cindy's world

I’d written about Avril Lavigne’s “I’m With You” before, here. When I was the most lost and forlorn, and I’m thinking of specific days, weeks, between 2003 and 2006, this song always seemed to be playing. It played in my head, on the radio, or the CD would just randomly land on that track. I never understood the chorus, which goes:
Isn’t anyone tryin’ to find me?
Won’t somebody come take me home?
It’s a damn cold night
Trying to figure out this life
Won’t you take me by the hand
Take me somewhere new
I don’t know who you are
But I… I’m with you
I’m with you
The rest of the song sets up the scenario, which is the speaker, alone, standing on a bridge in the rain, saying “I thought that you’d be here by now.” So if she’s alone, who the hell is the “you” she’s talking to? Who’s she asking to take her home? Did some random dude pass by whom she’s now hanging onto, just so she’d have SOMEBODY?

Driving to work this morning, the song came up again. This time, due to more recent experiences and perspectives in my life, I saw the song and lyrics completely differently. I saw “her,” emotionally lost and desperate, mid-air on a cold metal bridge in the rain, telling “the one” she needs him and she’s been waiting and searching her entire life. Where is he? What’s taking him so long? Even though the “you” never appears through the entirety of this song, she’s crying out to him. She wants to be “home,” and that’s not her house necessarily, that’s home with him, in his arms, in his life, where she belongs.

It’s been a joke between myself and my girlfriends from way back when that when I finally find “the one,” I was going to kick him in the shin and say, “What the hell took you so long?! Do you know what I’ve BEEN through waiting for you?!” But for years now, I’ve stopped believing that there is just one “one,” at least not in this existence, who is perfect for you/me in every enduring way from now until the end of this lifetime. I do believe in lots of “the one for now,” though. How dreary of me.

But I do hope that every girl gets to have this conversation at some point in her life…
Her: Where have you BEEN my whole life?
Him: Looking for you. And now you’re found.

I never said I wasn’t a daydreamer.

These two photos are for James. Cuz he’s a nag like that. Click “more” unless you don’t want TMI.
(more…)

On March 12, 2003, in a flash of clarity and determination, I’d written the following:

The “It’s Never Too Late for New Year’s Resolutions” Resolutions

Your life is in a downward spiral. It’s been just over 2 weeks. 5 pounds. This week you think, “I wish I would’ve stopped it last week.” It’s too late for that. Next week, do you want to again think, “I wish I had stopped it last week”? Now is the time. Stop NOW. Before you lose all progress you’d gained.
1) REPLACE the guy drama in your life with the gym. In a month, you can have more drama if you wish to let them in. Now, leave it, you’re too good to be a part of someone’s harem.
2) YOU come first. Run to relieve stress. Work out to get back at them.
3) IF you feel generous, work them into your schedule. They do not REPLACE your schedule.
4) DO NOT give what they don’t return. Learn vicariously through observation.

I’d printed this out on bright pink paper and put copies everywhere; in my car, magnetically held to my refrigerator, in my desk blotter at work. (Did you ever get the MMS photo of my desk blotter I sent to your over-featurized iPhone, Mike?)

I’m in the progress of reclaiming the spirit of those resolutions. I actually reached my goal set some weeks ago, before this crazy trial took away my lunches and evenings, and my regular dates with Mr. Gym. Reaching the goal shocked me, because I dropped below 22% body fat last week without having hit the gym for 2 weeks, AND all other factors stayed constant: bone weight, muscle weight, hydration were the same as before, the only things that’d changed were scale weight and fat percentage. Skipping so many meals, I was surprised my body didn’t kick into starvation mode and start storing fat while burning muscle. I attribute my muscle retention to the “lite” protein shakes I’d have each morning. Guess the stuff really does work.

This is the perfect time to really, REALLY hit the gym. Anything I do now should show up very nicely. Last night, for the first time in weeks, I reclaimed my gym time. It wasn’t easy — my body struggled a bit, didn’t sweat for awhile, so I know the metabolism isn’t the most lethal it’s ever been. I also normally hate the gym after work because it’s overcrowded, and it was, so I didn’t get to do everything I wanted. The only advantage to its overcrowdedness last night was that I was on the assisted pull-up machine supersetting pull-ups and tricep dips, and saw out of the corner of my eye in front of me a guy in really great shape on the standing leg press machine; I didn’t look at him directly, but soon as I was resting between sets, he walked up to me from the side and waved. It turned out to be a district attorney that I’ve worked with recently. Great guy, the only DA to come to trial having done my verdict forms for me (I was floored), and I was happy to see him. We chatted a bit before both going on with our workouts. For me, it was:
Assisted pull-ups (works back broadly, some biceps) supersetted with assisted tricep dips (works triceps and chest);
Single-legged squats (legs overall plus glutes) supersetted with supine bench press (center chest & triceps) supersetted with bent-over barbell rows (mid-back, biceps);
Prone hamstring curls (hamstrings, some calves).
An hour spent doing the above, 3 sets each, 15 reps per set or until failure.
And then I did 60 minutes of cardio on the elliptical trainer.

Keeping an eye on the time, I decided I’d shower and wash my hair at the gym and that way my hair would dry before I got home, and I could just relax at home. I normally don’t like doing that at the gym, though, because it’s just gross. This time, it wasn’t just a bit gross, but also odd. While I was toweling off my hair in the shower stall, I heard a woman in the shower area moan. Not a pained moan, more like a relaxed, happy moan. And then she sighed happily. And then moaned again. And sighed happily. “Great,” I thought, “I’d better not hear any pleasure more intense than that.” I walked out of the shower stall and passed a very heavy-set older woman sitting in the handicapped shower stall bench, curtain open, in a swimsuit. Soon, I was at the locker and was drying off some more and changing, when this woman came and sat at the bench next to where I was standing, carrying on a conversation with another woman. I recognized the voice as the moaner.

The other woman soon finished dressing and left, and I was left with the moaner on the bench, her swimsuit peeled down so that the top hung folded down over her abdominal fat rolls. I don’t know what she was doing as I was changing, because I did so with my back to her. But as soon as I reached up to take down my heels, she said to me, “Oh, you must’ve come from work.” I turned and smiled, and said yes, I did come straight from work. There was some small talk about that, how it’s a great idea to not go home first and get lazy, etc. And then the conversation made its natural end. I swung my workout bag’s strap over my shoulder. Now in a shirt but still in her swimsuit bottom, she said to me, “All I have left to do is put on my underwear.”
Eh? I didn’t know what I was expected to respond to that, so I didn’t.
“I think I’ll just not wear underwear under this,” she said to me.
“I think more people do that than you’d know,” I said to her friendly-like, thinking of myself.
“I’m just going home after this. Sometimes when I’m at home, I vacuum in just my shirt without a bra on.” She giggled hedonistically.
I shrugged at her, smiled, and said, “Hey, in the privacy of your own home, do whatever you want. If you want to vacuum naked, go ahead, it’s nobody’s business.” Thinking of myself.
Her eyes widened a bit. “Oh, no, I couldn’t do THAT.” She paused. “Well, maybe I could, with the drapes drawn,” she decided thoughtfully.
“Sure!” I said with open acceptance to her up-and-coming nudist lifestyle. “Have a nice evening!”
As I left, she said after me, “One thing you CAN’T do naked, though, is fry stuff.”
I laughed and agreed with her.

I skipped four straight meals and broke the streak today, when I was talked into eating a salami sandwich for lunch. I skipped the gym for even longer — today would be the 10th weekday in a row. Not coincidentally, that’s about as long as our current civil trial has lasted. Today the judge forgot to take a morning break and went straight through, and into lunch (again). If one of the attorneys hadn’t said something, we might’ve been on the record all through lunch. I thought my poor reporter was going to pass out. If I wanted to count other dry spells, there are plenty to count. Days since I’ve been home before 8pm, weeks since I was truly comfortable, days since I’d seen daylight, days since I’d had something to blog.

I am looking forward to the sun, though. I’ll be counting down the days until getting away — to Florida.

Ugh, I am nauseated to an extreme from konking out early in the spare room and having a fitful, restless sleep haunted by conversations that never happened. *choke* You’d think people could just shake this stuff off, but I’ve so far been unable. So I thought I’d blog.

Work: We’re now engaged in a 3-4 week civil jury trial on a product liability case. The female plaintiff is suing the manufacturer of a pallet jack machine (kind of like one of those lawnmowers you can ride on, only it lifts pallets instead of cuts grass. You’ve probably seen one at Costco.) for taking off her feet. (You think YOU’ve had a bad day at work…least you got to keep your feet!)

Home: Mr. W is a defiant patient. He can’t sit still, doesn’t want to, and has been in an unfriendly mood due to the side effects of his medication. I was directed to tell him a story a judge in the building told me this morning, about just why patients are ordered not to exert themselves after a stent is put into a heart artery. Apparently, a new stent that hasn’t incorporated itself properly into the body yet can dislodge with strenuous exercise and “torpedo” into the heart. Instant death. Mr. W’s response: “Don’t tell me stuff like that! I was going to go back to the gym in a couple of weeks regardless of what the doctor said!” *sigh*

Dodo: Adorable. Furry. Perfect.

Me: Exhausted by day, insomniac by night. I’ve been aiming for a 9pm bedtime as in my short-term goals, but it feels like there is just not enough time in the evenings to get anything done! I’m usually able to be in bed by 9:30ish, but sleep doesn’t come just because I’m horizontal. I have been able to get out of bed by 6ish. Anticipation of a long drive in my great car listening to great stuff coming out of my speakers helps a lot. I’ve lost a couple of pounds on the scale, which really isn’t the goal, but I’ve also dropped some fraction of a percent in body fat, so I’m okay with that. (Yeah, my boobs are shrinking. Oh well.) I’ve managed to hit the gym every lunchtime this week except for today, when I had to work through lunch due to case complications. I hope to get in a long (3+ mile) jog this weekend to make up for it. I wish I had the iPod tuned up, but I’ll deal.

I’d like to point out the biggest lesson from Mr. W’s recent experience.

People are consistently shocked that HE of all people had the heart attack episode, and I’ve been hearing lots of comments about, “Tell him to eat a burger and fries, cuz clean livin’ didn’t make a difference at all.” I think what people are not realizing here is that the clean living and gymming was something I made him do and he’d only started this 2 years ago. The first year of our relationship was his fighting me with comments like, “Healthy food? Yech. Organic? Sounds like bland and tasteless to me. Salt IS a flavor! Give me more salt!” But now, after laying off the crap for awhile, he realizes how much better he feels without chemicals in his body and his tongue is finally able to distinguish all the great actual flavors between ingredients. That’s the immediate advantage of cleaning up your food intake. (I’m still working on reduction of his espresso intake and alcoholic beverages, but at least he stopped the crazy energy drinks!)

In his situation, everyone in his family (both parents, all brothers) has a genetic predisposition for high cholesterol, hypertension. They’re on many prescription drugs to handle this. Some people’s livers just don’t handle cholesterol intake well — can’t filter it out, keeps producing more of it. Mr. W was determined to not get on meds, so he relied on maintaining his weight. You guys know he’s in great physical shape, which is NOT indicative of what’s flowing in his arteries. A 95% blockage in his main heart artery, plus 40-50% blocks in many different places in his body according to the operating cardiologist, means plaque build-up starting from his early 20s. If he wanted to rely on diet/exercise alone, he would’ve had to start way back then, not just two years ago.

Most health problems in people’s 40s and 50s start developing in the late teens, which is something I realized in college, so rather than count on the advent of a time machine in the future, I decided to take matters into my own hands early and do the preventative thing. I haven’t had fast food in years, and I can’t remember the last time I had a soda. I did eat at In-N-Out this month (my only exception to fast food because it’s fresher and less processed), but I only got the burger and skipped the fries and soda. I’m assuming most people don’t have the dramatic genetic predispositions of Mr. W’s family, so maybe you don’t quite have to go back SO FAR in time to make a difference. I’m gonna say, DO IT NOW.

Don’t have a future day of, “If I only knew then what I know now.” You KNOW. Do it.

Mr. W is now spending his 2nd night in the hospital after what turned out to be a heart attack yesterday at work. This evening he underwent an angioplasty which the operating cardiologist explained to me afterwards opened up the main heart artery which was blocked 95% through a long segment and a 3-4 inch stint was placed in that artery to keep it open. Mr. W was in a lot of pain coming out of the procedure so after a dose of morphine, he started dozing off. So I left.

I wasn’t even sure how to blog about this, and this post would’ve taken on a very different tone, except 3 minutes ago when I turned on the computer, an email notification came though. I didn’t read the email, but the notification displays the first 10 or so words, and it’s from his ex-wife in one of her infamous rude demeaning emails demanding money. I just absolutely lost it. I went upstairs immediately and texted Daughter, “Can you please have your mom lay off the emails? Your father is still in the hospital after his heart attack. Thanks.” I’ve been keeping both kids updated with their father’s situation, making it as non-dramatic and factual as possible. So I’m sure the ex-wife knows about the situation, and she thinks it’s appropriate to write this email. Now all the past insistence I had to stay out of their business just went out the window. She can interpret it however she wants. If she wants to be nice she can read it as an FYI that he’s not getting the emails because he’s still in the hospital. But if she has a conscience she’ll read it as it’s intended: learn about propriety, bitch. There’s a time and a place. Your money is of no importance.

Victoria’s Secret is giving out a little box of Godiva chocolates free with any $60 purchase. That seems cool and romantic, especially for those guys wanting a little sweetness for Valentine’s Day. “Look honey, I got you skimpy lingerie I want you to wear in the middle of February AND chocolates!” But to me, it’s just sort of an odd combination that feels mutually exclusive. Either you want me to look hot in “fabric” held together by four molecules of nylon and lace, OR you want me to eat chocolate. You can’t have both.

This is like the “emergency meeting” called yesterday at work, which was announced via email only hours from lunch, that required us to meet 15 minutes before the close of our regular lunch hour. That means I had to skip the gym again, so I sat at my desk and worked on divorce cases through lunch. More time was spent passing out gourmet cupcakes to all the coworkers than on the actual meeting; our supervisor wanted to give everyone a treat for upcoming V-day because today (Thursday) is Lincoln’s birthday holiday and many people took Friday before Vday off, opting for a 5-day weekend with Vday on Saturday and Monday’s President’s Day holiday. I just eyed the huge chocolate cupcakes with pink frosting that easily doubled the height of the cupcake itself. I had to skip the gym to be here; I can’t eat cupcakes, too!

My courtroom assistant enjoyed her cupcake, as did the front of her shirt.

Having the traits of an empath is harsh sometimes. Right now, for example, I feel nervous and my heart’s pounding. I’m also kinda bummed. I think absorbing everything makes me more able to counsel my friends, and I’m deadly accurate when predicting human behavior, earning me the nickname among my girlfriends of “Psychic Cindy.” But that also means that negativity bouncing in the ether out there magnifies as it drives into me. As much as I fight the Asian drama gene daily to not turn into my mother and value my father’s pragmaticism and stoicism, I’ve been disappointed more and more frequently at how sensitive I have been recently. The Cancer side of me needs the insulation, but it’s a direct clash with what’s starting to feel like my life purpose.

In the recent past I’ve been unable to discern whether a feeling is produced by me or simply reflected on me.

And maybe I’ve never been original or creative.

No, that can’t be. So few people share my oddities.

I spent a solid 4 hours on the piano at my parents’ house today. If I could make the black and ivory an extension of my creative mind again, I may be able to create. And that’s a nice outlet.

I’d always thought, in the back of my mind, that married people are a different species from unmarried people. Married people are grownups with serious and adult responsibilities. They have outgrown childish desires like opposite-sex friends, partying, getting drunk, staying out all night, cussing, extravagant vacations, spontaneous plans. They are good examples for society.

I know this isn’t necessarily a given, but that’s the kind of grownup I grew up looking at, and the kind of grownup I thought I’d be. But now that I’ve been married almost 5 months, I don’t feel any more grown up. I still have the same quirky humor, “off” comments, and co-ed friendships I’ve always enjoyed. I still bounce around the house on my toes, “accidentally” bouncing into my now-husband and he bounces back with me. We were having lunch with his recently legal adult daughter and her friend over the weekend at a panini restaurant when we (Mr. W and I) got into a shoving war in the booth and I had to brace my hands against the wall and use my back to push back against Mr. W as his daughter and her friend laughed and called us children. And today, I’m meeting up with Anny for dinner and hanging out and Mr. W is meeting his old neighbor for dinner and a movie. Life as a married person isn’t much different from life as an unmarried person, and I’m pleasantly surprised. For Chinese New Year, my parents and grandma gave us both red envelopes like we were kids. “You’re not really a grownup until someone looks to you as a grownup,” Mr. W said. That makes sense; we have to be grown-up relative to something else.

Something else would probably have to be offspring. We had the “baby” talk some days ago quite inadvertently. We were driving somewhere, talking about babies, and I said as long as I have one before turning 35, I’m okay. Cuz the amniotic (sp?) fluid testing for Down Syndrome they do on age 35+ expectant mothers just gives me the heebie jeebies. And then I realized I would be turning 33 this year. Which means I need to have the baby next year. Which means I need to be pregnant soon. And I started having a panic attack. Good thing I was in the passenger seat, because I lost sensation in my legs.

Mr. W is oddly better adjusted to the idea of having this kid than I am, considering he was the one who’d previously made the decision to never have another baby. But then, he’s done it before. Twice. This is about to change my life as I know it forever. My mind ran though all the random things I’d wanted to remember in case I was ever to become a mother. Don’t give toddlers cheese, they can’t digest it. Don’t give them peanuts early, it may develop into peanut allergies. I want to document the whole process on the blog. What if the kid googles me when he/she is older and finds this blog?! Seeing a baby hand or foot sticking up through my stomach skin is creepy! I hope I can re-use my adolescent stretch marks so I don’t develop pregnancy ones. Cocoa butter, my friend swore by it. Don’t be oversensitive to what the kid says, he/she will think you’re a moron and hate you at some point. Don’t be overbearing or they’ll rebel. I’m never going to sleep well at night again worrying about where my kid is.

And this doesn’t even begin to address the most immediate hurdle: conceiving.

He said: It would never happen again.  It was doomed to die anyway.

She said: If she’d known then what she knows now, she would’ve never let it happen to begin with.

His friends said: Nothing’s happening!  Nothing’s happening!

He said: Everything’s wrong with her.

My friend said: You think it will recur if you look away, but it won’t; he doesn’t want it anymore.

They were all wrong.

And I am still more beautiful than that.