She Does it Herself

I once owned a desk the size of a small battleship. It was a v-shaped, pressboard model with a computer tray and excessive shelving. My parents bought it as a 20th birthday gift and my college boyfriend helped me put it together. He was an engineering major, so I guess that explains why he didn’t mind (and was even somewhat tantalized by) the 73 pages of instructions and eight hours of grueling assembly time.

During my college years I never acknowledged the sheer enormity of the desk because it was the only piece of furniture I owned. Plus, it was more than functional. This desk held all of my school papers, tax files, meat grinder, spare tires, and most of my winter coats.

The desk stayed with me through three apartments, despite the hernias and broken hips suffered by many dear friends on moving days. Though I donated it to a shipyard long ago, it still serves as an icon for one of the most confusing yet awe-inspiring aspects of my personality.

After graduating college and spending my first year in my own apartment, I decided it was finally time to get a big girl bed. Unfortunately, a queen size bed and The Desk of Unusual Size could not co-exist in the same room. It had to move.

I tried scooting it a bit just to see what I was dealing with. It would not budge. Not only did it weigh a metric ton, but it had somehow anchored itself to the steel piping beneath my floor. After repeatedly running and throwing my body against the seven-foot-tall side beam, I finally swallowed my pride and asked a male friend to help me.

“Sure,” he said, “But I won’t be available until 7:00 so you will have to wait until then.”

I could do that. It was only 6:00. Help was a mere hour away.

6:01 . . . 6:02 . . . 6:03 . . .

“You know,” I explained to myself, “That desk would probably be easy to move if you just split it into two sections.” This had been a necessary step when transporting the desk to different apartments, so I knew the separation could easily be achieved with the simple twist of an Allen wrench.

But where could I find an Allen wrench on such short notice? I knew I owned one. I thought I had put it in my “Do It Herself” toolkit, but it was no where to be found. Where could an Allen wrench hide in a small, 500-square-foot apartment? Was it in the back of my closet somewhere laughing and mocking me? Why was the stealth Allen wrench snorting and pointing, insisting that I could NEVER move that desk by myself?

I never found it, but during the archeological dig through my closet I did come across a hand saw.

“Look who’s laughing now, Allen wrench,” I scoffed.

I pulled the saw out of its sheath. With the strength of a lumberjack and the precision of a blind underwater dart champion, I bounded into the bedroom and sawed apart the brace that held my desk it its impenetrable “v” shape. The keyboard tray smashed against my right foot. With a painful crackling the upper bookshelf fell to the ground, gouging the desktop and smearing the wall with black furniture guts.

In order to separate the two halves, I had to lie in a birthing position underneath the desk and lift it with my legs. Then, since pushing was out of the question, I began to drag the first half behind me. Inch by inch, grunting with each step, I began the long, painstaking trek toward the living room. The desk moved about three centimeters every five minutes. Even the Israelite slaves, hauling bricks the size of elephants up towards the mighty pyramids, had never experienced such hardship.

When I finally got the desk together and settled in the dining area, I exhausted one final leg lift to put the anchor in place. Then I partially lost consciousness. Dizzy, my eyes clouded with dust and perspiration, I collapsed on the floor and began gasping for air. All I could do was pray that the desk would fall, swiftly kill me, and finally stop the thousands of tiny knives shooting through my body.

At that point my help arrived. He walked into the living room. He glanced at the chipped pile of lumber in the corner. He looked down at my scraped, sweat-soaked body and sighed. “You couldn’t wait one hour?” he said. “Just one hour?”

And answer is, sadly, no. I have never been able to wait just one hour or just one minute for that matter. It may be irritating. It may even be dangerous. Yet, it is simply an undeniable, inescapable fact about me. Even today I nearly lost my life while unpacking my classroom. I could have asked for help, yes. But what can I do if the teacher next door selfishly decides to use the restroom at the exact moment that I need to move a 90 lb. box of dictionaries?
Though I would like to live long and die quietly in my sleep, in reality I may just expire underneath a 9-foot-tall bookcase. My landlord will find me. At the funeral people will shake their heads and sigh, “If only she had been more patient.” And there I’ll be, lying in the casket with a feverish grin on my lips, clutching my “Do-it-Herself” toolkit in my splintered little hands.

It’s Just Like Riding a Bike

When I was five years old my mother enrolled my brother, Alan, and I in Karate lessons. I used to get knocked down all the time because I was so small, but as a kindergartener I was extremely fierce. Every time I landed on my butt I hopped right back up again and went into attack mode.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to that little girl. It seems like I spend most of my days dwelling on past failures and skirting future risks. Yet, recent experiences have made me realize that we never truly escape our former identities – our talents, traits, insecurities and flaws resurface on a consistent basis.

. . . . . . . . .

Prior to this summer I had not ridden a bicycle since I got my driver’s license in 1992. With the school year coming to a close and a great deal of free time on my hands, I started to notice things that had never caught my eye before, such as people in colorful shirts riding around on bikes and having fun. I wasn’t sure if I even remembered how to ride a bike but of one thing I was certain: I could not tolerate people having fun and throwing it in my face like that.

I was really nervous about attempting my first “born again” bike excursion. What if I didn’t remember how to ride? What can you say about a 29-year-old woman who does not know how to ride a bike? In my mind’s eye all I could picture was my grown self on a pink Huffy with training wheels, teeth clenched, wobbling around the parking lot at two miles per hour. It would be a complete psycho-social regression, like re-learning to tie my shoes or peeing for the first time on the “big potty.”

For weeks I kept pestering my friend, Jessica, to let me try her bike before I bought my own, but she was really busy and refused to let me borrow it when she wasn’t home. “Why can’t I just borrow your house key and ride around for ten minutes when you’re not there?” I asked. “Because, I want to be able to watch your first, awkward ride so that I can laugh hysterically and clutch my sides with glee,” she explained.

Finally, we arranged a time for me to try her bike. Though I had to lower the seat about 12 inches in order to get on and had completely forgotten how to do a U-turn, I did in fact remember how to ride. And Jessica (who did not laugh - very much) seemed rather proud of me.

Inspired, I promptly went to Target to purchase my own bike. A very informed salesperson explained to me that the Schwinn Ranger 2.6 was indeed the bike for me because, as she pointed out, it had two wheels.

I named my bike “Bikey, the Bikiest of Bikes” but started calling her “Bikey” for short.
We became fast friends, first by just tooling around the neighborhood, then by tackling rugged, 20-mile treks. The woman who initially feared the small dip of a sidewalk gutter was now crashing through mud-soaked, rocky trails with reckless abandon.

Inevitably, the day came when I lost control while sailing downhill and crashed head-first onto the trail. It took a second to acknowledge what had happened and to shake my eyeballs back into their sockets. My head was pounding and the cuts on my hands, arms and legs started to bleed and sting.

I wanted to sit there in the middle of the trail and cry. Not just because I was hurt, but because I had taken a risk – decided to try a new hobby, swallow my shame, re-learn an old skill - and now the pavement had defeated me.

Then I had a little flashback. I remembered that tiny slip of a girl who bounced back every time she got knocked down in Karate. Aretha Franklin’s voice started pumping through the iPod. “Freedom!” she sang, over and over again. So, without shedding a tear, I picked myself up, fixed Bikey’s chain, and picked her up as well. After dislodging a hunk of skin from my handlebars and washing out my wounds as best I could with my water bottle, I had no choice but to press on. It was a long eight miles home.

I tried to put a cheerful, recreational smile on my face but a woman on a bike who is coated in mud and has blood dripping into her sock looks rather suspicious. Despite their concerned looks, no one stopped to ask if I was all right. I didn’t really care. Actually, I felt kind of joyous. Until that day I had always carried this nagging fear of crashing my bike. Now I had crashed and I was fine. More importantly, I still wanted to ride.

. . . . . . . . . .

Though I don’t have many regrets about the past, I do regret spending so much time being scared of crashing, in many different areas of my life. As I sit here typing, I am forced to re-read a Bible verse that I have taped to my computer screen: “We know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” (Romans 5:3-4).

Like it or not, that’s how things work – exactly in that order: suffering, perseverance, character, and then hope. Every day I’m learning a little bit more about what that sequence looks like. The picture is a little hazy, but I think it has something to do with hitting the dirt face first. Dusting off. Bleeding a little, but still making it home.

Fat Fighters

Though I’m ashamed to admit it now, I once convinced myself that I was in love with a guy who only noticed me when I threw myself under his tires. I showered him with meatballs and pies but still was unable to win his affections. I decided to try a new approach – one that focused on my appearance instead of dangerous stunts and domestic talents. So, I joined Weight Watchers. Of course you can probably guess the end of the story: I lost 23 pounds and he still didn’t love me.

“What do guys want, anyway?” I shouted into my empty carton of Ben and Jerry’s, “Do they want you to be skinny and bake pies at the same time? Mathematical impossibility!” Ben, Jerry and I dated steadily for three years after that. I also had several torrid affairs with chocolate covered almonds, cheeseburgers, and New York style pizza.

Two months ago I rejoined Weight Watchers after I discovered that my pants were cutting off my circulation and I had accidentally eaten my down comforter. I paid $42.00 for the starter-kit which included a portfolio, “points calculator” (which is actually two pieces of cardboard) and several booklets with pictures of active skinny people on the covers. These people have never been to Weight Watchers in their lives. Their sole purpose is to sit there on the cover of the Eating Out Guide, hugging each other, clearly breaking into peals of laughter when they see how fat you are.

After I had paid my dues Francis, the Weight Watchers leader, led me into a secret passageway behind a bookcase and then through a darkened tunnel with water dripping from the ceiling. After crossing a rope bridge blindfolded, I finally arrived at Francis’s private lair. “We like weigh-ins to be very private here,” she whispered as I stepped on the scale. “And if you ever have a difficult week, you can use this ‘no weigh-in’ pass so that you will not be mocked by the silent stones that surround this cave of truth.”

We returned to the meeting room via freight elevator, and I walked in to find several women in their forties excitedly discussing a ground turkey and low-fat yogurt recipe. Francis called the meeting to order and the first ten minutes were spent celebrating. Anyone who achieved a goal of any kind (whether it was slapping a brownie to the ground at a picnic or running frantically past the cheese aisle at Safeway) was rewarded with a sticker and hearty applause. Those who crossed major milestones (such as losing 10% of their body weight) were given key chains. Francis instructed us all to rub the key chains for good luck. “If these people believed it and achieved it, then you can believe it and achieve it too!” The room erupted in applause, “Believe and achieve!” they chanted.

At that particular moment I was certain I had accidentally joined a cult. In a few short hours my parents would have to rescue me from an all-white room where Francis was showing Dairy Queen commercials and administering electric shocks. Now I realize that Weight Watchers is more like Alcoholics Anonymous than it is like a cult, but with a few key differences. For example, there is a slightly different theme in their catch phrases. At AA they take it “one day at a time.” At WW if you “fail to plan, you plan to fail.” Instead of a 12 step program, I have 10 “tools for success” on an easy-to-review bookmark that I can pull out any time I need the strength walk past a donut shop. In AA, the reward key chain is a coin designating the number of months someone has remained sober. At WW, the key chain is a tiny little belt with charms for all the foods you have conquered.

Both organizations have continuous meetings throughout the week, but at Weight Watchers there is no coffee, nor are there any free snacks – just several low-points, WW-brand food items that you can buy for the bargain price of $19.95 or less. People wear name tags at both meetings, but at AA you must stand up and admit you are an alcoholic. At WW you simply have to turn to the person next to you, place your chubby hand in theirs and say, “I will assert myself by choosing high-fiber veggies and whole grains over foods that I actually enjoy.”

But I jest.

Weight Watchers isn’t that bad. I poke fun sometimes just to entertain myself, but it really does work and – despite her frown after my recent vacation setback – Francis believes in me. I’m steadily losing weight and I’m learning to turn to books, not brownies or heroin, to solve my night-sweats and shakes.

I truly believe that somewhere, at a Weight Watchers meeting in the not-too-distant future, Francis will don her feathered headdress, toss a cheesecake into the wind, and present me with my very own key chain. Even in my darkest hour I can hear the echo of the applause.