Archives for February 2015

Thursday February 26, 2015Body Image, Happiness, Inspiration, Live and Learn, WomenView all 4 comments

In part because it is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, but also because it has really been on mind lately, I’ve dedicated this week’s blog posts to body image. On Tuesday, I talked about Why Do We Hate Ourselves, and in that blog I talk quite a bit about how much it truly matters what words we use to describe ourselves. But really, I think it also matters what words we use to describe each other, and what words we use to describe our ideal. I don’t care how liberated, or free-thinking you are, I’m sure you have an image or a concept of what an ideal female body looks like. That could be skinny, fit, lean, curvy, flexible, resilient or any other number of adjectives. To be completely honest with you, none of those words hold any sway with me. I couldn’t care less which of those words would be best to describe my body. The only description that I care about, my ideal, comes down to one word – healthy.

For almost a year now, I have hop-scotched from one minor illness to another, never quite getting back to 100% in between. I’m still not at 100% and have appointments with four specialists over the next two weeks. At this point, I don’t know how much longer my journey will be until I am at 100%, but through the journey thus far, I have learned two things to be absolutely true:

You’re not a hypochondriac if there’s actually something wrong. Don’t ignore persistent symptoms, get them checked out. Better to be told that you’re fine and all is well, than let something minor build into something serious.
I would choose to be healthy (whatever that happens to look like) over any other physical attribute every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Without a second’s hesitation.

Instead of focusing on being super-skinny, or applauding all of the curvy ladies or that thigh gap that was all the rage (have people finally figured out that that’s a genetic thing, and no amount of adductor exercises will give you one?) I say that we all start focusing on whether or not we are healthy. Instead of obsessing over the number on the scale, how about we obsess over our cholesterol levels or blood pressure. After having a baby, why don’t we strive to get back to our pre-baby 5K time instead of striving to get back into our pre-baby jeans? Instead of focusing on how we look in the mirror, let’s start focusing on how we look throughout the day.

Do you have enough energy and stamina for a full day of activities? Can you run around and play with kids, or easily take a flight or two of stairs if the elevator is out? In an emergency situation are you be able to run away from danger, or walk a mile or two if your car runs out of gas? Can you be on your feet for more than an hour or two (in good shoes) without joints hurting or getting a headache? Can you splurge at someone’s birthday party without worrying about your cholesterol, blood pressure or blood sugar spiking? (Or if the answer to that is no, are you taking active measures to regulate the issue?) Can you splurge and be happy at a birthday party without beating yourself up for the calorie intake? These are the questions that I care about. These are the questions that we should all care about. If you are healthy and happy, why should it matter what your butt looks like in a pair of yoga pants? Why should it matter if you have a “mom pooch,” stretch marks or a few extra pounds?

The smallest size that I have ever been in my life is a size 8, which for my 5’9”, very broad frame, was tiny. And I can tell you right now, both times that I reached that size I was far from healthy. Yes, I looked kickin’ in a mini-skirt, but internally my body was not functioning at its prime. My blood pressure was so low that more often than not I blacked out if I stood up too fast, I was anemic and from my limited food intake, was not getting all of the essential nutrients that I needed. I was also so stressed out I couldn’t see straight. That is most definitely not my ideal.

Right now, at a size 14-16, I’m not at my ideal either. I am however actively working to get there, and none of those actions involve extreme dieting, weighing myself on a regular basis, or constantly exercising. My focus is 100% on getting healthy. Which includes eating foods that are good for me, exercising, taking recommended supplements, and seeking out/following the advice of my healthcare professionals. I want to be healthy, and when I achieve that I figure everything else will have worked itself out to where it needs to be. Maybe it’s because it has been a while since I’ve been healthy, but when push comes to shove, I can’t think of anything else that is more important. So shouldn’t our ideal body type be healthy?

Tuesday February 24, 2015Body Image, Happiness, Inspiration, Life, WomenView all 5 comments

I don’t know why, but I’ve been noticing a lot more than usual how negative women are about their bodies. I don’t think this is because I’ve started hanging around particularly negative people lately, I think it’s more to do with the fact that for whatever reason I have begun to notice it, where before I must have ignored it. After all, it’s endemic. If you stop and pay attention for that specifically you’ll start to hear women in the coffee shop, the elevator, the bathroom (especially the bathroom), etc. talk about how much they HATE some part of their body. Women hate their curly hair, their straight hair, their big noses, their small teeth, their fat ankles, their thick thighs, their non-existent butts, the wrinkles on their forehead, mouth, eyes, hands etc., etc., etc. I truly believe that if you listen long enough to enough women you will hear that there is at least one woman out there that hates every single part of the female body. I honestly don’t think there is a body part that will escape scrutiny, and that makes me sad.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve definitely complained about my own body. For example, my ears don’t match. Seriously, they look completely different, like they’re from two totally different people. How does that even happen? As far as I know, ears are supposed to be a matched set, emphasis on matched! (Also, side note, do you have any idea how hard it is to take pictures of your own ears?)

I also have insanely long and skinny toes. They’ve been called everything from prehensile to gross, thank you to my sister for that one. Not to mention my feet are so narrow it’s impossible to find shoes that fit, so I always have redness or some sort of blister on my pinky toes that is impossible to hide when wearing sandals and always draws notice.

That being said, I don’t hate those things about myself. They are part of what make-up the quirky package that is Kat Michels, so how can I hate a part without eventually hating the whole? Let me say that again. How can you hate a part of yourself, without it eventually creeping in and causing a hatred of your whole self? Hate is an insidious thing, and if you give it purchase anywhere, it will eventually have purchase everywhere. So every time I hear a woman say that she hates some aspect of her appearance, it breaks my heart a little bit, because each utterance and each thought is a hammer blow on the chisel lodged in that woman’s self-worth. We as women determine our own self-worth, it comes from inside us. So every time we disparage ourselves, it gets chipped away a little bit.

I know that a lot of people will argue that they don’t actually ‘hate’ whatever body part it was that they mentioned. To them I ask, why do you say you do then? What do you actually mean if you don’t ‘hate’ it? Do you not like it, or do you wish it was different? How is that better? Why do we spend so much time fixating on the things that we don’t like? Especially things about our physical body that can’t be changed! How can you hate the wrinkles on your forehead? They are proof that you have gotten to spend time out in the sun – some of it hopefully in leisure – they are often times proof that you have smiled, sometimes they are proof that you were gravely ill, but were able to pull through, and they are irrevocable proof that you have lived long enough to get wrinkles. That is a privilege that is denied to so many, that I can’t understand where the hate comes from.

A similar argument can be made for any other body part that women hate, but better yet, let’s stop justifying things based on other people’s misfortunes. Let’s turn the focus on ourselves. Each and every body part, each aspect of our appearance makes up part of who we are. Yes, the total is greater than the sum of its parts, but the parts matter too. Not only do they matter, but how we talk about them to ourselves and to others matters. I truly believe that we need to learn to not only be nicer, but be more positive to ourselves. Instead of fixating on what we hate, we should be fixating on what we love, no matter how small. I’m not saying that you have to love each and every part of your body. That is asking way too much. But I have a feeling that if you shift your focus to the parts of you that you love, you’ll soon discover that those other parts of you all of a sudden don’t matter so much anymore. Because like hate, if you give love a place to roost, it will take over the whole damn place. And to me, that doesn’t sound too bad.

**It was brought to my attention that I should mention that I have not always felt this way or had this kind of confidence when it comes to my body. I spent all of middle and high school wishing that I could walk around with a paper bag over my head because my acne made me feel like I was hideous and gross. Even when I got to college and the acne was gone, I still didn’t have anything nice or complimentary to say about myself or my appearance. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties, with the guidance of a therapist and several years of persistent work to change my inner monologue, that I made it to where I am today.

Saturday February 21, 2015PoetryLeave a comment

You become so busy scaling the wall that you fail to see the ladder by your side,

The stairs that lead to the top of the heap, the top of the hill,

The top of the mountain that you have built

Stone by stone,

Handful of dirt, by handful of dirt.

So busy doing and preparing and striving for more, always more,

That you don’t realize that you are where you want to be.

You can stop running, stop searching, stop pushing to the breaking point,

And enjoy.

Actually revel in the fruits of your labor.

Let others come to you,

Welcome them in, ask them to stay

In the house that you built, the palace, the kingdom,

The realm that is you and your glorious work.

This is the place you call home.

Thursday February 19, 2015WritingView all 2 comments

I have an ongoing love affair with the English language, which makes a certain amount of sense, me being a writer and all. However, I don’t really know if my fascination came from being a writer, or if being a writer came from my fascination of words. It’s a bit of a chicken/egg conundrum. Not that it matters, but it’s fun to puzzle over from time to time. At any rate, on more occasions than I can count, I have been asked about why I used a specific word over another, or why I think it’s important to know ten different words that all have approximately the same definition. My answer to either of these questions is to quote Mark Twain – “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lighting bug.” And that right there is why I LOVE words.

Take the words ‘brave’ and ‘courage.’ Some people would say that they can be used interchangeably. After all, they are used to define each other.

Courage (noun) – the quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face difficulty, danger, pain, etc., without fear; bravery.

Brave (adjective) – possessing or exhibiting courage or courageous endurance

However, I would argue that they are not interchangeable, because of where the words come from. Courage is derived from the Middle English word ‘corage,’ which is the old French equivalent to ‘cuer,’ which comes from the Latin ‘cor,’ all of which mean ‘heart.’ At its very beginnings courage comes from the heart, and even today it still holds that connotation. For hundreds of years it has been believed that the heart contains ones innermost and strongest feelings. Therefore, someone who has courage, or is courageous, developed that from deep within themselves. From feelings and emotions that run to their very core. This is why those that are courageous are nearly impossible to break or hold down. The strength comes from too deep to be easily shaken.

Brave, on the other hand, has several different definitions and can be used as a few different parts of speech including a noun – a warrior, especially among North American Indian tribes – or a verb – to defy; challenge; dare. Its etymology speaks volumes to these definitions. It can be traced to the Middle French ‘brave’ meaning ‘splendid, valiant,’ to the Italian ‘bravo’ meaning ‘brave, bold, wild, savage,’ and possibly to the Latin ‘bravus’ or ‘pravus’ meaning ‘cutthroat, villain,’ and ‘crooked, depraved.’ To steal from its origins, it has a bit of a wild abandon, a violent or defiant after taste. The word ‘brave’ comes from a baser place than does the word ‘courage.’ A villain can be brave, but it would be a rare circumstance to see a villain be courageous.

So no, I don’t believe that those words are interchangeable. They are too loaded with past meanings and connotations. They can however, be combined. I believe that some of our best heroes are bravely courageous. That rare quality of standing and fighting for something that you believe in to the depth of your being, and doing so with a defiant abandon that can’t help but turn heads and draw others to the charge. Now that’s a beautiful thing. This is why I love words.

Saturday February 14, 2015PoetryLeave a comment

softly swaying in the light of the morn

a moan is ‘leased, brief and faint

floating like the whisper of a breeze

heads lean close, straining to hear

straining to catch the eerie wail

the breaking heart made audible

made real on the wind

carried away to soothe the soul

stripped of pain

left bare

clean

to start again

to grow strong

stronger than before

able to stand

resolute and unshakable

alone, but not lonely

Friday February 13, 2015Fathers, Live and Learn, WritingView all 3 comments

Growing up my dad had two go-to pieces of advice that he used for just about any situation. ‘Shit or get off the pot’ – I think it’s perfectly clear where I got my poetic turn of phrase – and ‘Pick your battles, not everything is worth getting upset about.’ While I definitely think the former was his favorite, the latter always seemed to come up when I would do something that I assumed he would get upset about – mostly because my friend’s parents had – only to find out that he wasn’t upset at all. He would simply remind me that I was a good kid, straight-a student, etc., that kids made mistakes, and that he had better things to get upset about. Now mind you, I did see him get upset on occasion, but those occasions were few and far between. Over time, I realized that those ‘better things’ were only things that truly mattered. Things that would make a difference 5 or 10 years down the road. Something that would be forgotten in a week or two, would illicit a raised eyebrow at the most.

Sometimes I have to remind myself of that. I blog on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and it is a goal of mine this year to keep to that schedule and not skip days like I did quite often last year. So this year I’ve been sticking to it, and I’ve been doing a good job of it too. Until yesterday. I didn’t get a blog written and that broke the longest streak I have ever had. This made me upset. Not crying, throw a temper tantrum upset, but enough that I was down on myself. I had broken my streak, and I didn’t like that. Then last night as I was cleaning out all of my kitchen cabinets with my roommate – long story – my dad’s words came back to me, ‘You’ve got better things to be upset about. Pick your battles.’

That’s when I realized that I had picked my battle yesterday, and I had picked it correctly. For some time now I have lost my confidence in my Heroines of History articles. I have no idea why, or what triggered this, but I find myself paralyzed when it comes down to writing them. I do the research, and I can talk about the woman all day, but for whatever reason, when it comes time to put words on the page I freeze up. I come up with something else that has to be done first, something that is more important. I push it aside and keep moving the task down my to-do list. Well yesterday, I guess I decided to follow my dad’s first piece of advice – shit or get off the pot. It was time to write that piece and get it checked off my to-do list. So I started, and I hated everything that came out. I think I rewrote the first paragraph seven times before it was even tolerable enough to move on. It was painful and laborious, but eventually I worked through the crap – fear, loathing, self-doubt – and by the time I was nearing the end of the article, I found, much to my amazement, that I was actually enjoying myself. Writing her story was making my blood flow with a purpose again.

I had chosen my battle for the day, and I had won. So what was the point of getting upset about missing a blog post? So this week I’ll blog on Tuesday and Friday. That’s perfectly acceptable. I have better things to get upset about.

Tuesday February 10, 2015Happiness, Live and Learn, Loss, MothersView all 3 comments

I have decided that this year is getting the code name, Operation: Do All the Things. Why? Because I have decided that this is the year that I am going to do all of the things that I have been wanting to do or get done. Why a code name? Because as Helen Keller once said, “Life is either a daring spy adventure, or nothing.” (At least that’s what she would have said, if Anne Sullivan would have let her play spies when she was kid.)

This is what she actually said . . .

So far, I do believe that I am off to a good start. In the first month of this year, I have, in no particular order:

Rewritten/polished the first quarter of my novel (130ish pages) and sent it off to readers
Delivered my second children’s book to the printer for publication
Maintained my blog schedule (okay mostly, I’ve been slacking on the poetry)
Got a diagnosis and game plan to get my ankle fixed
Hired to do a series of articles with the possibility of future projects
Formed an LLC
Read the first two plays in Shakespeare’s canon (I want to read all of them)
Reorganized my bedroom/closet
Cleaned out my car (My trunk still had stuff from my move 2 years ago . . .)

Needless to say, I have been busy. Beyond the obvious benefit of getting things checked off my to-do list, it has also been a wonderful distraction. Distraction not only from my aunt’s death in December, but also from the anniversary of my mother’s death . . . which was Sunday . . . and I didn’t realize that until last night. I missed the anniversary. My initial reaction was to immediately feel guilty. What kind of daughter forgets the anniversary of her mother’s death? The guilt however, was quickly replaced with joy. For the first time in 12 fucking years, I didn’t spend all of January, and the first half of February bogged down by residual and remembered emotions. For the first time in over a decade I didn’t start off my year as a complete mess.

Okay, I was still a bit of a mess, but I wasn’t paralyzed into inaction. I wasn’t stifled or hindered. Instead I made strides and moved forward. I moved on with my life. Which is both bittersweet and fantastic all at the same time. I feel like I could use a good cry and then a cheers with good friends and a bottle of wine. I’m not forgetting my mother, I’m choosing to leave the pain behind. I’m not living for my aunt, I’m living in her memory. Therefore, I am going to do all the things. It is time.

Thursday February 05, 2015Live and LearnOne comment so far

I don’t know how I became the lucky winner, but somehow I wound up as our company’s safety warden. Really I think it’s because I’m the lowest man on the totem pole who still has the gumption to tell the COO of the company that, no, he can’t go get a cookie from the kitchen, he needs to get his ass outside because the fire alarm is going off. Don’t mess with me in an emergency. I don’t care who you are, I will drag your grown-ass adult self out of the building by the ear if I have to. So really, I guess it makes complete sense why I’m the safety warden. This responsibility comes not only with the flashlight, clipboard and ever-so-attractive day-glow orange vest, but also mandatory attendance at the building’s annual safety warden meeting.

This meeting is comprised of the same things every year. Coffee, snacks, some-what amusing anecdotes and the same safety information. Occasionally there will be a new tid-bit thrown in, but for the most part same-o same-o. At this point, I’m pretty sure I could give the speech. The majority of this speech is all about preparedness. After all, I do live in Southern California and earthquakes are a regular occurrence around here. Heck, they’re so regular that anything under a 6 doesn’t even attract attention outside of the immediately affected area. One day I thought I had drunk WAY too much coffee, but it turned out we had just had a series of low grade tremors. Go figure.

Yet every time I attend, I get a bug up my ass about preparedness. Because, well, I’m extremely type-A and I don’t like to be caught unawares. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m already pretty damn prepared. I have an emergency earthquake kit at home, one in my car and one at work. Out of everybody I know, I am the most prepared. But every damn time I go to this meeting I leave with this forboding sense of IT’S NOT ENOUGH! I inevitably think of something that I’m missing from the kits, or a better way to store them, or think that I don’t have enough food or water or bandages or something.

So I will be spending this weekend going through my kits and strategizing for the worst case scenario. Not because I’m expecting or worried about the worst case scenario, but should it arise, you can bet your sweet ass that I’ll be ready. Now does anybody know where I can buy a machete?

Tuesday February 03, 2015Live and LearnView all 2 comments

Now don’t get me wrong, I ask for my share of favors from people, and some of them are doozies. Like my readers are going to discover when they realize that the first quarter of my novel that they signed up to read is 140ish pages long. That’s a big favor, and I am forever grateful to each and every one of them. I am also more than willing to return the favor to that same person, or pay it forward to others. But there is something about total and complete strangers popping up out of the blue to ask me for a favor that really raises my hackles. I’ve discovered this new phenomenon as my social media presence has grown, and despite the fact that it’s been happening for about a year now it still takes me aback.

Someone that I’ve never encountered reaching out asking me if I’ll share a tweet with my followers. Pass the word about a Kickstarter campaign, recommend a book or blog site. Inevitably all of them include the same phrase, “It’ll only take a second.” Which is true, if I knew the person and was familiar with their work. I have no problems tooting a horn for a friend, or taking a minute to go vote on a picture of their baby in a contest. However, as most of these requests tend to pop up out of the woodwork, no it will take much longer than a second. I have worked very hard to develop my following on my various social media platforms, and I pride myself in the fact that I do not spam them with crap. I have looked at and read every link that I share and if I say that I like or recommend something, it’s because I genuinely do.

So no, sharing your link or recommending your book is going to take me much more than “a second.” Especially since many of the recommendations that I post generate responses back and I don’t want to look like an idiot when someone asks me to tell them more. And while I do feel for your uncle’s roommate’s son who has leukemia and is trying to raise money for treatments, I am not going to retweet for you. I don’t know you from Adam, and for all I know “your uncle’s roommate’s son who has leukemia” is actually code for “let me see how much money I can get from the bleeding-heart suckers.” Is that horribly cynical? Yep. I’m okay with that.

I guess what I’m saying is, learn to ask for favors people! Or at the very least follow two very simple guidelines. 1. Actually know the person, or at the very least have interacted with them on more than one occasion. 2. Provide an easy out, so the person can say no if they want to without looking like an asshole. That’s fantastic that you’re eight-year-old daughter, whom I have never met, has decided that she wants to write a children’s book. But no, I have no desire to teach her how. Thanks for bringing it up and making me feel horrible for crushing your child’s dreams, though. In fact, I think I may change my name. Kat “Ruiner of Dreams” Michels, yep, it has a ring to it.

*In my defense, I did give the mother a few suggestions of things that she could do with her daughter to help her write a children’s book.