Februcrappy

February is my least favourite month. There is something so incredibly grey and tired about it. Every year I enter into it apprehensively, moving through its fog with trepidation, knowing it has full capability to trip me up and drag me under. I do not like February. Generally there are two lights in its favour. Three if you count the fact that it's short as months go. But this year I managed to overlook Pancake Day (easily done in a country that's a) never heard of it and b) thinks pancakes are those dumpy doughy lumps they like to stack and soak in maple syrup) and also had food poisoning on, yes on, Valentines Day. 

Also laden upon February this year is a host of Waiting, if you can have a host of Waiting, which I think you can. Waiting for feedback from agents (which eventually came and succeeded on casting more shadow on this grey dull month, so now I'm waiting for inspiration or inclination or just some oomph to revise, restart, reeverything); waiting for Green Card renewal (more on this another time, but basically we can't book our China trip until this arrives and it's been not arriving for months now); waiting for my professional life to look livelier and like it might actually be gaining momentum (it might... I'm waiting) and the usual February Waiting, which is waiting for February to hurry up and end already. 

Too many days this month I have felt inexplicably sad, an empty sort of sad that has no focus or reason, just sad. And I blame the month entirely. 

Dear February, 

You suck - go away. 

Sincerely

Hannah 

Snow

You may have been informed that we had a little snow last week (for some of you, this information will have come by way of snow burial, for others the BBC). I struggle to explain to you snowless people (and Englanders, no matter how many centimetres more than usual may have fallen in recent years, you are still snowless) just how much snow fell. 30.5 inches doesn't quite do it, nor does three feet (or thereabouts). It felt like a joke, except it was (is) everywhere and shoveling it felt like an exercise in futility. Especially when Jeremy started shoveling it off the roof, onto the deck and I was supposed to move the roof snow and the deck snow, elsewhere. Except that elsewhere quickly got filled up with snow. My solution was to get onto the roof also, as shoveling from a roof top is slightly more fun than from the ground, buoyed as I was by a sense of hilarity and farce and there's the minor thrill of the possibility of falling off the roof (which is muted by the fact that there's a mattress of snow to land on so not massively risky).

I learned this, last weekend: Snow days, in principle, are awesome. Because, in principle, they involve a day off of work sat on the couch in a snuggie with coffee and my cat and catching up on crappy TV because Jeremy's office doesn't dole out snowdays (and Jeremy moans about crappy TV that isn't animated). And that does happen and it is wonderful, but the snowday principle forgets to include the caveat of the three days of shoveling that must follow. And the week or more of walking a mile to the train and doubling ones commute because there's no parking at the office. And the necessity of wellies everywhere and always, because the icy mush on the ground pretends to be shallow but it is not.

I guarantee I will have forgotten this caveat as soon as the next snowday roles around.



Below is my weekend of Snow in pictures.

Day 1 - wake up to no work and a blizzard. Watch TV with Tronky
 thinking snow days are the best thing in the world ever. 

Day 2 - wake up to more snow than
 you've ever seen in your life ever. 

Jeremy suggests running 10 miles in it. Funny. 

Spend the rest of day 2 shoveling / watching Jeremy shovel. 

Jeremy didn't seem to see that building a
snow fort is just more, optional, shoveling. 

Spend the evening drinking hot-toddies

And eating cheese scones 

And soup with homemade bread

Finish by snuggling with Tronky

Day three was indistinguishable from day two, except that any snow novelty had thoroughly disappeared, there was less whiskey and more running 10 miles on a treadmill. Actually, day three was awful. Day four was pretty much just as awesome as day one though so it was all OK in the end. 

When I grow up.

 Everyone I know, well maybe not everyone but most, well maybe not most but many, is reevaluating, reassessing, recalculating. We’ve reached or are reaching that final line where we can no longer kid ourselves that we’re kids, that irrefutable truth that is THIRTY and we’re considering where we are and who we are and in what direction we are heading and we are deciding if we’re OK with these things. For most of those many, the answer seems to be No or Meh or Not Entirely Certain. Not that we’re all depressed and miserable and laden with regret - everyone I know going through this has sizeable positives in their lives. And Yet. We've grown up, but are we who / what / where we want to be?

I wish I'd figured out I loved writing sooner. I wish I'd been confident enough to believe I might be really good at something. I wish I'd never given up horse-riding and had taken French rather than German (nothing against German except that NO ONE speaks it other than Germans, Austrians and a few Swiss, who speak it wrong). I wish the Atlantic were smaller and flights were cheaper and my cat was more amenable to cuddles. 

None of those things are massively attainable though. I could hypothetically learn french, although I can hear Jeremy scoffing from 30 miles away given he bought me the whole Rosetta Stone thingy years ago and I am definitely not dreaming in french yet (this could, of course, be something to do with my not using the thing, but it teaches you to answer questions like 'is the boy eating an apple?' which really don't seem particularly useful.)So, wishes that primarily involve time travel for fulfillment aside, what do I want? 

I want to find an occupation where the days are not being counted off in wait for the weekend and which I can do until retirement. I want not to want to retire. That's mostly all I want. That and the body of Gisele, but that likely falls into the wish section. There are various options on the table - going back to school, striving forward in the non-profit world, crossing everything and hoping my book gets published (it's yet to be read and critiqued by my agent so we're a ways away) and becomes an overnight sensation to rival Harry Potter (ha). And then there's the having children thing, which definitely won't help with the Gisele body wish but could potentially be juggled with part time school.

So tonight I'm going to an open house for a Masters in Social Work program. It's just an open house - no commitment, just questions, and to be honest the whole prospect of returning to 'school' has me tired just thinking about it. But then I think about being an actual licensed social worker, able to do therapy (social work is a bit different over here) and to be equipped with the credentials and skills to really help people and I wonder... maybe that's what I want to be when I grow up.

Whose bright idea was this?

Two weeks in to half marathon training and it’s already old and worn and ready for the bin. What possessed me? Why didn't I do something in-between 4 and 13.1 miles? And why, if we can establish that I was possessed for a valid reason and that there was an equally valid reason for the choice in distance which I don’t think we can, did I decide to do it all in 10 weeks?

Jeremy.

"Why not sign up for another race?" (answer - because it's another race) 

“Why run 10 when you could run 13.1?” (answer – because it’s 3.1 miles less)

“Why put it off?” (answer -  because then it’s longer until I have to do it)

“You’ll never just do the running without a goal. You need a goal.” (answer, to unasked question -  bog off)

My mean and horrible husband got me into this. And at the end, if there is one and it doesn't involve tears or death, I’ll most likely say it’s all because of him and thank goodness he pushed me blah blah blah. Dear future me – you don’t have a half marathon to train for because you've already run one so shut up.

I have three miles to run tonight. And five to run tomorrow. And all I want to do is drink wine after not drinking it all week. Never get married. 

I wrote that on Friday. Since then I've ran three times, including the five mile run which was the furthest one I've yet to do. And somewhere in there I realized that each run goes a little like this: 

Before - "I'm an idiot for doing this and Jeremy's a sod for thinking it up. I really just want to sit down with wine. What? It's a no wine night? It's a no wine night and I have to run? I actually am insane. Everything is tired and heavy and I think if I move too fast I might die. Bleurggggggh"

During - "I'm an idiot for doing this and Jeremy's a sod for thinking it up. I want a shower. Ugh I hate being sweaty. Is there such a thing as running knickers, cause if there is I think I need them. I want water. My ankle itches. Why won't Jeremy slow down. Are we half way yet?* I'm definitely having a heart attack"

After - "Wow. I'm amazing. Jeremy, thank you so much for helping me do this. I feel so great. I can definitely do this."

Aaaaaand repeat. 8 weeks of this and 30 runs remaining. It's gonna get repetitive. 

* Like every horse I've ever ridden, I magically speed up as soon as we hit half way.  

Resolute

I don’t normally make resolutions. I know myself too well. I am not exact good at self deprivation / control and any resolutions I might be inclined to make would usually be eat / drink less, exercise more. Bollocks.

 Except that last year I actually managed to successfully train for and complete a four mile race. Me - who previously had never maintained an exercise schedule for more than two days (that’s not an exaggeration) – I managed to run four miles in under nine minutes per mile. Yes it had a lot to do with Jeremy appointing himself my personal trainer - and it's hard to escape a personal trainer you're married to, but still, I did it. That seemed to me to be something of a life pivot moment. And then I spent the whole month between thanksgiving and new year eating and drinking as if it were an obligation (this is an issue over here, the holiday season begins and ends with total gluttony and with very little respite in between). Seriously – at the slightest hint of hunger or just not-too-fullness, I was compelled to eat more. So that when New Year came around, two things had occurred:

1.       I believed myself capable of exercise and general self control

2.       I felt so full and gross and lumpy that I wanted to do something – anything – to feel healthy and sleek and slim.

These two things are clearly a dangerous combination. Had I just moderated my eating and drinking for a few weeks maybe what next possessed me wouldn’t have happened. Maybe I’d have signed up for another 4 mile race and left it at that. But no. Instead, I allowed Jeremy to talk me into the idea of our making joint SMART New Years goals. You know, Specific/Measurable/Achieveable etc etc. Here they are:

 1.       Eat vegetarian a minimum four days a  week. This isn’t that hard, although I think fish should count as a vegetable.

2.       Go alcohol free a minimum of three nights a week. That we have to make this a resolution makes us sound like total lushes. But the thing is we’ll often just have one drink here and there, not drinking to get drunk but just having it with dinner or because it’s there and tastes good and that didn’t seem like the healthiest way to be, or it seemed like it could well become a slippery slope. Two weeks in and I’ve already had to not drink at times when I usually would because there are other things coming up with other people where sharing a glass of wine seemed more important. So, as a resolution, it’s working. It’s also an easier way of cutting calories than not eating.

3.       Eat vegan one day a week. We gave up on this within a week. In fact I don't think we ever actually attempted it. Cheese is too tasty.

4.       Cook a delicious and fancy meal once a month. This is my favourite resolution. We did this yesterday (see pics below)… actually Jeremy did it and I finished off my book and sent it to my agent, which is crazy scary but at the end of it I got to eat rack of lamb with roasted red bliss potatoes, harissa, cucumber mint and tomato salad and a fancy olive thing on top, so that helped.


5.       Exercise for a minimum of an hour a week. Bearing in mind that prior to October I’d consistently not been exercising at all, ever, this is a big deal. A bigger deal is that the other aim that’s not an official resolution but has been put into action, is that I’m training for a half marathon. I know. It’s hilarious. It involves running four times a week and building up slowly (but not slowly enough). The schedule we’re using has me running 10 miles in four weeks time, which is terrifying because four miles totally had me almost dying this weekend.

So that's it. Not crazy hard for a normal person with a normal amount of self discipline (beyond maybe the whole half marathon thing, but that's not an official resolution), but I definitely have below average amounts. However, if we actually manage to keep it up I think it could well lead to a sleaker slimmer healthier me. And there's nothing in there about ice-cream or sugar or butter or bread, so that's awesome. I do also want to blog once a week, but I might already have failed in that so we can casually forget about that one and just make it an intention rather than a resolution.

Jeremy plating deliciousness

YUM. 

The year of the adult

I prefer reflection to planning. So much less to get wrong and so much more potential for wisdom. Hence why this first post of the New Year is about the Old One. Resolutory (not a word) posts about goals and delusions can and will come later (one resolution is to blog weekly rather than bi-monthly).

Twenty Twelve, I decided this morning while reading UK Glamour magazine and drinking coffee by the fire, was the Year of The Adult. The most adulty year of my life to date. For the first time, in twenty-twelve, all the adult things of my life so far converged into one whole year of living them. It involved being married to my husband and living in a house, an actual house with stairs and furniture, driving myself to work every day in a car that I own. And I only sort of crashed once. It wasn't even a crash as much as a moment of utter brainlessness that led to my license plate leaving an imprint on the parked car in front. I left a note (very adult) and met the guy on a street corner to give him a cheque to cover the damage (kinda dodge and unadult, but we didn't want my insurance to skyrocket). But anyway, the point is I drove my car to work  mostly without incident and when I got to work I spent the whole day working. Working. There was a lot of working, every day in fact, although I'm pretty good at squeezing the American System for every last drop of vacation remaining within it. There was a fair amount of grocery shopping. At some point, I wrote a book - which at this very moment is being critiqued by my most critiqueiest reader, a thought which terrifies me. I had a kitty to look after, and we even gave him a name after a while, or a name kind of stuck to him and refused to un-stick. Tronald. Jeremy's name creation, of course, which I have shortened to Tronky. If this were the McCarthy era, we'd probably be brought in for questioning - I definitely think of communism every time I call him (I know Tronky is not Trotsky, but it's similar enough). We grew vegetables. I took to using 'we' even when I had sod all to do with the actual process. And I finally accepted that I no longer have the eat-whatever-I-want-and-sit-down-all-day resistant body of my early twenties and I started running. I didn't stop running. OK, I stopped for an entire month between Christmas and Thanksgiving, but then I took it up again and have sort of maybe said that a half marathon might be in my next quarter's future.

I feel the need to go and do something utterly irresponsible. Or maybe I'll just go shop in Forever 21.

Tronky lying down on adultly folded napkins

running

I recently had an upsetting experience in a GAP changing room. We've all had them. Fluorescent lights and underwear chosen in the dark at 6am (when not anticipating later standing in it before an unforgiving mirror) also my ballet pumps, which I had to take off to try on trousers, smelt horrible which didn't help me not feel disgusting. It's not a new experience, but for some reason it was more upsetting than usual. I poked and prodded at myself, forgetting entirely the reason I'd declothed myself in a changing room in the first place. I'm  more or less the same weight I've always been, I thought, my clothes aren't tighter than usual, but this and that certainly seem squishier.

Anyway. I'm recounting this troubling experience not to expound on body woes but to give explanation as to what came next.

I paid money and signed up for a 4 mile run one month from now.

All you 'runners', the ones for whom 4 miles is a pitiful distance, stop scoffing. This is a big deal, and I shall tell you why. I am not a runner. I'm not an anythinger when it comes to movement and increased heart-rate. I'm more of a sitter, a curl-up-on-the-couch-er, a sleeper-inner. I don't like feeling sweaty. I don't like being out of breath. I don't like anything that could be called 'burn'. I don't like exercise. My single greatest athletic achievement to date is holding the 800 meter record for girls. In primary school. When I was nine. I basically haven't run since then. I've tried to run - I've tried to exercise - but I always get bored and tired and find infinite excuses why doing it a second time is a bad idea.

So in signing up to this race I sought to break the pattern of my lifetime. Because there's one thing I fear more than increased heart rate discomfort, and that's humiliation. And people go to watch this race. Granted I did sign up for it on condition that Jeremy runs with me and I ascertained that some people 'run' it slower than I could walk it, so chances of me coming in last are slim, but either way in signing up to do this I basically forced myself to exercise because I do not wish to embarrass myself.

And so far the plan has been working. Jeremy's been helping me - running on his own when he needs to actually train and running with me when I do.  His most successful tactic has so far been lying to me as to how far we've gone and how far we've got to go. I know his game, but it's easier to delude myself anyway so I ignore his untrustworthiness. I've already, in the space of a couple of weeks, got myself up to running 4 miles (albeit very very slowly) and we're now working on improving pace, which isn't something I care a whole lot about. When it's going well I imagine being a person who talks about being in the zone (I'm not sure I've ever glimpsed a zone), of applying an exercise verb to myself as a noun, of being able to stand in a GAP changing room and not disavow eating for the rest of time. When it's going badly I want to stamp my feet, cry and give up.

It feels a lot like when Jeremy taught me to drive. Or attempted to help with my statistics homework. But despite that, I seem to have found a solution to my nonexistent will power. I married someone to willpower for me.