Self Archives - Page 13 of 17 - Maggie InkMaggie Ink

More power to ya

August 22, 2011

As I said before, I’m doing this running thing. (Which, to be clear, is not really running at all, but more of a rapid walking/falling shuffle, as if I keep catching myself mid-trip on a rug.)

So my inner information gatherer has been driving me to research all kind of running-related things. Eventually that led me to the Nike+ program, which appears to be a glorified pedometer. I have not purchased this gizmo yet, because all of my Apple products are too ~~ancient~~ vintage to be compatible with the Nike receiver.

Still, I am in love with one fantastic concept from the Nike+ gear — the power song. Tap a button and Nike+ instantly plays your own pre-programmed “power song,” for those moments when you need a little extra oomph.

That got me to thinking about my own power songs — the tunes I turn to for extra motivation. (And manually select from my iPod playlist because my mp3 player is ~~so old it belongs in the Apple museum~~ vintage.)

This song goes on all of my workout playlists because it has a sassy beat, it makes me want to dance and I love it. But I wouldn’t say it’s the most motivational song on my iPod.

(NOTE: This video is probably not suitable for work unless your boss is cool with Abraham Lincoln in sensual situations. And if that’s the case, your job is AWESOME.)

On the other hand, I think this tune is motivational even though I can’t identify with the lyrics (“I took the bullets outta Fifty and put ’em in my .45.” I mean, I can’t even remember the last time I did that.)

A friend put this on a mix for me when I was going through a particularly difficult personal time, and it helped to scream at the top of my lungs, “Hate it or love it the underdog’s on top, and I’m gonna shine, homie, until my heart stops!”

Sadly, Fifty Cent’s rhymes are so slow, they bring my feet down to a crawl.

So I’m leaning toward this as my power song. It’s fun, fast, brash and an old favorite.

Extending the concept a little, I’d have to look to Sonic Youth for my Life Power Song, since every little girl I know wanted to grow up to be Kim Gordon. But forget about running to this music. Just slink around and look awesome.

I will also take this under consideration. I know it’s one of those sappy songs that every girl lists as her favorite, but I can’t help it. This part gets me every time: God help you if you are a phoenix and you dare to rise up from the ash, A thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy — while you are just flying past.

Sing it, sister!

Now tell me. What are your power songs — either for working out or just living life? I’m also curious to hear any feedback on the Nike+ thingy. Do you use one? If not, how do you stay motivated during your workouts?

A running leap

August 14, 2011

It’s been nice and all, these past couple weeks of simultaneously watching “Project Runway” marathons and watching my ass get softer. But now I’m ready to get off the couch and tackle a new challenge. And that’s I why I’m signing up for my very first running race: a half marathon.

OMG, y’all.

I’m a moderately active person. I ride my bike. I walk my dog. I’ve hiked all over the world. But running? No. I have asthma and shin splints and an intense fear of tiny shorts.

But I also have this bizarre desire to invite the things that scare me most into my life.

So, taking a tip from Tim Gunn, I decided to make it work.

I completely changed my running technique so I no longer get shin splints. I managed my asthma with ridiculously expensive inhalers. And … I haven’t been swayed to the tiny shorts side yet.

I still don’t know if I can complete 13.1 miles — like, ever — but it’s worth a try. I can’t reach the finish line if I never start.

Right now I’m conditioning and using a slow but steady training program, but I’m also really enjoying the parts of running that have nothing to do with running whatsoever. Like making running playlists for my iPod. Or checking out running shoes on Zappos.com. Or going to online forums and chatting about running with other people who aren’t running.

My overall goal is to become Gabrielle Reece.

I already know how to play volleyball, so it shouldn’t be hard.

And while I wait for the Gabrielle Reece thing to happen, I’ll be busy messing around with this cool tool, which I found yesterday. It’s a site full of readymade running playlists and songs with pace times. (I like that it has a karaoke section. You know, for those times you just gotta run AND sing.) I’m too embarrassed to reveal what’s on my running mix now, but it might be of the Enrique Iglesias-featuring-Pitbull variety.

Have any of you completed a race before? What was the hardest part of your training? Am I completely insane?

Home is where the sad is

August 8, 2011

Well, I’m officially back in Palm Springs, but I’m having trouble readjusting to life here.

Part of that is because I’m not returning to the home I left behind. Just before I began my year-long trip around the world, The Husband and I moved into a smaller, more affordable place. (It was pointless for him to live in a two-bedroom, two-bathroom condo by himself, and it was easier for us to financially manage a small apartment.) We moved into this apartment just a few days before I hit the road.

While I was gone, The Husband unpacked all the boxes I left behind. In order to squeeze everything into dollhouse-sized closets, he vacuum packed all of my clothes. He erected metal shelving units to hold everything that wouldn’t fit into drawers and cupboards, he developed a special folding system for the bathroom towels, and he found the most counterintuitive location for the coffee mugs. He really did a lot of work to turn this apartment into his home.

Toss me into that recipe, and it’s confusing. I’m a stranger here. I don’t know where to put away my pajamas, I can’t locate the can opener and I shut the shower door in a way that causes water to leak all over the floor.

Then there are the inevitable weird, awkward, wonderful bits about being back in the Western world. In no particular order:

* I forget the water here is safe. I hesitate to run my toothbrush under the tap. I instinctively ask for no ice in my drinks. I can’t believe I can drink straight from the tap.

* Toilets flush. (And you can put toilet paper in them!)

* I have more clothes than I know what to do with.

* When I have to charge my electronics, I can plug them in without a converter.

* I don’t have to carry a roll of toilet paper in my bag anymore.

* Most everyone speaks English.

* When I wake up, I know exactly where I am.

* Severe sticker shock. Everything feels incredibly expensive here, which makes shopping miserable. Plus, I look at price tags and mentally calculate how many rural Ugandans could be fed for the same amount.

* The abundance of everything everywhere is overwhelming. And those who take it for granted make me angrier than I ever thought possible.

* Things here feel complicated, crowded, commercialized.

So, yeah. This has actually been the most difficult terrain for me to navigate. Roaming gave me a direction I never had when I stayed in one place — so now that I’m officially in one place, I don’t know where to go. People keep asking me about my “plan,” and I honestly don’t know what to tell them.

I’ve been very depressed, to a point where I don’t even enjoy interacting with other people or leaving my house. I don’t even know how to be social anymore. I don’t like answering superficial questions about my trip, and I know I bore people when I talk in-depth about the things that feel important to me now. I know I’m supposed to be happy and content here in the U.S., but surprisingly, this feels like the most foreign place I’ve been.

On one of my first days back, a friend asked me a question about my trip. I started to respond, “Well, when I was in Thailand …” She cut me off and mocked me, saying, “Oh, so now you’re one of those insufferable people who starts stories by saying, ‘Well, when I was in Thailand …'” She made me feel like trash, as if I have to squelch the all experiences that have been so invigorating, motivating and challenging in the past year. That kind of thing makes me wonder why I came back at all.

To be clear, not everything is bad. I’m thankful for hot showers, Twizzlers, swimming pools and real coffee. It’s really nice to crawl into bed without checking for cockroaches first. And I love spending time with my real-life husband, not just an image on Skype.

Of course I’m grateful for all the adventure, fun and surprise I’ve had during my travels, and I don’t regret anything about this trip. It’s just that after spending 12 months pining for Palm Springs, I thought this part would be easier.

I wish they made a Lonely Planet guide for home.

Travel and body image

May 31, 2011

There’s got to be more to life than just being really, really, really ridiculously good-looking.

— Derek Zoolander, international male model

I was in Ethiopia when someone told me I had an enormous nose.

“Are you Italian?” he said.

No, I replied.

He continued, “I ask that because you have such a huge, huge nose.”

Nope, not Italian, I confirmed.

“It’s just that your nose is so big,” he said. “I knew an Italian woman once, and she had a nose big like yours.”

I understand what you are saying, I told him. But I’m still not Italian.

His words stung. I’ve been self-conscious about my nose for as long as I can remember. It’s a defiantly bulbous thing that descends off my face like a lumpy potato. From the side, I think it cuts the profile of a turtle head. I do my best to ignore it and pretend like it’s not even there.

Unfortunately, this nose has become a major topic of conversation along my travels.

“So, tell me about being Jewish,” said a man at a cafe in Uganda.

I’m not Jewish, I told him.

“But your nose …” he said.

I explained that there are many different Jewish people around the world, and they all look different. I, however, am not one of them, because I am not Jewish.

“So you are a Christian woman with a Jewish nose,” he said, shaking his head. “Very sad.”

Though these discussions are uncomfortably direct, they are not always negative. On a train in India, an entire family examined my nose from all sides. Then the father pointed to his 9-month-old son.

“We massage his nose every day so it will be strong and proud like yours!” he said.

Thank you. I think?

People have been equally blunt about my shape.

“Oh my god, you are so huge,” said a motorcycle taxi driver in Uganda. “I don’t even know if this moto will go, you are so enormous.”

I’m having a difficult time now in Southeast Asia, where almost everyone is lean, petite, tiny. At a shop in Thailand, one clerk shook her head as soon as I walked in the door. “No size for you!” she yelled. I had to pay extra when I had clothes tailored to fit in Vietnam, because, as the tailor pointed out, “We need much, much fabric for big, big body.” I tower over people on the street.

I have seen so many beautiful women around the world. Plump Indian grandmothers wrapped in gold and green saris, with buttery baguettes of flesh tumbling out of the layers of fabric. Ethiopian tribes where the women rub red ochre in their braids, their skin pulled shiny and tight over firm muscles. Vietnamese women who have the complexion of eggshells and eyelashes like moth wings. Argentine women who effortlessly look like supermodels while eagerly shoveling down steaks as big as bistro tables. Egyptian women who have the entire universe in their charcoal-lined eyes, their hair pulled back and covered like a wonderful secret.

Every woman is exquisite in a multitude of ways — so you’d think after witnessing this scope of beauty, I could ease up a little on myself. Still, I crinkle my nose in the mirror and wish that I had the money to slice and dice what I see. Too big.

I have also seen so much hardship around the world. I met people who struggled to survive through genocide, famine, political unrest, abuse, inadequate health care. How could I possibly complain about my reflection when I have limbs that work, a constant supply of food and water to sustain me, a support group of family and friends and a future of wide, open opportunity? Still, I curl my hands into fists and beat on my thighs. Too big.

I thought I could out-travel my own issues and insecurities.

Instead, they’re still staring me in the face.

In need of support

May 18, 2011

I am waist deep in brassieres.

The shopkeeper thrusts more and more lacy lingerie my way, while pulling from a Jenga tower of ribbons, tulle and silk that threatens to engulf us both.

I knew it was a mistake to go bra shopping at the market in Hanoi.

Still, I have no other option. I’ve been traveling for 11 months with the same two bras. They are utilitarian. One black, one nude. They are not pretty.

Over time, the nude bra has received considerably more wear and tear. It was stained after sharing the wash with Thai pants that leaked blue dye. It is literally falling apart at the seams. It smells like a musty gym sock, thanks to a laundromat that stuffed my clothes into a plastic bag before they were fully dry. I no longer want it close to my skin.

So I was seduced by the layers of pretty lace at the market. But the shopkeeper doesn’t understand that I am a well-endowed woman.

She doesn’t speak English. I don’t speak Vietnamese.

She hands me bras that look like wispy handkerchiefs, bras so flat they are practically concave, and push-up bras with sacks of saline strategically positioned in each cup. I can’t wear those.

I point to my chest. I cup my hands in front and make a sinking gesture with my palms. “Big,” I say. “Very big.”

The woman nods. She pulls out more bras. She tosses them my way in rapid succession, like a blackjack dealer who works in underwear instead of cards.

Some of them are horrifically ugly in rhinestoned florals, garish crimson with gold sequins, cartoon characters. Some of them still have no chance of fitting around my frame.

I point to my chest again. “Very big,” I say. “Big like mango.”

A small crowd has formed now. They have come from the nearby perfume stalls, the shoe stalls, the purse stalls. They are gaping at the weird white lady who keeps grabbing herself, hoisting her boobs into the air, yelling, “Bigger!”

She nods. We go through the whole thing again. More bras, none that will ever fit. All of them have tags that say A. I scribble down letters for the shopkeeper. C? D? Z?

After searching the recesses of her stall, a look of calm washes over the shopkeeper’s face. She plops down pretty white lace with cups as big and round as Vietnamese soup bowls. She nudges it my way.

“Try,” she says.

So I try. There is no dressing room, so I have to stretch the bra over top my brown dress.

I strike a pose and model it for the crowd. A handful of people clap. Success.

Next comes the dance where we haggle over the price. However, after rummaging through 400 bras and finding only one that works, there is little room for negotiation. I want that bra, and the shopkeeper knows it.

I walk away with a $7 bra and a load off my chest.

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