Things have not gone as planned.
Ok. Some things have not gone as planned. (Others went off better than we expected.)
But big things did not go as planned.
You see, I had a plan. I'm a Virgo-- we do that. We make lists. We make plans. We persevere and see them through. In general, we're a fairly dedicated and goal-oriented bunch.
But here's the thing--I don't have any big plans anymore. At least not about my chosen career.
The market tanked. The market more than tanked--the market imploded in a not-so-brilliant display of festering puss. Seriously people. The MLA market took a 21% plus hit this year--the largest hit in its history--and those are just of posted jobs. I know that at least 1/3 of the jobs I applied for were canceled.
I look around, though, and people don't seem all that disturbed or upset by these trends. I have peers who seem happy that they didn't go on the market this year, because (in their estimation) it will somehow be better next year.
Right.
Students in my department are planning a charming little round table discussion about the future of the profession. They've proposed insightful topics like "the role of theory in literary studies" for the discussion. No one has proposed the "what if there are no tenure track jobs for the hundreds of us that are graduating" topic.
Maybe I should.
I would, but honestly, I'm too apathetic at this point. I was hoping that I was just being all gloom and doom unnecessarily-- that I was just over-reacting to a more than disappointing job search. But then I read this insightful piece in the Chronicle. If only I'd read it 6 years ago, I might have cut my losses with a Masters. At least then I'd have a better shot at Community College jobs, and I wouldn't have been spoiled by actually enjoying my research or teaching lit.
Ok. That sounds pissy. Which it is--I can't really help that.
But the bigger problem is that I am in limbo. I'll be 30 in 7 months and have no real career prospects on the horizon. I'll try the market one more time, but I'm not holding my breath on that one. I'm sticking around as a student (hopefully), even though it's really the last thing I wanted to do. But after the end of next year, come May of 2010, I will have a useless degree that I spent my 20s on and no idea what to do next.
Because I don't want to do anything else. Yet.
I hope it's a "yet" situation. If not, I could be in for a long haul.
So what does a 30-something mother of 2 with a PhD in the humanities do with herself if she can't be a professor like she expected?
Stay tuned-- one can only guess.
Showing posts with label Future Fears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Future Fears. Show all posts
11 February 2009
14 July 2008
Feminism- 21st Century Style
Last Thursday, I did my brief spiel about feminist literary criticism in my class. I asked how many of them considered themselves feminists. Out of 8, only 4 raised their hands. Two women didn't.
That's fine. It's understandable even. We've gotten to this post-feminist moment (god, I hate that phrase) where most of my generation and the generations following me think that feminism equals bra-burning man-haters and that everything has already been fixed. These are young women who never grew up thinking that there were any limitations to their lives. No one told them that someday their brothers would go to college and they'd become mommies. No one tells them that they need to make a choice between being a partner and mother or having a career. And perhaps, for many, they never will.
But the cold hard truth is that someday most of those young, bright women in my class will hit the glass ceiling so hard that their teeth will rattle. Maybe they'll grow up and get married and no one will expect them to start having babies, so they'll be safe. Maybe their husbands will even "help" around the house--how lucky they will be to have such enlightened mates. Maybe, even, they will make more than their husbands.
The cold hard truth is that for many of them--feminist or not--they will reach a point where they have to choose. Where they have to make sacrifices that their partners never even think about making.
I've been reading some of my favorite bloggers lately, and it's made me curiously aware of my own situation. While they've been struggling along, I've been very, very lucky. My own husband is a partner in every sense of the word. I cook, he cleans the dishes. He gives little man a bath, I put him to bed. I nursed, he changed every diaper. He doesn't help around the house. He doesn't babysit for me. It's his home and he maintains it; it's his child and he cares for him. Period. There is no sense that we are anything but completely equal. And that's the only way I would ever have it. I've never been willing to be someone's maid, chef, and nanny.
He was raised by a second-wave feminist--one that marched on Washington for the Equal Rights Amendment and still curses Phylis Schaffley's name if it comes up in conversation. He wasn't raised to expect anyone to cook or clean for him. He's a better feminist than many women I've met.
But the job market it coming fast. Very fast. And I am very aware that his discipline makes more money than mine. If we have to choose between positions, I will loose if it comes down to money. It makes me angry. Very, very angry. And sad. Very, very sad. Because I've been reading the saga of another mother an wife who was denied tenure and who has decided to give up her hope of a research career to keep her family together. I can't help but see the pain and anger in her posts, and she should be sad and angry. It's not fair in a lot of different ways.
Studies have shown that women with families suffer in academia. In one study about the California system, the research showed that women predominantly hold those non-tenure track positions while men who were married and had children actually did better than their non-married counterparts. For women, having children is a liability. For men, it's proof that you're stable.
And I've been reading the blog of a local mom whose husband is a grad student and who stays at home with her daughter. Except that she, too, works as a freelance writer. And she laments being the one in charge of the household alone. It's a choice, I know, but she's also fighting against a society that sees her work as less valuable than his.
And it makes me sad and angry, because this is where we've gotten. To a place where the young women don't need to be feminists, don't identify with feminism as a cause, and won't fight for it.
We still don't have an equal rights amendment. We still have a presidential candidate that claims that women are paid less because they have less education and training. We still live in a world where I cannot put a picture of my son on my web page because it might cost me a job, when it will probably get my husband one. We still live in a word where smart women pick up their husband's messes, even when they have work of their own to do. And we still live in a world where it's a given that mothers will nurture, but its emasculating for men to nurture as well. We still live in a world where the media can call a presidential candidate a bitch or some other misogynistic slur, and there's not a thing she can do about it. We still live in a world where a woman is raped every minute and for the cost of one fighter plane we could test every one of the rape kits sitting on shelves because of lack of funding.
It makes me sad. It makes me glad I have a boy. I'm not sure that I could raise a girl in this world, because how do you tell her that she can do or be anything she wants, when you know that it just isn't completely true?
Post-feminist my a$$.
That's fine. It's understandable even. We've gotten to this post-feminist moment (god, I hate that phrase) where most of my generation and the generations following me think that feminism equals bra-burning man-haters and that everything has already been fixed. These are young women who never grew up thinking that there were any limitations to their lives. No one told them that someday their brothers would go to college and they'd become mommies. No one tells them that they need to make a choice between being a partner and mother or having a career. And perhaps, for many, they never will.
But the cold hard truth is that someday most of those young, bright women in my class will hit the glass ceiling so hard that their teeth will rattle. Maybe they'll grow up and get married and no one will expect them to start having babies, so they'll be safe. Maybe their husbands will even "help" around the house--how lucky they will be to have such enlightened mates. Maybe, even, they will make more than their husbands.
The cold hard truth is that for many of them--feminist or not--they will reach a point where they have to choose. Where they have to make sacrifices that their partners never even think about making.
I've been reading some of my favorite bloggers lately, and it's made me curiously aware of my own situation. While they've been struggling along, I've been very, very lucky. My own husband is a partner in every sense of the word. I cook, he cleans the dishes. He gives little man a bath, I put him to bed. I nursed, he changed every diaper. He doesn't help around the house. He doesn't babysit for me. It's his home and he maintains it; it's his child and he cares for him. Period. There is no sense that we are anything but completely equal. And that's the only way I would ever have it. I've never been willing to be someone's maid, chef, and nanny.
He was raised by a second-wave feminist--one that marched on Washington for the Equal Rights Amendment and still curses Phylis Schaffley's name if it comes up in conversation. He wasn't raised to expect anyone to cook or clean for him. He's a better feminist than many women I've met.
But the job market it coming fast. Very fast. And I am very aware that his discipline makes more money than mine. If we have to choose between positions, I will loose if it comes down to money. It makes me angry. Very, very angry. And sad. Very, very sad. Because I've been reading the saga of another mother an wife who was denied tenure and who has decided to give up her hope of a research career to keep her family together. I can't help but see the pain and anger in her posts, and she should be sad and angry. It's not fair in a lot of different ways.
Studies have shown that women with families suffer in academia. In one study about the California system, the research showed that women predominantly hold those non-tenure track positions while men who were married and had children actually did better than their non-married counterparts. For women, having children is a liability. For men, it's proof that you're stable.
And I've been reading the blog of a local mom whose husband is a grad student and who stays at home with her daughter. Except that she, too, works as a freelance writer. And she laments being the one in charge of the household alone. It's a choice, I know, but she's also fighting against a society that sees her work as less valuable than his.
And it makes me sad and angry, because this is where we've gotten. To a place where the young women don't need to be feminists, don't identify with feminism as a cause, and won't fight for it.
We still don't have an equal rights amendment. We still have a presidential candidate that claims that women are paid less because they have less education and training. We still live in a world where I cannot put a picture of my son on my web page because it might cost me a job, when it will probably get my husband one. We still live in a word where smart women pick up their husband's messes, even when they have work of their own to do. And we still live in a world where it's a given that mothers will nurture, but its emasculating for men to nurture as well. We still live in a world where the media can call a presidential candidate a bitch or some other misogynistic slur, and there's not a thing she can do about it. We still live in a world where a woman is raped every minute and for the cost of one fighter plane we could test every one of the rape kits sitting on shelves because of lack of funding.
It makes me sad. It makes me glad I have a boy. I'm not sure that I could raise a girl in this world, because how do you tell her that she can do or be anything she wants, when you know that it just isn't completely true?
Post-feminist my a$$.
18 March 2008
The Two Body Problem...Plus One
I guess that makes it the three body problem.
But really, folks. Only in Academe could it be considered a "problem" to be settled and committed to an equally intelligent and driven partner. I vote for new nomenclature- how about the "two-body bonus"? Two bright individuals who will contribute and provide stability to a worthy institution.
Ok, so the Ivory Tower is a bit behind the times. They're trying to catch up, I suppose. In the 1970s, there where nepotism clauses that prevented institutions from hiring spouses. At least now we have a shot. (whoop. eee.)
But seriously, the two body problem is an issue. It's a bigger issue, though, if you have a three body problem. Or a four or five body problem. Maybe not if you're a male; somehow, having a family and kids makes you more attractive and seem more stable. If your a woman, you find yourself carefully expunging your professional website of any trace of baby--just in case that keeps your foot out of the door. Hubby, however, puts Little Man front and center: "My favorite budding economist," the caption reads beneath the picture of my two favorite guys somewhere in the middle of Central Park.
It's the three body problem that is even more difficult, because you don't have the option of living in different states for a little while (i.e., until you grow so far apart you file for divorce), because even long commutes between places aren't feasibly with a child in daycare somewhere.
This is something the second wave didn't deal with and something that today's young women are blissfully oblivious of....for now. There's a reason Hillary's campaign doesn't resonate with young women voters--they/we don't understand how monumental it is. As a woman, every avenue is open to you. The sky's the limit. There aren't "boy" jobs and "girl" jobs, there are smart people jobs and not-so-smart people jobs.
Until you have a baby, and then suddenly working like a man doesn't work anymore. And suddenly a "bump"* can hurt you in an interview. And suddenly you're on the "mommy track," even if you're not. You. Are. A. Liability. Your employer doesn't even have to offer you maternity leave if you haven't worked for them for more than 12 months.
Why is it a problem to be stable? To be committed? To be passionate about being more than one little box for people to fit you into?
I love watching the little undergrad chick-a-dees walking around without a care in the world. All doors are open to them. Nothing stands in their way. I was them once, never suspecting that the glass ceiling is a lot lower when you're wearing a baby bjorn.
*Really, people, who came up with this??
But really, folks. Only in Academe could it be considered a "problem" to be settled and committed to an equally intelligent and driven partner. I vote for new nomenclature- how about the "two-body bonus"? Two bright individuals who will contribute and provide stability to a worthy institution.
Ok, so the Ivory Tower is a bit behind the times. They're trying to catch up, I suppose. In the 1970s, there where nepotism clauses that prevented institutions from hiring spouses. At least now we have a shot. (whoop. eee.)
But seriously, the two body problem is an issue. It's a bigger issue, though, if you have a three body problem. Or a four or five body problem. Maybe not if you're a male; somehow, having a family and kids makes you more attractive and seem more stable. If your a woman, you find yourself carefully expunging your professional website of any trace of baby--just in case that keeps your foot out of the door. Hubby, however, puts Little Man front and center: "My favorite budding economist," the caption reads beneath the picture of my two favorite guys somewhere in the middle of Central Park.
It's the three body problem that is even more difficult, because you don't have the option of living in different states for a little while (i.e., until you grow so far apart you file for divorce), because even long commutes between places aren't feasibly with a child in daycare somewhere.
This is something the second wave didn't deal with and something that today's young women are blissfully oblivious of....for now. There's a reason Hillary's campaign doesn't resonate with young women voters--they/we don't understand how monumental it is. As a woman, every avenue is open to you. The sky's the limit. There aren't "boy" jobs and "girl" jobs, there are smart people jobs and not-so-smart people jobs.
Until you have a baby, and then suddenly working like a man doesn't work anymore. And suddenly a "bump"* can hurt you in an interview. And suddenly you're on the "mommy track," even if you're not. You. Are. A. Liability. Your employer doesn't even have to offer you maternity leave if you haven't worked for them for more than 12 months.
Why is it a problem to be stable? To be committed? To be passionate about being more than one little box for people to fit you into?
I love watching the little undergrad chick-a-dees walking around without a care in the world. All doors are open to them. Nothing stands in their way. I was them once, never suspecting that the glass ceiling is a lot lower when you're wearing a baby bjorn.
*Really, people, who came up with this??
15 February 2008
As NIU Mourns...
"She always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day."
-Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
My heart ached for Columbine. I wondered with fear at the shootings at Virginia Tech. And now, in a small college town just a few miles from Chicago, more students have died and another campus is in turmoil, and my own little sleepy prairie town is the center of questions. It seems
that the gunman was from here, was a student here, bought the guns here.
We always feel the terror from a distance. I know that I do. When a gunman killed so many at Virginia Tech, I saw my campus through a new set of lenses. I wondered if it could happen to me; what I would do if it did; if there was any chance for survival in the run-down rooms without locks or even, in some cases, working doors, in my ancient building. And now it has come as close to not happening as it could.
I ask myself, why Northern? Why not, god forbid, Follinger? Why did he feel the need to drive to another school when he was a student here? It was so close to happening, closer than I could have ever imagined...even as I did imagine. And as J and I watch the local (yes, our little hometown newscasters on location) news and as more information comes out, what becomes apparent is that these incidents seem totally, and utterly unstoppable.
There is no way to secure an area the size of a small town. There is not a fence large enough or strong enough. There is no way to screen each student and to find the one that might snap. They can just drive somewhere else. A campus is not like a high school-- we deal with mutliple buildings, larger areas, and adults.
I never thought of this profession as dangerous. I'm a library rat, after all. I live in and among books. J was just yesterday asking me if I ever thought about how funny our jobs were, in the larger scheme of things. And I do, because I teach people how to "read" books. It's not really a skill that people need in the most practical sense. I never thought of teaching as dangerous. I went to Kent State, walked by sculptures with bullet holes in them every day, and never thought of college campuses as dangerous. Surely, I thought, tragedy like that can never happen again. And yet they do. They keep happening with increasing frequency.
And there's nothing. Not a single thing. I can do about it.
And the truth is that no one's safe. No office building. No shopping mall. No school. No where. Unspeakable tragedy and grief can reach us here just as easily as it can happen anywhere else. And right now I find it very difficult to put my head around all of this. Every paper you grade, every student you upset, any stranger who picks a time and place can end the bubble of happiness and safety you've built around yourself.
And it can be paralyzing to think about it. And today I wonder every time a siren goes by (why three already this morning??). And ultimately I have no idea how to even think about this.
So I'll pull those I love closer, immerse myself in what I love to do, put everything into every day...because that bubble can pop so quickly. And all we have is now. This moment.
-Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
My heart ached for Columbine. I wondered with fear at the shootings at Virginia Tech. And now, in a small college town just a few miles from Chicago, more students have died and another campus is in turmoil, and my own little sleepy prairie town is the center of questions. It seems
that the gunman was from here, was a student here, bought the guns here.We always feel the terror from a distance. I know that I do. When a gunman killed so many at Virginia Tech, I saw my campus through a new set of lenses. I wondered if it could happen to me; what I would do if it did; if there was any chance for survival in the run-down rooms without locks or even, in some cases, working doors, in my ancient building. And now it has come as close to not happening as it could.
I ask myself, why Northern? Why not, god forbid, Follinger? Why did he feel the need to drive to another school when he was a student here? It was so close to happening, closer than I could have ever imagined...even as I did imagine. And as J and I watch the local (yes, our little hometown newscasters on location) news and as more information comes out, what becomes apparent is that these incidents seem totally, and utterly unstoppable.
There is no way to secure an area the size of a small town. There is not a fence large enough or strong enough. There is no way to screen each student and to find the one that might snap. They can just drive somewhere else. A campus is not like a high school-- we deal with mutliple buildings, larger areas, and adults.
I never thought of this profession as dangerous. I'm a library rat, after all. I live in and among books. J was just yesterday asking me if I ever thought about how funny our jobs were, in the larger scheme of things. And I do, because I teach people how to "read" books. It's not really a skill that people need in the most practical sense. I never thought of teaching as dangerous. I went to Kent State, walked by sculptures with bullet holes in them every day, and never thought of college campuses as dangerous. Surely, I thought, tragedy like that can never happen again. And yet they do. They keep happening with increasing frequency.
And there's nothing. Not a single thing. I can do about it.
And the truth is that no one's safe. No office building. No shopping mall. No school. No where. Unspeakable tragedy and grief can reach us here just as easily as it can happen anywhere else. And right now I find it very difficult to put my head around all of this. Every paper you grade, every student you upset, any stranger who picks a time and place can end the bubble of happiness and safety you've built around yourself.
And it can be paralyzing to think about it. And today I wonder every time a siren goes by (why three already this morning??). And ultimately I have no idea how to even think about this.
So I'll pull those I love closer, immerse myself in what I love to do, put everything into every day...because that bubble can pop so quickly. And all we have is now. This moment.
03 February 2008
What Children Become
Lately the news has been somber. I've been following what is happening in Kenya--the killings and the terror that seems to have taken hold of that country--and I can't help but be speechless in the face of it. I've heard stories of children and their families barricaded into their homes and burned to death. It seems as though every day there is some new story--world-class athletes being targeted for death, children cut down by machetes, whole villages terrorized. It sickens me and leaves me numb with disbelief and sadness. And Wonder.
Because the thing that I fail to be able to understand--despite knowing that history is filled with stories of horror and violence--is how these things happen. How is it that children can grow into monsters. Sure, there are those cases where a child is abused or neglected or something traumatic happens and changes the life of a child. But I have to think that for the vast majority of these cases, these people who are capable of doing such unspeakable things to other humans were once children.
These were once infants held and rocked in the arms of their mothers. Their births were life changing moments for the people around them. Strangers looked at them and smiled at the preciousness of new life, coochie-cooing over their prams or bassinet's. These people, capable of killing innocent children in horrific ways were once children themselves. And I can't quite get my head around how that sort of transformation happens.
But the thing that I find incomprehensible is that, for the most part, these transformations happen all the time- in all places. The same day that I heard about Olympic runners from Kenyan being hunted down, the Chicago news had a story about a car-jacking where a 1 year old baby was killed. The car-jacker knew that the baby was there when he went after the car, but rather than abandon the child with the car, he killed it. A gunshot. In a tiny body.
These are things that keep me up at night, my mind racing. How do you protect your child from this sort of horror--horror and violence that can happen anywhere, at any time? How do you keep your sweet and wonderful little boy from changing into something unrecognizable? How do you reconcile a God that is supposed to be kind and merciful, loving and parental, with a world in which such unspoken horrors exist? How do you keep your children safe?
And how do you keep your mind from racing at night after hearing story after a story that you are unable to do anything about?
Because the thing that I fail to be able to understand--despite knowing that history is filled with stories of horror and violence--is how these things happen. How is it that children can grow into monsters. Sure, there are those cases where a child is abused or neglected or something traumatic happens and changes the life of a child. But I have to think that for the vast majority of these cases, these people who are capable of doing such unspeakable things to other humans were once children.
These were once infants held and rocked in the arms of their mothers. Their births were life changing moments for the people around them. Strangers looked at them and smiled at the preciousness of new life, coochie-cooing over their prams or bassinet's. These people, capable of killing innocent children in horrific ways were once children themselves. And I can't quite get my head around how that sort of transformation happens.
But the thing that I find incomprehensible is that, for the most part, these transformations happen all the time- in all places. The same day that I heard about Olympic runners from Kenyan being hunted down, the Chicago news had a story about a car-jacking where a 1 year old baby was killed. The car-jacker knew that the baby was there when he went after the car, but rather than abandon the child with the car, he killed it. A gunshot. In a tiny body.
These are things that keep me up at night, my mind racing. How do you protect your child from this sort of horror--horror and violence that can happen anywhere, at any time? How do you keep your sweet and wonderful little boy from changing into something unrecognizable? How do you reconcile a God that is supposed to be kind and merciful, loving and parental, with a world in which such unspoken horrors exist? How do you keep your children safe?
And how do you keep your mind from racing at night after hearing story after a story that you are unable to do anything about?
28 November 2007
The Problem with Honesty
Or the one about weight....
As I was sitting in our university's nutritionist's office this morning, I suddenly realized that I haven't been completely truthful with myself lately. As I gave her one answer after another that sounded right, I wondered how honest I've been with myself lately.
Since Little Man's birth, I've been trying on-and-off to get back to my pre-baby weight. We knew way ahead of time when we wanted to start trying for a baby, so the year before, I had joined Weight Watchers and lost 18 lbs. I felt good then--I liked that I could go into my closet and find old clothes that my newly married euphoria had eaten me out of. I liked that I felt almost ok in a bikini at the beach. I liked that I felt healthier.
I was doing pretty well with trying to get back to that weight and trying to get back into those clothes. Until, at least, I stopped nursing. It seems like since late May, I've put on 10 lbs. I've been telling myself that I'm still practicing healthy eating habits, that I'm still living a healthy lifestyle, and that maybe my metabolism's just starting to slow down because I'm getting close to 30. I've also been telling myself that I am happy with my body and the way I look right now, and for the most part I'm telling myself the truth.
But part of my, I now realize, is lying...has been lying. It's no secret that I love food. No just food in the abstract, mind you-- really wonderful, delicious, and well prepared food. I haven't wanted to give up a bite of it. But yesterday, at a physical, I realized that my weight has now crept over the healthy BMI index into "Overweight." Sure, it's just a pound or two of overweight from Thanksgiving, but I don't want to make excuses about it. I want to do something about it. So, I made an appointment with the nutritionist, and as I answered her questions about my diet and my daily eating habits, I started to wonder just how honest I was being with myself.
It's not about looks--though, that does matter to me. It's about health. I come from a family where weight is an issue, but it's often an issue that no one wants to address or take action on. And it's not something that's talked about (except by my grandmother, who means well, but doesn't help with her comments). It's a joke that's made or an issue that's ignored, but my heart aches every time I wonder how much longer before that weight affects the health of someone I love in horrible and tragic ways. It's something that weighs on me, but I know that it's also something intensely personal, something that I cannot have an effect on, because I know--to a large extent--weight is a choice we make every single day, with every bite we take, and every meal we eat.
I can't do anything about the choices made by my loved ones, that much I know. But I can make the choice to do something about myself.
It's not much, those ten pounds. Ten pounds never is very much. Your clothes still fit, mostly. you still feel the same. But they can be a slippery slope. They can impact every aspect of your health. And as much as I would love to be back in a size 8, it's so much more important to me that Little Man never has to have his heart ache the way mine often does. I have a child to raise, and continuing to ignore this small issue, continuing to lie to myself about the reality of my daily choices is not going to give my child a mother who can run through a park with him or teach him to climb a tree.
But that's the problem with honest--it forces you to realize that the responsibility always was yours.
As I was sitting in our university's nutritionist's office this morning, I suddenly realized that I haven't been completely truthful with myself lately. As I gave her one answer after another that sounded right, I wondered how honest I've been with myself lately.
Since Little Man's birth, I've been trying on-and-off to get back to my pre-baby weight. We knew way ahead of time when we wanted to start trying for a baby, so the year before, I had joined Weight Watchers and lost 18 lbs. I felt good then--I liked that I could go into my closet and find old clothes that my newly married euphoria had eaten me out of. I liked that I felt almost ok in a bikini at the beach. I liked that I felt healthier.
I was doing pretty well with trying to get back to that weight and trying to get back into those clothes. Until, at least, I stopped nursing. It seems like since late May, I've put on 10 lbs. I've been telling myself that I'm still practicing healthy eating habits, that I'm still living a healthy lifestyle, and that maybe my metabolism's just starting to slow down because I'm getting close to 30. I've also been telling myself that I am happy with my body and the way I look right now, and for the most part I'm telling myself the truth.
But part of my, I now realize, is lying...has been lying. It's no secret that I love food. No just food in the abstract, mind you-- really wonderful, delicious, and well prepared food. I haven't wanted to give up a bite of it. But yesterday, at a physical, I realized that my weight has now crept over the healthy BMI index into "Overweight." Sure, it's just a pound or two of overweight from Thanksgiving, but I don't want to make excuses about it. I want to do something about it. So, I made an appointment with the nutritionist, and as I answered her questions about my diet and my daily eating habits, I started to wonder just how honest I was being with myself.
It's not about looks--though, that does matter to me. It's about health. I come from a family where weight is an issue, but it's often an issue that no one wants to address or take action on. And it's not something that's talked about (except by my grandmother, who means well, but doesn't help with her comments). It's a joke that's made or an issue that's ignored, but my heart aches every time I wonder how much longer before that weight affects the health of someone I love in horrible and tragic ways. It's something that weighs on me, but I know that it's also something intensely personal, something that I cannot have an effect on, because I know--to a large extent--weight is a choice we make every single day, with every bite we take, and every meal we eat.
I can't do anything about the choices made by my loved ones, that much I know. But I can make the choice to do something about myself.
It's not much, those ten pounds. Ten pounds never is very much. Your clothes still fit, mostly. you still feel the same. But they can be a slippery slope. They can impact every aspect of your health. And as much as I would love to be back in a size 8, it's so much more important to me that Little Man never has to have his heart ache the way mine often does. I have a child to raise, and continuing to ignore this small issue, continuing to lie to myself about the reality of my daily choices is not going to give my child a mother who can run through a park with him or teach him to climb a tree.
But that's the problem with honest--it forces you to realize that the responsibility always was yours.
05 October 2007
Too Fast?
The last week has brought with it an unexpected possibility for our little family. I can't really reveal too much about it-- too much is still unknown. And it's a long shot-- a very, very long shot.
But it's not inconceivable. And it's not really my possibility.
Through the excitedment about this little what-if, I've had to wrestle with the extraordinary anxiety of, 'yes, what if?'.
It's still a very far off possibility-- many, many things would have to perfectly align for it to come to be. Some of those things already have, but their are many, many more to go.
Yet the possibility of the what if coming to be scares me. It's not what we had planned at all.
When we decided to get married 6 (!) years ago, we decided first to go to grad school together. That plan eventually meant me leaving my happy little valley university for the land of corn. It was a trade up, in terms of prestige, but was still a trade. We've talked about what happens next, but the job market has always been this big looming thing in the distance. It has been the thing that has caused me increasing anxiety.
After all, when we decided to get married 6 years ago, I still wasn't sure. I thought that I wanted the PhD, but I wasn't sure. I could be, I thought, just as happy doing something else. The last 2 or 3 years have changed my perspective a bit--I published an article, did a conference presentation, passed my fields, and started to realize that I not only wanted a job, I wanted a job that would allow me to continue researching.
There's no telling what will happen. Perhaps nothing at all. But if something were to come of this possibility, it turns all of our plans about the future on their end. J thinks about things one step at a time, but I rush forward to the bigger things that would happen if the what if comes to pass. What it might mean for my career.
It would be amazing for us for this opportunity to happen. I'm just not sure how it would affect me.
But it's not inconceivable. And it's not really my possibility.
Through the excitedment about this little what-if, I've had to wrestle with the extraordinary anxiety of, 'yes, what if?'.
It's still a very far off possibility-- many, many things would have to perfectly align for it to come to be. Some of those things already have, but their are many, many more to go.
Yet the possibility of the what if coming to be scares me. It's not what we had planned at all.
When we decided to get married 6 (!) years ago, we decided first to go to grad school together. That plan eventually meant me leaving my happy little valley university for the land of corn. It was a trade up, in terms of prestige, but was still a trade. We've talked about what happens next, but the job market has always been this big looming thing in the distance. It has been the thing that has caused me increasing anxiety.
After all, when we decided to get married 6 years ago, I still wasn't sure. I thought that I wanted the PhD, but I wasn't sure. I could be, I thought, just as happy doing something else. The last 2 or 3 years have changed my perspective a bit--I published an article, did a conference presentation, passed my fields, and started to realize that I not only wanted a job, I wanted a job that would allow me to continue researching.
There's no telling what will happen. Perhaps nothing at all. But if something were to come of this possibility, it turns all of our plans about the future on their end. J thinks about things one step at a time, but I rush forward to the bigger things that would happen if the what if comes to pass. What it might mean for my career.
It would be amazing for us for this opportunity to happen. I'm just not sure how it would affect me.
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