weird feeling, especially given just a month ago, I felt more like a professor. So, ironically during the month of October, I’ve felt like I was posin’ and that someone is going to catch me doing my best professor impression and call me out.

I'm hoping that this feeling is short lived. I don't like it shifting it's way through my mind, teasing me at the most inappropriate times. Perhaps then it would be fitting for me to dress-up as a professor for Halloween. Or perhaps I’ll just go with my go-to and dress as a 80s rocker chick. Even though, I'm feeling like a poser, some might say neither is that far of a stretch for me, and perhaps therein lies the problem. So 80s rocker professor it is. Problem solved.I'm glad we had this conversation.

Rock on.

Work It!

I’ve developed a habit that is annoying even to me—I have a tendency to play with my hair when it’s down—I fluff it; I flip it; I flounce it. **Forgive me those of you who have had to witness this habit.** I’ve become the girl I detested in the seventh grade. I even occasionally stare at it as I walk by store windows. I don’t know how it happened except that I blame it on having short hair for a very long time. My hair hasn’t been this long since I was 10 (that’s two decades!), and it’s because I decided at a very young age that I didn’t want to be the girl with the long hair that boys wanted to grab and other girls wanted to braid. I didn’t want to be like every other girl. This idea was often reiterated by silly boys exclaiming over how their ideal woman had long hair cascading down her back…hello romance novel anyone?? Case in point: a rather dull boy from my college swim team once exclaimed at a new haircut, “Kara!!!! WHAT DID YOU DO?!?!" Uh, really kid? Apparently he never learned to think before speaking. I wanted to prove that, yes, girls can be sexy with short hair. Add that to I get bored very easily with my hair (some of you may have noticed the purple/pink streaks a couple years ago). So, it’s been awhile since my hair has touched my shoulders, let alone gone past them. Now that it does, it seems to me that longer hair can get in the way: you lay on it in bed; it gets caught underneath purse straps; and, it gets in the way when swiping on mascara. Yet, I can’t bring myself to cut it, and in fact, I’m aiming to let it grow (right now as one of my closest friends, J(L)M, reads this, she is screaming out loud, “there is NO way she’ll make it!").

Much like my transition into long(er) hair, my transition into living in Denver has had some interesting moments that include fluffing, flipping, and flouncing. I had fluffed off that hiking requires different shoes until I actually went hiking. Tennis shoes just don’t cut it. I’m sure those poor souls that were around Joey and me as we hiked in Red Rocks, shook their heads and whispered, “amateurs,” as I tentatively slid down a baby hill on my butt (hey—better to be safe, right?). I have repeated wanted to flip off the car behind me that honks its horn because I don’t gun it the very moment the red light turns green. For the record, I haven’t and won’t…but I have a very vivid picture of what I might look doing so. And last, I have flounced my way across Denver in search of good places to eat, shop, and make merry (for those of you unsure of how to flounce: honey-child, it can’t be taught. ;-). It has been so fun tasting and sampling the different flavors of Denver—people and food alike. Denver is unlike any place I have ever lived, and quite honestly, my morning jog has never been easier to handle with the mountains beaming at me in the background.

Five weeks into my move, and I feel like I’m slowly getting into a daily, organized life style. I’m working out again (yah! Dissertation 20—I got your number!). I’ve found a church I really connect with (for the record, churches in Denver tend to start at 6:00 pm Sunday night. That’s weird to someone who has gone to a Sunday morning church for the majority of her life). I’m beginning to make friends (double yah for that one, although, I’m having a shirt made that says, “Joey Taczak—the one standing next to me with loads of curly hair—is NOT my boyfriend.” Geez, and I thought having a twin brother was a date killer!! Don’t make assumptions, people.) And slowly but surely, I’m beginning to work again. This one has been the hardest, and for those of you who know me, I love to work, and I love to do lots of work. But for whatever reason—may it be the lack of a break between FSU and moving, may it be the transition from grad student to faculty member, or may it be transitioning into a new environment—I’ve struggled to get hard-core work accomplished. It’s happening, though. I have even color-coded the next month on my calendar—now you know I’m moving in the right direction. **One might think that without cable or internet that by now I would have gotten loads of work accomplished at home. You, my friend, would be sadly mistaken. I’ve been too busy playing with my hair.