Running uphill is not an activity from which I derive much enjoyment

For the first time in my life, I have decided to train for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. I’ve registered for the 5K for 9 straight years now. I say “registered” because there were a couple of years in my 20’s when I recall being too hung over to actually show up for the race. I told myself I was Sleeping In For the Cure. I'm sure they made great strides in cancer research with my entry fee.

Although I’ve shown up to the race most years, my training has primarily consisted of running between the couch and the pantry to grab a handful of Annie’s bunny grahams while watching a Chopped marathon. Watching the Food Network gives me one hell of an appetite. This leads to a race day performance that is, let’s just say, not representative of my potential.

With the goal of athletic redemption, I devised a training schedule that includes legitimate outdoor running of distances greater than the distance to my local Sunday brunch hangout. Mondays are now “Mile Mondays,” Wednesdays are “Wilderness Wednesdays,” and Fridays are “5K Fridays.” I can’t make things too complicated or I won’t be able to remember what I’m supposed to do. My first “Mile Monday” went pretty well. I clocked a time of less than 10 minutes, which felt like quite a victory.

My first "Wilderness Wednesday" was not such a roaring success. The intent behind Wilderness Wednesdays was to do a trail run. It seemed like a great way to enjoy nature and subsequently not feel like I’m running. I failed to take into consideration how much of our local wilderness is located on the side of a God forsaken mountain.

We decided to kick off Wilderness Wednesdays at Mt. Tabor Park. Maybe my point of view is slightly tainted after running up the face of a mountain for 20 miserable minutes, but that park sucks. The scenery includes way too many reservoirs and people (not the natural experience I had in mind), and did I mention the 20 minutes of running straight uphill? I wanted to die.

Five minutes into the run, I was gasping for breath and insisted that I could not go on. Mario was not sympathetic. He told me I’m just out of shape -- OUT OF SHAPE, HE SAID! I work out six days a week, but he accuses me of being out of shape just because I find it difficult to run up the face of a cliff. I can only think of one legitimate reason when one would ever need to be proficient at running up the face of a cliff, and that’s in the event of a tsunami. Considering that I don’t live on the coast, I don’t think I need to emphasize tsunami preparedness, MARIO.

Ten minutes into the hell run, I got dizzy. I started seeing spots. When I complained about this, Mario was like, “Those are flies, Jen. We’re outside.” I flailed my arms around in front of me and hit a few of the flies. Damn it. He was right. The flies made my situation even more dire (if you can imagine that) because now I had to breathe strictly out of my nose to avoid eating a fly. Again, Mario showed no sympathy for my fat, out-of-shape, pescetarian ass.

Just as I was on the precipice of death, we reached the top. Then we got to run down, which was a real treat for my 33 year old, fat, out-of-shape knees. At the bottom, Mario told me what a great job I’d done, which was a total lie. There’s nothing worse than someone cheering you on in an athletic endeavor when you know you’re doing horribly. It’s like getting a 3^rd place ribbon when there were only three competitors. That has happened to me, so I know exactly how stupid and demoralizing it is.

I can tell you right now that the first “5K Friday” is going to take place on a high school track in the middle of the city, where there are no reservoirs, flies, or mountains. Also, Mario might not be invited. He can go train with his college track friends, who I’m sure are every bit as good at running up mountains as he is and love to eat flies. (Except Leanne -- she’s cool.)

7th Graders are Terrifying

When I tell people that I’m afraid of 7^th graders, they usually laugh. I’m not sure if they think I’m joking or if they’re as terrified as I am and too nervous to admit it. After all, a 7^th grader might be lurking in the bushes.

I have a bevy of irrational fears. When I’m swimming in a pool, I worry about a shark attack. Even though the rational part of my brain knows that this makes absolutely no sense, the primal part of my brain forces me to swim to the side as fast as I can, claw my way out of the pool with a sense of embarrassing urgency, and scan the pool for sharks every ten minutes or so.

I’m convinced that if I turn my back on a 7^th grader for even the briefest of moments, they will taze me and dance on my twitching carcass. I contend that this fear is not irrational. I think anyone who rode my bus in junior high school will agree with me. Have you read Lord of the Flies? Well, that book was based on my 7^th grade bus.

Our bus driver’s name was Jack. At least, that’s what he told us. It would have been wise to use an alias with these kids in order to protect one’s family, but “Jack” would not have been a wise choice, so I can only assume he used his real name. I say it was not a wise choice because The Clapper was very big at the time (clap on, clap off). The theme song translated very well into “Jack on, Jack off.”

Some terrible things happened on that bus – things that only 7^th graders are capable of. I’m not talking about the standard fare of drug use and sexual experimentation. I’m talking about kids slashing the seats with a knife, ripping the foam stuffing out of the seats, soaking it with urine, and throwing it at Jack while he was driving. The stench of rage, fear, and unchecked body odor was heavy in the air. 

Every day, we would inevitably have to turn around and go back to the school because of the horrible events that had taken place. The funny thing is, I have no recollection of what actually happened when we got back to the school. Inhumane torture techniques were probably used to collect evidence against the perpetrators. I can remember my mom having to pick me up at least once a week because Jack refused to resume his driving duties for the day. I’m no psychiatrist, but I think he had PTSD by the end of that year.

This nightmare probably originated from just 2 or 3 kids who had some serious issues. I never carried a knife. I never threw things out the windows. I never assaulted Jack. I didn’t yell obscenities. I kept my pants on. I didn’t smoke anything. I certainly never urinated on anything on the bus, and I’m pretty sure none of my friends did either. However, my first-hand experience of the descent of a few troubled 7^th graders into pure savagery still serves as a cautionary tale.

Every time I encounter a group of 7^th graders, the oldest, most intuitive part of my brain says, “We’ve seen this before. Cross the street.” I will actually take shelter with drunk, homeless, gang members with nunchucks to avoid 7^th graders. I bide my time in the shadows until they proceed to 8th grade, where their complete lack of regard for the human race turns into punk sarcasm and teen angst, which I can handle with ease. 

What I learned from my DNA

Mario and I decided to get our DNA genotyped through a company called 23andMe. For $99, you get to spit in a vial and find out whether you have genes that make you more resistant/pre-disposed to certain medical conditions, sensitive to medications, or likely to display various traits. One of the traits they test for is muscle performance, and I would just like to publicly announce that I am "likely a sprinter." I'm also likely to pull a hamstring while sprinting, which I learned through field research.

So, what else did I discover? I have a decreased risk of Alzheimer's, which is great, because losing my mind is something I worry about pretty regularly. I'm more likely to have blue eyes than green, making me a self-proclaimed anomaly. I don't have the gene for alcoholism, but I really like wine (based on field research again). Finally, and most importantly, Mario and I are not related. My genes tested out at 1-2% Italian, so yeah, I was a little worried at first. I think I especially became paranoid about this after discovering that my parents are 10th cousins Once Removed. (Barf.) I'm considering getting them tested just to prove that their relation is too distant for them to share any DNA. It would make me feel a lot better. Then again, it's been fun telling my dad that inbreeding is likely the reason I couldn't learn to play the piano.

Based on DNA comparison, 23andMe actually provides you with a list of everyone else on the site to whom you're related. I enjoy genealogy (to the point of being borderline obsessive), so I get a kick out of contacting these alleged 3rd cousins to see how we're related. I've been able to figure it out a few times if the other person has a well developed family tree. It's a little bit challenging to find a common relative 4 generations back if the other person hasn't spent as much time on ancestry.com as I have (and most people haven't).

I think the most interesting thing about the relative finder feature is how many relatives I have on the site. I have 989. Mario has 180. Does that seem weird to anyone else? Based on this discovery, I can only conclude that I'm related to almost everyone in America. This means that my parents are also related to almost everyone in America. I guess I should consider myself lucky that they're only 10th cousins once removed. It could have been a lot worse.

My theory is that my colonial ancestry is the reason I'm related to so many people. I have a lot of ancestors who came to the British Colonies in the early 1600's. A lot of people in the US are probably descendants of those first 1,000 Europeans who came to America. Just so everyone doesn't think I'm too crazy, I feel compelled to point out that I'm not going to try to figure out how I'm related to all 989 of my relatives on 23andMe. I'm just going to focus on the top 20... or 30. :)  

Could we be devolving?

Yesterday I walked through an exhibit on evolution at a museum in Austin, and it got me thinking about human evolution. Over time, humans have evolved to have more useful characteristics due to natural selection. Our legs have become longer because those with longer legs could more easily catch food and escape predators, making them more likely to survive and reproduce. Our brains are larger than our ancestors because intelligence also made us more likely to survive and thrive.

Natural selection occurs in nature, but we don't live in nature any more. We live in a superficial world of our own creation where the likelihood of survival and reproduction isn't dependent on having superior genetic traits. People who might have died young due to disease or predisposition to illness live long lives thanks to our knowledge of health and medicine. Could this result in genetic predisposition to disease and illness being proliferated to the next generation? Isn't this the opposite of natural selection: devolution?

I frequently notice behavior in our society that leads me to believe that our culture is changing for the worse, not the better. The population seems to be getting more lazy. People don't appear to care about anything the way they used to. Even in my industry, it seems like innovation is pretty stagnant these days. What we consider innovative would have been considered incremental a generation ago.

Americans used to be idealistic and motivated to pursue their dreams, whatever those may have been. These days, it seems like most people are satisfied with the status quo, or their "dream" is to sit around watching reality television. For a long time now, I've assumed this shift is occurring for cultural reasons. Previous generations established traditions and policies with the intent of giving my generation a better life, but they really just enabled my generation to be lazy, to the detriment of us all.

After walking through that evolution exhibit, I started to wonder whether this shift toward laziness and apathy isn't a result of more than just cultural influences. What if we're actually devolving into dumber, more inept versions of our ancestors due to lack of natural selection? If this is true, we should be diligent to make sure we are progressing as a culture since nature isn't going to do us any favors.

If I could send a message to my generation, it would be this: I don't care what you do, but please do something to make the world a better place. Find something you care about, and take action to influence it for the better. We may be helpless against nature, but we can control the traditions and policies that we establish for the next generation. Let's make sure that the legacy we leave behind is one that makes our future, chimp-like descendants proud. 

I can't believe how hard it is to find a psychiatrist

Ok, I should rephrase that. I can't believe how hard it is to find a psychiatrist who meets my standards.

Over the past two weeks, I've had several bad panic attacks. I've had panic attacks before. I got my first one in 6th grade, so I'm no stranger to them. However, I've had a really enjoyable two year hiatus. I've been doing a great job of managing my anxiety for the past two years, but it's been steadily rising for a few months now. I didn't realize just how bad it had gotten until the panic attacks started. Anxiety is a sneaky bastard.

Upon further reflection, I realized that in a typical day, I am committed to about 28 hours worth of activities. I make it work by doing things like working through lunch, skipping a couple hours of sleep, making phone calls while I'm out running, and eating cereal for dinner. It has actually been working, and I've taken great pride in this. Note that when I say that it is "working," I mean I've barely managed to stay alive.

The reality is that I've been burning the candle at both ends. I'm tired. I'm agitated. When the smallest unexpected thing happens, I can't handle it. I just didn't plan time for it in my schedule, and I can't afford any set backs. Unexpected things always happen (especially at my job), so the pile of commitments just keeps on growing. I feel like I'm drowning, so I'm in constant fight or flight mode. I prefer fight to flight, so I'm a real pleasure to be around. Considering all this, it's no surprise that I started having panic attacks again. I don't really have time in my busy schedule to hang out on the floor hyperventilating, so the time has come (once again) for me to enlist the help of a professional.

When I went to the Cigna website, I just assumed there would be dozens of mental health professionals of the highest caliber waiting to solve my problems. My primary requirement was that they were in my health insurance network because I don't need the extra stress of burning $100 bills. Once I started perusing the list, I realized my requirements were actually more numerous.

First and foremost, I refuse to consider any doctor in Vancouver. I don't think any explanation is required there.

From there, it starts to get a little fuzzy. I don't like one doctor's name. I feel like I can't trust someone with a name like "Magna Doodlepants" to help me. That wasn't actually it, but I assure you that it was equally stupid.

I don't like the next lady because she doesn't seem very solutions focused. I don't need to pay someone just to listen to me. My friends do that for free as long as I give them wine and cookies.

I don't like the next lady because she has only been practicing in this country for a couple of years, and I feel like she won't understand the cultural influences that are contributing to my anxiety.

I Google the next doctor, find a picture of her, and I'm convinced she's missing an eye. She isn't wearing an eye patch, but one of her eyes is clearly fake. I know I would just stare at it and wonder if she lost it in a knife fight instead of focusing on my shit.

The next lady is 80 years old. I can't deal with old people smell. You can't get it out of your clothes.

The next lady looks PERFECT, but specializes in pediatric psychology. Why is she showing up in my search? Clearly just to taunt me with what I can't have.

This literally goes on until I reach the end of the list, and it finally dawns on me that I know exactly what I'm looking for: Me, but a psychiatrist. Who would better understand ME than someone who is like ME: a Portland-dwelling woman under the age of 80 with a normal name who solves problems and isn't missing any body parts. I'll be damned, but she doesn't exist, so I called to make appointments with three doctors who almost met that criteria.

I'm convinced that this is going to be a terrific disaster, but I guess I don't really have much of a choice. Wish me luck.

My Anxious Life: Part 1.

I’ve always been very private about my anxiety, but I’ve come to realize that I’m just a little different from most people, and there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, my anxiety has provided me with the motivation and drive that has made me so successful and happy in life. However, my life would have been considerably easier if the anxiety had been diagnosed earlier.

I know my parents feel guilty for not recognizing my anxiety when I was a kid. They recognized early on that I was very smart, and they did their best to encourage my intellectual development. They knew I was different, but they figured the anxiety-driven behaviors were just side effects of high intellect. I actually think that might be true to some extent. Everyone I know who has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder is extremely intelligent, so maybe there is a correlation.

I wish I could have explained my anxiety to my parents when I first became aware of it at the age of three. However, even an intelligent child usually doesn’t have the self-awareness or real world perspective to recognize what the hell is going on when they have anxiety.

“Mom. Dad. Certain shit has come to light, and I think I would benefit from seeing a psychiatrist.”

I wish it would have been that way, but it wasn’t, and I don’t blame my parents for not understanding something they had probably never had any experience with. I plan to write a series of blogs about my experiences with anxiety. Maybe you’ll recognize some of these behaviors in the children or adults in your life and be able to help them identify the source and seek some help. Maybe you’ll just become more aware of generalized anxiety disorder, a condition that affects millions of Americans. It’s also possible that you’ll just find the stories entertaining, and that’s ok too.

My earliest memories of having anxiety are from my first year of pre-school. It was blanket anxiety stemming from the fact that the other 3 year olds stressed me the fuck out. They couldn’t sit still. They were loud. They were unpredictable. Sometimes they threw tantrums. They slept during nap time, which was probably the only thing they did that didn’t scare me. I would lie awake quietly during nap time, savoring the silence and wondering when I would be allowed to “wake up” and read.

I told my parents that I didn’t like school because I didn’t like the other kids. A discussion immediately ensued between the two of them about my socialization (or perhaps lack thereof) with other kids my age. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I could tell that they were troubled by the situation. Soon thereafter, I had a couple of play dates with other kids my age. These play dates were slightly less stressful than school since there was only one crazy kid there, but they really weren’t enjoyable for me. I immediately learned to refrain from complaining about school.

Since there wasn’t any help coming to save me from the anxiety I felt as school, I had to figure out some way to alleviate the anxiety. I would bite the inside of my mouth because that seemed to take my mind off of the situation. I could focus on my throbbing, bloody lip instead of the kid who was running around screaming “POOP!!!” Unfortunately, that didn’t always work. Sometimes there were several kids running around screaming, and on those days I needed a more powerful antidote. I started biting my hands and arms whenever I went to the bathroom. I didn’t bite them very hard, just hard enough to distract myself. The marks went away within minutes, and I felt considerably better.

Then there was a day I can clearly remember when about 10 kids shit their pants. Someone must have put laxatives in the apple sauce. The whole place smelled like the inside of a port-a-potty. The kids who shit their pants were crying. The kids who didn’t shit their pants were crying on account of the smell, and who could blame them? I couldn’t take all that noise and shit stench, so I bit the hell out of my arms during the next bathroom trip. I bit them too hard. The marks didn’t go away.

The teachers didn’t notice, but my parents did.

Mom says: “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR ARMS!?”

I think: Uh-oh. She’s mad. This isn’t good.

Mom says: “JENNIFER, I ASKED YOU A QUESTION.”

I think: I don’t want to lie, but I can’t tell the truth.

Mom says: “ANSWER ME, JENNIFER. WHAT HAPPENED?”

I say: “Someone bit me.” True, but a lie by omission of key details.

Mom says: “WHAT!? WHO?”

I think: Shit. ShitShitShit. Think fast.

Mom says: “PLEASE ANSWER ME.”

I say: “Michelle.”

Michelle was the biggest bully in the pre-school, and was always inflicting injuries on the other kids. I didn’t want to lie. I really didn’t. I’ve always hated lying, but somehow, I knew that the truth would fuck me over way more than the guilt of the lie in this situation. I still feel bad about the lie to this day.

Michelle obviously denied everything, but they didn’t believe her because she was such a horrible kid. The truth is, she didn’t get into much trouble. They just told her that she couldn’t keep beating up on the other kids, which I’m pretty sure was already part of the regular bi-weekly lecture she was getting for socking kids in the stomach. I never hurt myself again because I couldn’t bear the thought of telling another lie, or worse yet, getting caught in the truth.

How much do clothes cost in the Matrix?

Grandma's Boy is a hilarious movie. If you haven't seen it, you probably should. There's this character in the movie named JP who wears a full length black leather trench coat everywhere. At one point, there is a great exchange where the main character ends up saying, "Wow JP, that's a great outfit. How much do clothes cost in the Matrix?" I tried on this dress at Nordstrom today, and I can now inform you all that clothes cost $355 in the Matrix. I love Theory, but wow. Just wow.

Nordstrom is carrying this brand called "Milly" now that I'm not really familiar with, but their stuff is really intriguing. They have some really hot stuff, like these leather pants and this sweater. I might actually order the sweater. I would have a harder time justifying a leather pants purchase, but I still love them. However, Milly also had some stuff that I just didn't "get", like this horrible dress (1985 prom reject) and this skirt. I can kind of see what they were going for with the skirt, but the reality is that it would only look good on about two people on earth, and they're both skeletons. Either way, I like the designers for taking risks and being interesting.

I was super disappointed that Nordstrom only had about 10 swimsuits available in the store. I understand that it's the end of fall, but where is all the resort stuff? Come on! I guess I'll just wear a swimsuit from last year and hope nobody at the resort in Mexico notices. If they do, I don't know what I'll do. I'll just die of embarrassment, I guess.

I love fall and winter in the shoe department because the smell of leather is absolutely intoxicating. Despite being completely inappropriate for the season, I'm very drawn to these. I know they would be a violation of one of my fundamental shoe rules (Jimmy Choo for open toe pumps, Prada for closed toe pumps), but perhaps I would make an exception for these. On the other hand, I should probably buy a new refrigerator instead. Our ice maker is broken, and Mario keeps hitting it with a rolling pin to keep it from making this loud, annoying grumbling noise.