I'll never understand

Oklahoma City. Gabby Giffords. Norway. Columbine. Virginia Tech. Tuscaloosa just last week. Aurora, Colorado.

I feel so discouraged. I spend every day of my life trying to make lives better, trying to help people see the possibilities of a better life. I try--I really try--to help people who have seen the worst that the world has to offer to reframe and focus on light and love and kindness.

Maybe I am just naive in thinking that love and kindness matter at all.

And don't get me started on the warped interpretations of the Second Amendment that make these events not only possible, but ubiquitous. More than 300,000 people have been killed in the U.S. as the result of gun violence since the terrorist attacks of 9/11, but nobody cares. There is no call to action, and just mentioning anything negative about guns will get the bible-thumping NRA zealots calling you un-American and ready to well, shoot you down. And they win. They always win. I'll bet most of them have never actually read the Second Amendment, and of those who have, they've chosen to be blind to the part about access to guns for the purpose of a well-prepared militia. I don't think the Founding Fathers meant every man and woman should be his and her own personal militia.

Not that we can undo the ubiquitous presence of guns in the U.S. There is no putting that genie back in the bottle.

Instead, those who are angry, impatient, ill, obsessed, insecure, or violent will always have access to that thing they worship. Guns have only one purpose, and that is to perpetuate violence, be it in war, in law enforcement, on the streets, or against nature's animals.

We can't undo the flow of guns, but among the information included in the reports of Thursday's violence was the bit about how the shooter had purchased about 6,000 rounds of ammunition in the last few months. And that was perfectly OK.

This reminded me of something Chris Rock said in his act several years ago. His modest proposal wasn't to eliminate guns, but rather to make them impossibly expensive to use. If you haven't seen this before, take two minutes. It's funny and smart. Even if you have seen it, watch it again.


Personally, I think he's onto something. Not that it matters. The crybabies in the NRA will always find a way to bully and shout down any voice of reason. It's what they do. I wonder if they get a collective hard on every time a mass murderer lets loose with an automatic assault weapon. I'll bet they do. They probably come all over themselves when they think about how it could have been them dominating and eliminating innocent people who weren't angry and insecure enough to be similarly armed. And they revel in knowing it's perfectly legal but, as they see it, maybe still a bit too regulated.

They win. They continue to win, and people like me, who advocate peace, kindness, and a more highly developed sense of human compassion, well, I'm not sure there's a practical place in the world for us anymore.

The biggest barrier

No, this isn't me.
I'm about that size, though

It has been four days since I joined the gym, but I still haven't gone. I fear workout clothes. Yes, I do. More than that, I am avoiding something that my house lacks but is ubiquitous in every gym: full-length mirrors.

The only time I use or dare to even look into a full-length mirror is when I'm trying on clothes in a store dressing room.

Having to even catch a glimpse of myself when I'm exercising is so repugnant to me that it's actually stopping me from going to the gym.

I know this is a mental problem, but I haven't been able to get past it for about 20 years. True.

I need help

I need help, but I couldn't for the life of me, if asked, tell you what I need or what the problem is.

I'm being dogged by a nearly overwhelming sense of dread and anxiety. Not worrying--that would imply something specific. It's more like the feeling that something terrible is happening but I just don't know what it is.

I've been told this is pretty common among women my age and is often a symptom of the onset of menopause. That would actually be great, because that's treatable with hormones and menopause is a process with an end to it.

Eh, I don't know. Maybe I'm just neurotic and too far gone to ever be rewired..

Exercise in futility

Frank and I joined a gym today. Yesterday, we drove around and visited several fitness facilities close to our house. It started to feel like a parallel-universe version of "House Hunters."

Number 1: 24 Hour Fitness--not even up for consideration. Too crowded and too full of younger people looking for a hook up.

Number 2: Local Parks and Rec center--This one is close to home, affordable, has an outdoor pool, and gives us access to all rec centers in the city, but the hours aren't very good and the room with the machines is small.

Number 3: This is a smallish fitness facility that is about 1.5 miles from our house, but in a different municipality, which means we would pay the out-of-town rate. The place is only four years old, but despite top-of-the line equipment, it always seems to be mostly empty. Oddly, it has a dramatic and sweeping great room lobby that deserves mention on its own merit. There is a pocket branch of the local library in this part of the center. No communal showers. Alas, no pool, no hot tub, and parking is on the next block. Plenty of classes, though. Did I mention granite counter tops, stainless steel accents throughout, and cherry wood cabinetry in the locker rooms? Definitely not our cheapest option.

Number 4: The nearby YMCA  is familiar and Frank gets a discount through work. Lots of classes, it has an indoor pool, plenty of regular folks, but it's also overrun with children, the showers are communal, and the parking lot can be tricky to enter and exit. Certified personal trainers are really inexpensive here, though, and intensive training program package deals are amazing.

Number 5: There's a swanky fitness club on the way home from my work and reasonably close to Frank's office. Lots of beautiful people and the most comprehensive yoga schedule we've ever seen. We're not yoga people, though. It has Reformer Pilates! It also has an outdoor pool (woot!), a juice bar, massage rooms and spa facilities. It's an absolutely gorgeous and serene(!) place, and it costs a fortune.

And the one we chose was...Number 3. It's really like a boutique facility and it's still within our budget. The fact that it has state-of-the art equipment and is usually mostly empty works in our (my) favor. The showers and locker rooms are spa-like. This particular municipality doesn't have much of a residential base, but has a ton of big-box stores and hotels in a single square mile. They have more tax revenue than they know what to do with, so they built--and subsidize--this beautiful facility. I wasn't lying about the granite and cherry, so this is still like House Hunters, even though it really had no bearing on our decision.

So, the next big decision is to actually, you know, go and work out. I friggin' loathe exercise with all the depth and breadth of my being. There's not enough state-of-the-art equipment on the planet to change how I feel about that.

Would it be wrong to work out w/chilled white wine spritzers in my water bottle? It's so refreshing and could make me feel better about exercise.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program

I seem to be having a coronary artery spasm. It's that angina. That Prinzmetal's thing. I haven't had one of these in a year, since I started medication.

New and improved! Now comes with an instant-onset, splitting headache!

This isn't a bad episode, but damn, it still really hurts. How weird it is that I know what a heart attack feels like although I've never had one.

Let me fill you in: It's incredibly painful and scary as hell.

I can't figure out why I'm having this in the evening. It typically only happens early in the morning. Hmmm.

Bucket list item

Almost as good as when I was on NPR--at length--a couple of years ago. I was quoted in The Atlantic magazine! I was quoted in The Atlantic! MY words are in The Atlantic!

OK, then.

Unfortunately, what I said is incredibly pathetic. True, but pathetic. I used the name May Voirrey, but it looks like their fact-checkers figured out that May only exists here. So, I'm billed as "Anonymous." But it's still me, 100 percent, and goddammit, I made The Atlantic!

I miss

I miss friends who will spend time with me. Those who can tough it out. Eventually, I wear everyone down.

Making a list, checking it at least twice

Things to do during the two-week break from work at the end of July:

1. Get a manicure.
2. Get a pedicure.
3. Change my hair color (best to hire a professional)
4. Read at least one of the dozens of books residing on my Nook.
5. Make one piece of jewelry every day. Well, maybe every other day. OK, maybe three or four pieces over the two weeks.
6. Sew something. A bag. Curtains. Something.
7. Go to the local art museum.
8. Keep a food log. Daily. It's only two weeks.
9. Get my teeth whitened.
10. Go to one live music or theater performance. Buskers don't count.
11. Clean the bathroom.
12. Cook at least once.
13. Write my will.
14. Decide once and for all if life is worth the effort and proceed accordingly.

Help.

I've fallen deep inside my head and I can't get out.

I felt better saying it out loud

Today I stood in front of nine people to explain my part of our group-created vision board. It was for the nonprofit I helped to start five years ago. We were revisiting and articulating our vision on this, our fifth birthday as an organization.

After I had explained most of my contributions to the board, someone in the room asked me to explain a picture of many hands layered one over the other, under which there was a single word: Community. Very matter-of-factly I said, "I don't really have any friends. Not here, anyway, not in my day-to-day life. For the most part, I am not a person that other people choose to spend time with or even will spend time with outside of work situations. I feel very isolated, very lonely--and this is my culture, my country. It doesn't feel good. I imagine that the refugee women we serve must feel even more isolated, so I want our organization to help them build community across cultures and to have friendships that transcend this very specific context where we see them."

This reality of my dysfunctional relationship with the world is something I only share here, on this blog. It's not something I discuss with anyone. This was a first today. I didn't think about what I was going to say before I said it; I just spoke from my heart and spoke the truth. I can't say what anyone else thought at that moment or how they reacted. I imagine that what I said was not a surprise, although my coming out and identifying it openly may have taken those women aback. Or not.

Having explained myself openly and unapologetically, I feel better. I hate the thought that anyone might think I lack self-awareness.

First thought of the day

I woke up this morning with this thought: It doesn't matter that I have money and time for vacation. I just don't want to be on vacation alone--here or anywhere. That just feels so lame.

I researched going to fat camp. Wow. I'm about $7,000 short for that. How can they charge you $8,000 when you barely get to eat, there's no housekeeping service and no coffee? I realize they have trainers for the exercise sessions, but with, say, 20 people per group, I still think their overhead is more than covered. That's a crapload of profit. Anyway, scratch fat camp from my list of possible places to go.

I figure I'll get a mani-pedi, color my hair, get a massage, and go to the art museum. That leaves me another 13 days to pretend I'm having fun.

Grumpy, yes.

Where to go?

Vacation time is coming. Quite some time ago, I decided I didn't want to take any vacation that involved staying as a guest in someone's home. It's what I always do and it makes me feel like a loser mooch and I decided that I just don't want to do that anymore.

This has left me with nowhere to go. My budget is only $1,000 and I hate, hate, hate to drive, so given the high cost of airfare, I'm going to be stuck here at home for two weeks. That fills me with sadness and resentment. It will only reinforce how lonely I am and how little worth I have in the world.

Let me be clear: I do not "go camping," so that really limits the definition of cheap vacation. I need a clean, safe room, really good, modern plumbing that doesn't require a hike in the night, and relative relaxation. I also will be alone because Frank refuses to take a vacation. His idea of an awesome vacation is to spend all day, every day working on the house. This is not fulfilling for me on any level, not when my vacations are forced and unpaid, and I have no choice of when to take them. (My workplace shuts down for two weeks every summer to save money).

It's kind of sad if you do the research and see that $1,000--which feels like a lot of money to me--gets you essentially nothing. Maybe a mediocre, budget weekend in a Midwest city. Who the hell wants to take a "vacation" in Chicago or Kansas City in late July?

I feel like I've been emotionally withering for quite some time, and frankly, I'm so thoroughly consumed by boredom on every level, I was probably putting far too much thought into how my vacation was going to revive me or help me feel better.

Who was I kidding? My vacation is going to consist of cleaning the house and wedging my way in between the local inner-city kids cramming themselves into the municipal pool. Even if I had $5,000and somewhere to go, I would still be doing it alone.

My despair right now isn't about money. It's about being far, far, far too alone. Vacations always remind me of how solitary I really am.