Hamlet is Fun

I wrote this piece for a creative nonfiction class during my junior year of college. I am more than a bit leary about posting something so personal on the internet, but I have decided that it doesn't have to be a big deal. While I often wish that I had made different decisions, I am becoming increasingly less ashamed of my past as I continue to mature and move forward in life. Plus, the majority of people who actually read this blog suffered through this period of my life with me anyway. If you are a newer friend or an internet friend or a random visitor and you have questions, feel free to send them my way. Because I am still kind of paranoid, I'd really appreciate comments if you read this. I'd love to hear some suggestions on improving the style or content or anything else. Thanks.

*****

"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool."

- T.S. Eliot
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

“I am Polonius.” I struggle not to giggle. I attempt to mask my high-pitched, nasally voice with caricatural grandiosity. I state the opening line of this impromptu one-woman Hamlet show on a Saturday evening in October. I am a college junior, and I have been oddly enraptured by the tragic play for over three years. I am convinced that Shakespeare intended for this role to be portrayed exclusively by a short, chubby, balding man. To compensate, I kneel on the toast colored, beer stained carpet in my friends’ living room. I straighten my back and extend my belly. Good enough. I pause for dramatic effect. My tiny audience is surprisingly attentive.

“La la la. To thine own self be true. Be a good kid, Laertes. Listen to me. I am wise and wonderful and dead sexy and very chatty. More matter, with less art, requests Gerty. Blah, blah, blah. Oh, my daughter is assuredly making Hamlet crazy. I will get to the bottom of this, yet! As I am such an unbelievably brilliant mastermind, I shall hide behind this thick, velvety curtain and uncover the truth. My stealthiness knows no bounds . . . Ow! Oooh! Ouch!” I speedily collapse and clutch my chest with both hands. For half a minute, I thrash about on the floor. My arms flail wildly. I warp my face into a slew of hideous contortions in an attempt to relay the intense pain of being stabbed.

“Oh, the agony. I am not your rat, you loser! Oh, I am slain! Sad day for me.” I draw my limbs to my chest and lie curled in the fetal position. I quickly peer up to assure that my friends are enjoying themselves. Satisfied, I return to character in order to display my perfected dead person face. The side of my head meets the floor with a heavy thud. My lips part slightly as I fix my eyes blankly ahead.

“I am Horatio.” Quickly moving on with the performance, I jump up and stand atop the center of the coffee table.

“I am the most noble literary character of all time. I am a scholar. I know lots of Latin. So what if the ghost wasn’t exactly responsive to my efforts? I am Hamlet’s only true-blue buddy - the one who sticks it out until the end. And since I’m such a great guy, I am permitted to survive this nasty bloodbath of a drama.” Pausing, I clasp my hands together and tilt my head slightly to the left. I make the most contemplative face I can render, glancing down at the imaginary dead guy.

“Now cracks a noble heart - Goodnight, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Alright, Fortinbras, march on in to restore the order in Denmark.”

“I am Gertrude.” I sit regally upon the edge of the table, crossing my legs at the ankles. I demonstrate my beauty queen wave and hold my chin high.

“Since my husband has suffered an untimely death, I might as well marry his brother. We can use the funeral leftovers for the wedding reception. What a grand and thrifty idea! Oh, my son has gone quite mad. Frailty thy name is woman!” In my manliest voice, I shout Hamlet’s blatant insult in an aggressive, yet comically drawn-out manner.

“Here, Hamlet, come in my bedroom and scream at me for a while. Then we can make out. (But only if you are Mel Gibson.) Oh, the agony! I am so torn. My husband, my son, my husband, my child, my throne, my life . . . Hamlet, honey, hand me your cup.” I form the universal choking sign with my hands. I cough, gurgle, and gag, as I farcically fall from my coffee table throne. “Oh, what a dark, sad day in Denmark.”

“I am Ophelia.” I announce the character change in a light, singsong tone. I begin to skip around in circles. It is difficult to contain my giddiness.

“I’m obedient and fair and everyone loves me. Oh, sad for Hamlet, my sort-of love. His dad is dead, and he is getting stranger by the day. Get thee to a nunnery!” My demanding Hamlet voice makes a quick reappearance.

"Um, no thanks, and you’re weird. Daddy, help! Hamlet is freaking me out. Does he honestly think I’ll look good in a habit? What? Dad is dead?” I sigh, placing the back of my hand on my forehead as I listlessly stagger around the room.

“Time to sing the remainder of my lines. I’m little Ophelia, the poor psychotic girl.” I dance about. I pass out make-believe flowers to my onlookers.

“Some rosemary for you. You get some rue. I’m beyond crazy now, and I hope you all feel guilty for the pathetically short remainders of your lives.” I stop and pull my hair from its drooping ponytail. Bending over, I fervently tousle it and shake my head in order to appear authentically disheveled.

“La la la la. Time to die. I’m off to find some heavy rocks to shove in my pockets. Fighting in my grave, boys? That’s intense, anyway.” I daintily collapse into a sloppy heap, kindly sparing my friends my interpretation of drowning oneself to death.

*****

I, like Ophelia, have also lost it. Overwhelming insecurities coupled with external stresses beyond my control have left me with disastrous coping mechanisms at points in my life. My body has been perpetually and relentlessly targeted as the scapegoat for my discontent. On a dreary afternoon in early April 2002, I arrive at my hometown cemetery. A faint drizzle of rain lingers. The sunless sky accents both the lifeless blacktop on which I travel and my colorless disposition. The cemetery is the ideal exercise facility during college breaks. It is quiet, serene, clean, and free of cost. Most importantly, I know that walking one lap around the new section and another around the old one equals almost exactly one mile. I need to accurately track the distance traveled in order to experience the slightest bit of relief.

I am alone with my thoughts. I can’t believe I ate that today. Fucking fat ass. I pinch my stomach and grasp each of my wrists. A recently consumed bagel sits sqarely in my stomach, a heavy, lumpy reminder of my ostensible failures. I try to assess the damage. Yep, definitely at least 10 pounds heavier than last week. What are people going to think when I get back to school? I can’t even be consistently sick. I glance at the rusty garbage can that rests to the right of my similarly colored car. Should I? Could I really get away with it? It’s already been at least fifteen minutes. And what if someone sees me? I drag myself past the parking area, tracing my collarbone with my fingers.

Oh, my goodness, my grades from last term . . . My second term average boasts three incompletes and a D in American Sign Language, presumably the easiest course offered at my college. A 0.9 GPA. I cringe in disbelief. Formerly an academic overachiever, I find myself abruptly plagued by an inexplicable strain of deranged perfectionism that prohibits me from accomplishing any work at all. Lovely. I’m still fat. I feel like shit, and I’ve ruined my entire college career. What a plan.

I slow my pace. I walk with my head fixed to my right. I eye every shiny, upright tombstone with the hopes of catching an accurate glimpse of myself in a makeshift mirror. After a few minutes, I approach the towering headstone of a fourteen year old killed in a car accident three days before Christmas. It is a gorgeous standout that displays a haunting etching of a weeping willow that the artistic youth sketched prior to his passing. It allows me to examine myself from the hips down. I stop and stare. Gross. My legs are way bigger than I thought. And my butt? I’m never eating again. Facing the tombstone, I press my heels together. I roll my black yoga pants to my knees and begin to scrutinize my calves. I then tug at the material hugging my thighs and measure the space between them. Elephantine. I squeeze my stomach chub and turn from side to side, examining my profile from every imaginable angle. Eventually, I force myself to continue walking, checking my arms for Oprah flub as I round the corner. People are silly. No one this fat is worthy of concern. Not entirely satisfied, I search out another means by which to view myself. I spot a large mud puddle a couple of feet to my left. I am thankful to be the lone visitor in this section of the graveyard. I straddle the edges of the misshapen circle, hovering over the murky waters in a desperate search to see myself.

Of Late

Well, I'm here.

It has been rather eventful.

On my way out of town, I prepaid for gas and then left without pumping it. I realized I did this about five minutes later, and I was luckily still able to put the gas in when I returned. (Typical.)

I didn't get lost and the little old Saab didn't break down on the trip in. I even passed one truck carrying hay and a horse and buggy. (Woo!)

I am covered in bruises. (Hmm.)

I have had pizza 4 times in the 6 days that I've been here. If I keep going at this rate, I think I might be about to gain the freshman 15, 6 years after the fact. (Bleh.)

One of those pizza eating times occured at 2:30ish AM on Saturday night. We stood on the street, wearing t-shirts covered in sloppy, blurred phrases and doused in flourescent paint (the aftermath of a "graffiti party,") surrounded by hoards of drunken, chanting college students for at least an hour waiting to buy $1.00 slices. It was worth it. (IknowI'mnotactingmyage.)

I had forgotten the extent to which my ghetto computer's constant roaring annoys me. I want to throw it off the balcony already. (Killmenow.)

My room is a mess. (Shocker.)

I forgot my hair dryer. (Dire.)

I got a cute haircut and am now rocking some super long, side-swept bangs. (Yay.)

I just found out that I wasn't chosen for the position that I interviewed for a few weeks ago. I'm pretty disappointed, as it seemed like a nice work environment. Plus, rejection always sucks. Plus, I have no money. Seriously. I'm getting panicky. I'm starting to regret picking an area to relocate to prior to securing employment. Mistakes happen, though, and I'm here. I am going to turn in a massive amount of applications tomorrow and try to remain hopeful. (Life'sabitch.)

Hodgepodge

* I love ridding my gmail account of its spam. Upon emptying the box, it cheerfully reads, "Hooray, no spam here!" It's always nice to receive encouragement for doing a good deed.

* I recently discovered that I managed to gain 9 lbs in a 5 week stretch. I laughed. Interestingly enough, I gained a similar amount of weight at right around this time last year that I subsequently lost without too much hassle. I wonder if late August/early September is, for whatever reason, Fatten Me Up Season. Maybe my body is attempting to bestow a favor upon every person I come in contact with from October through late March in the hopes that some additional padding will prevent me from incessantly whining about the degree to which I am freezing (to death, of course.) That's a nice thought.

* There is a really fun and very readable piece about the definition of feminism at Tomato Nation. You should check it out, if you haven't yet.

* My car is fixed. I should be picking it up tomorrow. It cost way more than it is probably worth to replace the ignition. I really am going to move, I swear. I have a new cell phone to prove it. Most of my stuff is at the apartment now. So much so, that I am even grungier than usual, as most of my clothes are gone. I've worn the same pair of jeans all week. Today, I am parading around in my sister's high school track sweatshirt that is marred by a prominent stain on the front and her name in cheap block letters on the back. Yeah, I'm gross. After the move, I will promptly change my jeans. I promise. That should be by Saturday morning, if not tomorrow night.

* I've been watching my 3 year old cousin Maggie this week while her mom works, as her regular babysitter had a death in the family and her regular back-up babysitters (my grandparents) are hitting up all the gambling hot spots they can find out west. It has been quite the adventure.

This is Maggie. Yes, she is playing in a parking lot.

This is sleepy, "I no need no nap" Maggie.

This is Baby. She is traveling safely. And stylishly.

These are Maggie's fuzzy, plastic toy shoes. She just had to wear them today. We went on many outings. She only fell once.

We've had a good time. She is very inquistive and very interested in my opinions about things, which she tends to adopt. She is also rather exhausting. But is has been fun. We took her to see the "pawtment," and she climbed the three sets of stairs about fifteen times with me while I moved things in. She colored on my jeans in lovely purple marker. I let her eat fudge rounds for breakfast. She explained all of the characters in That 70s Show to me as we watched. (She is obsessed.) She still calls me "Lala" (rather than "Sawa") about 50% of the time. I will miss her.

* And finally, here are some of my favorite bizarre searches that apparently led people to my blog.

1. "Hamlet bookmarkers"
2. "a rhymed poem: the person I want to marry"
3. "sarry dead people"
4. "freshman initiation sharpie face"

This is Just to Say

* When posting the pros and cons of moving away, I regretfully omitted one of the hugest reasons as to why I'm sad about skipping town. I will be ditching my work soulmate, Jenni (she received this title from a very drunk me at her very fun wedding.) She is great. Though we are always very focused on our work and would never ever be found chatting about things such as workman's comping oneself or ebay dependencies or doggie valium or gender degredation, we enjoy each other's company (silently, of course). She also made me a copy of the Grey's Anatomy soundtrack. (I love it lots.) She is also extremely crafty, to such an extent that she now serves as my personal Hallmark store, minus the cheesy wordings. She will have her own business someday. And, she makes very good chocolate chip cookies. There will be much to miss.

* After reading my previous post, Nick informed me of what he'd like to speak about at my funeral. I told him to post it as a comment, but he didn't, so I am forced to paraphrase. He claims he will talk about my creepy Kevin Bacon fascination and bring along a cardboard cutout of the actor. (I request a long haired version!) At the end of the service, he plans to fold Kevin up and tuck him into the coffin. I love it! Nick is a very good buddy, by the way. He recently made his maiden voyage to the great town of Wellsboro. He loves it a lot. I know it. He is now very jealous of Tioga Countians. Nick things he is ghetto-fab. His away messages are slightly unreadable. He the super star wedding attendee of the summer. He loves his powder blue velour jump suit. He is very tolerant of silly drunkeness. He would not let me pin sponges to myself and call my costume "self-absorbed" for his Halloween party. He loves pictures, as long as he is in them.

* Megan informed me that my emails are,"like poetry, but not." It made me smile. Megan is very cool. She is also very short. She is the best little volleyball coach/former player. She rocks the spandex. She has an extremely sunny disposition, except in the winter months. She loves Ohio a whole lot, even though she moved away. And Friends, even though there are no new shows. Playing Get Drunk Friends and Get Drunk Jeopardy with her is a blast. We have fun, except for when I act like a twit. She has bouncey/curly hair. I covet it. She loves math. And beer. She especially loves The American President.

* I have to go to jury duty selection tomorrow. I am not especially pleased. In our little dinky town, almost none of the cases actually make it to trial, so I'm told. So, though I've known for a while that I was selected, I was completely banking on not actually having to show up. I called the jury hotline this afternoon, and I wasn't so lucky. So, I am trying to devise the best plan of action for getting out of actually being picked as a juror. I think I should try to portray myself as either bigoted or unstable. Since I am a crappy liar/actress, I'm thinking the latter is my only hope. I will have to work up some tears.

* I was called something to the effect of a "disgrace to myself and all womenkind," today. I had just made a comment about how I would not want someone pushing around the pockets of fat that envelop my spleen. I was just being silly (kind of), so I think it was maybe a bit extreme. But maybe not . . .

* My brother thinks it looks like I have a mullet in my profile picture. Oops! I actually had a modified femme-mullet when I was around 9 years old. I cried for days after the damage was done.

* Sometimes I feel as though I have the same epiphanies over and over again. They always seem fresh, though.

* My aunt worries that her three year old "might have a bit of Sara in her." Apparently, she watched herself dance around in front of a mirror for a half hour the other night.

Fat Bottomed Girls You Make the Rockin' World Go Round

In the first so-called "shocking" ouster of the current season, Mandisa was voted off of American Idol. I enjoy her, but, due to my long ago solidified Elliot fangirl status, (which remains constant despite the fact that he definitely messed up Gavin DeGraw's lyrics two weeks ago), I guiltily cheered in my head a bit when her Daniel Powter funeral montage began. (I think it's rather amusing that they use "Bad Day" for every single, "final glance of the nice person you evil, tonedeaf, teenage Americans who actually vote sent packing this week" video this year. Sure, it is fitting and catchy enough, though unfortunately overplayed at this point, but there is something to be said for variety. I just hope the guy made a significant amount of money out of that deal and that he, unlike me, did not allow himself to become another one of American Idol's countless bitches.)

Here's the deal. Mandisa is undoubtedly talented. I think that most people who've listened to her sing during some of her better performances would have a difficult time disagreeing with that statement. She has a powerful, booming, borderline shouty voice - a standout type of vocal style that is lauded and revered year after year by both the American Idol judges and the viewers . . . or at least the viewers who are manipulated into believing that the judges truly know what they're talking about. In any case, it is strikingly obvious that, more often than not, bigger = better on this show, at least in terms of singing style. It is not so much the case, however, in terms of body size.

When she was first featured in the audition rounds, I was automatically on Mandisa's team. That's how I work. I find myself, through some kind of habitual, mechanical impulse, rooting for the chubby kids. I guess I must feel as though I can empathise with them, assuming that they have been taunted or left out or criticized or humiliated in their pasts. I know it's not practical to make assumptions about people I've never met, and I know that most people, no matter what their size, likely go through periods of time in which they are treated unkindly. It just seems like a given, in my (potentionally dillusional) opinion, that the chances are particularly high in situations in which the individual is overweight, especially during his/her formative years. I guess I just worry that they will be publicly criticized for their looks or deemed less worthy than their less talented, yet more conventionally attractive competitors and end up broken and defeated or something.

Needless to say, I was happy when Mandisa made it to the top 12. The girl is stunningly gorgeous. She presents herself with such a huge level of confidence and poise, and it is safe to assume that the girl is legitimately comfortable with herself and how she looks. I find myself feeling rather envious and a bit shamed in her (television-induced) presence. Throughout her appearances, she never seemed to feel the need to hide her body or to even wear clothes that might be slightly more slimming. I've heard multiple comments about how she should never wear jeans or bare her arms. I don't know, maybe the sight of her exposed, fleshy skin or the stretchy fabric clinging to her thighs started burning holes in their retinas. My retinas must already be scarred from too much tanning bed exposure, as I happen to think watching her perform in such clothing is relatively painless and pretty awesome. Why must flattering always equal slimming, anyway?

Mandisa, in my opinion, was voted off before less talented and more annoying people. Examples include, but are not limited to: Kellie Pickler (who seems to be attempting to market herself as a twangier, stringier-haired, smaller-boobed, and stupider version of Jessica Simpson. I know that seems to be an impossible feat, but she is working it pretty well thus far.); Ace Young (I yell at the tv every time I see him because he's a crappy-voiced tool, and I can't see the hotness that everyone is always fawning over); and Bucky Covington (who seems like a nice enough guy, but is a mumbler who is out of his league. My brother and I enjoy referring to him as "Bonko" for no particular reason.) While I do consider myself to be a cynical viewer, I am not a conspiracy theorist, at least on most days. I merely think that a lot of Americans are dumb or easily manipulated, especially those who vote. Regardless, I have developed a theory about Mandisa's depature that might make you roll you eyes. I don't necessarily believe it. Despite the fact that I'm devoting an increasingly lengthy post to this silly reality show, I try not to spend too much time overanalyzing its outcomes. I'm sure it was a combination of a couple of things. I wonder if her proselytizing played a part. It can definitely turn people off, but I wouldn't think it would be an issue in the eyes in the majority of voters. It's likely mostly due to the fact that she had 2 subpar performances in a row, but I'm still going to go ahead and theorize for the hell of it.

During her final performance, Mandisa sang Shania Twain's "Any Man of Mine." It's a novelty type of song, and they never seem to impress anyone too much. Her arrangement didn't allow for too much super special shouty singing and she was apparently off anyhow. (I am not the best judge of such things, as I am entirely tonedeaf.) The lyrics clearly indicate that the singer expects a man to treat her well and fulfill her desires, etc. I should probably be pondering the state of my mental health for actually pausing to take Shania Twain's lyrics into consideration, but that is another issue. So I find myself wondering if maybe Americans found a woman of her size singing those lyrics to be offputting. Like someone that big should feel lucky to have a man at all. That she is in no position to be making demands and presenting herself as sexy and desirable and worthy. She certainly lands far outside the stereotypically meek, obedient, apologetic, voiceless, invisible fat girl box. And maybe people grew tired of seeing that. I'd like to believe otherwise, but I'm not entirely convinced . . .

I know, everything isn't about fatness and feminism. It's just a thought.

And brevity is the soul of wit. I'll work on it.

This is interesting. Kind of disheartening, especially if this serves as any sort of representation of how "typical" American men think. However, I'd bet my paycheck that few of the people who posted these comments have IQs that actually hit triple digits. And stupid/ignorant people make me want to vomit, so I guess prejudices exist all around.

I Feel Your Pain, Hester Prynne

The low carb kick in my office has (at least temporarily) ended. We are playing a version of The Biggest Loser, eye doctors' office style. The competition started 2.5 weeks ago and will last until Christmas break. Everyone, with the exception of 3 people, is participating, including the doctors. The rules are as follows:

1. Liz is the official weigher inner. I assume she was chosen because she seems to be the least gossipy/catty/interested in what anyone else weighs.
2. One must pay $1.00 weekly to participate.
3. One must pay $1.00 for each pound that is gained at the weekly weigh in. (I, being a slightly masochistic dumbass who tends to get a bit overexcited about new weight loss games, created this rule.)
4. If one loses weight, one must choose a colorful star sticker bearing an encouraging word to display on one's nametag for the duration of the week. I was Super Sara for week one. Apparently, due to the fact that they are men or the bosses or people who get to wear lab coats with their names embroidered, this rule does not apply to the doctors.
5. If one gains weight, one must choose a letter sticker that represents an unflattering word to display on one's nametag for the duration of the week. This rule was fashioned in an homage to The Scarlet Letter. This week, I am "h" Sara. I chose "h" due to a limited number of "f's," (too many gainers for our measly sticker supply) and because it is so versatile, potentially standing for huge, heavy, heaviest, hippo, humongous, hippy, etc. The doctors also do not have to participate in our oh so literary take on public humiliation, despite my protests.
6. If one maintains the same weight for two consecutive weeks, one must pay $1.00.
7. If one chooses to quit participating at any point in the competition, one must pay $20.00.
8. At the conclusion of the competition, the person who loses the most weight profits from everyone else's failures. I lobbied (okay, whined) rather intensely at the beginning for the results to be based on percentage of weight lost, rather than total pounds. I had a few people on my team, but was sadly overruled by the greater game authorities. As this was my only realistic hope in coming close winning, I am aware that I am likely wasting my money. Oh, well.(I sometimes consider trying to instate a no laxatives clause, as some people think they are fun, but they seem to be far my idea of a good time. No need to piss anyone off, though.)

So, I was down 3 lbs week one, and up 6 lbs week two (probably due to some dunkin donuts, some taco dip, some kickboxing skipping, way too much beer and an unfortunate decision to move the weigh in to Monday. I was down 3 lbs by the next day, but was not permitted to reweigh. The brats . . .) I think it is funny. I am out $9.00 so far. It'll be interesting to see how things progress.

*** Note: I stand corrected. One of the doctors was sporting the letter "f" on his lapel today. Either I am a dirty, less than observant liar, or someone guilted him into it between yesterday and today, because I hadn't noticed it.***

If I Were a Rich Girl

I spend too much time pondering what I will do when I win the lottery. This is a somewhat embarrassing admission, as I usually take pride in being a more or less realistic person who can accept the world/my life for what it is without feeling the need to cloud my vision with rose/grey/rainbow tinted glasses. (Of course, this does not necessarily apply to times when I have had a few too many drinks or to my crazy period, circa late 2001 through early 2003.) I really don't like money and don't have any driving need for an exorbitant number of material possessions. I'd just like to pay off my bills, pay off my parents' bills, buy a decent car, move into my own place, and go back to school. Okay, I'd also like an ipod and a treadmill and a vacation. And maybe I'd like to go to school for forever and to only choose to work if I truly loved what I was doing. I fully comprehend that having money does not in any way guarantee contentedness, and one would have to be somewhat silly to assume otherwise. (See: Citizen Kane, The Great Gatsby, any John Cheever short story, MaryKate Olsen, etc.) What having some money should provide, however, is a certain amount of security and stability that would be very useful at this point in my life. Of course, there a few other, more realistic courses of action.

1. Quit smoking. According to this handy calculator, I would save approximately $159.38 per month and $1939.60 per year. To be honest, to see/type that amount of money makes me cringe a bit. However, that extra two grand would probably have to be poured into massive amounts of therapy and new clothes, as I would clearly a) get fat and b) go nuts (likely from a combination of living at home without smoking + dealing with work without smoking + gaining weight). The risk outweighs the cost. Sad, yes. Pathetic, sure. True, nonetheless.
2. Break my caffeine addiction. If I purchase 6 twelve packs of diet soda per week at approximately $3.00 each and spend maybe $10.00 on convenience store coffee/bottles of soda, it works out to $112.00 each month and $1344.00 per year. Again, I admit it seems a tad excessive. Similarly, I don't think it's worth the misery that a caffeine-free existence might entail. To my credit, I drink more water than soda at work now. And I could work on cutting back.
3. Pick up a second job. This may be my most doable option at this point. As I am now released from the federal government's requirements which prohibited me from picking up additional work last year, I feel kind of guilty about having free time and so much debt. Any extra money, even that from a minimum wage position, would help. More work, however, would exponentially heighten the burnout potential, as I already have a hard time making it past 9:30 when Friday evening rolls around. I may adjust to working and being "on" more often than not, though. Plenty of people do it. It would also be a hindrance to my social life, which would potentially be another cause for concern, if it exhisted on any level at the moment.
4. Reality television. Um, yeah. My mother suggests I apply for this show. Apparently they advertise in the Elmira Star Gazette, if that says anything about its potential for quality. And while I'm sure it'd be lovely to share all of my specific money woes with the world in an effort to make everyone else who is luckier or more frugal than I am feel better about themselves, I just don't think my "story" would be all that interesting. Plus, I'm not pretty enough for tv. And it doesn't appear as though the debt or any portion of it would be eliminated. I'd be willing to apply for The Amazing Race though. Anyone looking for a partner with no navigational skills who can't drive stick? Or Survivor. If I do win the lottery, I think I will send in an application. Being a millionaire will be my hook. I'll lie and play innocent/dumb/poor and all of the non-millionaires will be pissed when starvation eats my brain and I somehow accidentially reveal that I'm actually set for life. I'll give any money I win away, of course. See, there I go again . . .

Any other suggestions?

Despite Plot Holes and Implausibility, Dead Fat People Get Me Every Time

So I watched a tv show last night and it fucked with my head. Will elaborate more when I can better pinpoint why it bothered me so much.

Attention All Chubby Chasers

Three weeks ago, I came to the unfortunate realization that I managed to gain 7 lbs in one month. I'm pretty sure this takes some major talent. (Or possibly a bum thyroid, but I'm fairly certain my diet of dunkin donuts, kit kats, and pizza might be the true culprit.) I talk about the weight gain nonchalantly, and I guess I have a positive enough attitude about it. My clothes still fit and people give me confused looks and tell me they don't believe it when it comes up in casual conversation. (I have well-documented proof, damn it!) The gain has only brought me back up to my body's apparent "set-weight," if one believes in such a thing . . . a comfortable enough place where I either have to consciously eat way too much or diet rigorously to enact major changes. (And hey, if I were to have enough money/humility/self-control to join weight watchers, I would get two extra points from the get go.)

I'd like to not care, to roll with it and accept what happens. However, I seem to feel the need to possess a quantifiable goal in my life at the moment, and I can't come up with anything better than losing the weight/becoming thin/blahblahblah. Seriously, it gets old. I am sickened by the almost universal obsession with thinness purported by American women. I mean, really, what the hell does it matter? There are about 10 women who work in my office, who range from rather thin to moderately overweight, and one of the most prevalent types of nonwork-related conversations seems to constantly involve eating vs. not eating, liposuction vs. cellulite, good food vs. bad food, etc. I have only been there for two weeks, and I can't even count how many times I have been praised for being "good" and avoiding the cookies/bagels/cake/candy/take out. Yeah, I'm so good for skimping on lunch (usually because I am just too busy/stressed/poor to eat all that much while I am there). So good, in fact, that I still see a dietician once a month and have shitty skin and ruined teeth. Don't get me wrong. I harbor no malicious feelings toward these people or women in general. It's clearly not just a localized issue. It seems as though one can walk into any random grouping of women and encounter a similar situation. And I, admittedly, jump right in and contribute to the body-loathing/food categorizing efforts more often than not. I am certainly knowledgable in the subject matter. It is just somewhat jarring when it appears that I have a seemingly better attitude toward food than so many "normal" women. I don't know. Ideally, my notion of "good" involves a healthy-sized someone who eats a normal-sized lunch and then grabs a cookie unapologetically. A woman whose conversations reflect her intelligence and interests, rather than her insecurities. And, yes, I realize I am coming off as more than slightly hypocritical in this argument, but I am thankful for the small moments of insight and disappointment. At the very least, a less quantifiable, but ultimately more satisfying goal lies ahead.