Swimsuit Shopping: The Original Suidical Ideation

Swimsuit catalogs are arriving in the mail. And not a moment too soon. I mean, months and months too soon if you live in Cedar City, Utah. BUT, if Spring Break is coming up and you are planning to make a break for Goodyear, Arizona...not a moment too soon. 

Except for one teensy, weensy thing: 
I hate buying a swimsuit. I hate trying on a swimsuit. I hate wearing a swimsuit. 

I want to say that the last time I felt good in a swimsuit was about...4 children and two decades ago. 

My youngest child is 6. I think I might've finally hit my pre-pregnancy weight when he was...maybe 4. (And that was my pre-pregnancy with HIM weight. Not my pre-childbearing weight.) 
I've been working out pretty regularly for the last 2 years. I am almost to the point where I feel fairly confident about how I look in (most) clothes. Do you know what feeling good in clothes does not translate into? That's right. Feeling good in a swimsuit. 

The first catalog to arrive was Victoria's Secret. This is the suit I want:

OK. That's a lie. I mean, the swimsuit is cute as heck, but let's be honest: I could give a crap about the suit. What I really want? To LOOK like that in a swimsuit. Any swimsuit. I'm not picky.

I was feeling pretty daring last year and thought maybe I could pull off one of those cute high-waisted numbers like this:

Because I think that two inches of my stomach might actually be free of PTBW (Post Traumatic Baby Wounds.) So I ordered one online. I even got it two sizes bigger than what I normally wear. (Because fool me once, China...) And then it arrived. What they didn't tell you? Apparently that model's torso is exactly 6 inches long. From collarbone to navel. Because that gap was more like 18 inches. (And I DEFINITELY have PTBW on that part of my stomach.) Also, that they don't make this swimsuit in regular people sizes. Because an XL fit my 5'6" 104 lb 13-year-old. EXTRA LARGE!

The DownEast catalog came next. And there's some really cute suits in there too. But again, everything looks cute on a 98 lb 20-year-old. I mean, come on...

Women with thighs like this, do NOT buy swimsuit bottoms like this. Oh, you didn't know those were her thighs? You thought those were two loose threads hanging down? Yeah, me too.

I know exactly what you're thinking. I am setting feminism back 80 years by whining and moaning about how I look in a swimsuit.

Because I should be judging myself on how I nurture, and love, and think, and create. Whatever.

I wish I was setting women back 80 years.

Because then we'd all be wearing swimsuits like this:

And I'm pretty sure I could ROCK that look.

Dear School: I Hate Your Stinking Guts

Three weeks. It's not a very long span. Especially when Christmas and New Years take up much of that time. But it seemed like a blissful eternity to have 3 whole weeks off after Fall semester and before starting Spring semester. Three glorious, Netflix-filled, family-snuggling, dinner-making, carefree weeks.

And then...just like that, it was over. And hell on Earth began in earnest once more. 

Each semester seems to be just a little bit worse than the one before it. 
And this one came with a full-on vengeance. 

I started classes just last Monday. And I think I've cried, if not real tears than at the very least, near-tears (not to be confused with near-beer, although shockingly, even more unsavory) probably about 4 times. And dropped a class. (Don't worry, I replaced it with something only slightly less horrible.)

I know what you're dying to ask. Why? Why, Cyndie? What makes this hellish semester any different than all the other hellish semesters before it? Well, I'll tell you:

The Workload
I'm not a fan of textbooks. Or hugely long supplemental pdf files. As much as I like to read. Textbooks? Well, they're not even on my list. I would rather read the German assembly instructions that come with pressed wood bookshelves. Really and truly. Wirklich und wahrhaftig.

I have been able to get away with skimming, or skipping altogether the textbook reading thus far in my schooling and picked up the info through lectures or slides. Preferably both. But this semester? Not a single lecture. Not a single slide. And every grade based on quiz and test scores. Which are based on obscure facts found in ridiculous, superfluous amounts of readings. In every. Single. Class.

It turns out that, generally speaking, the highest-paid, greatest-credentialed, most-experienced, tenured professors spend infinitely less time and energy teaching their classes than the lowly adjunct staff and assistant professors. 
Ah yes, the American dream. 

Maybe they just went to school for too long and they're sick to death of it. That, I can understand.

The Ex is Back
Remeber that time I broke up with statistics? That was a happy, happy day. I thought I was done with him. At least in my school life. I thought we were finished. I thought he'd leave me alone and go find some other innocent girl to torment.

Nope. Like a stalking, abusive ex-boyfriend or Poltergeist II, he's baaaack.

There is a required class I signed up for this semester called Principles & Applications of Psychological Testing. Which I, foolishly, thought would involve...I don't know...basic principles and real-life applications of psychological testing. Like methodology and ethics and crap. I could not have been more wrong. (I could try. But I would not be successful.)

All statistical formulas. Mostly ones I don't even remember learning.
And did I mention there are no lectures? Only 20 different 30+ problem, 8-page "optional exercises" you can do to prepare for the 5 exams. Oh, and a textbook. The only thing less helpful than a statistics text is a two-year old folding laundry. 

Don't worry, I got to problem #3 on Optional Exercise 1 before I had no idea how to do anything else. And had a complete breakdown.

Then I dropped the class. I will deal with it this summer when I am only taking 3 credits instead of 15.

Worn Down
I'm so close. (In the scheme of things.) The end is (semi) near. I can be done by December. Of THIS year. That's amazing. The end is in sight. And it should be invigorating. 

It is not.

I am tired. I am depleted. I am weary. I miss my life. I don't want to do it anymore. 

Not to mention the loans. And the GRE. And the decisions about graduate school. Utah? Arizona? California? Nevada? North Carolina?
Evening cohort program? Online? Assistantship?? 
Where's Zoltar when you need him? 

To top it off, I just discovered yesterday that when I am finished with the required classes I have left, I will be one credit shy of the necessary credits for a degree. I will have 119 instead of 120. 

One. Freaking. Credit. And there are no one-credit classes for online students. Of course there aren't. 

It would actually be sad if it weren't so funny. Or funny if it weren't so sad. I can't remember which.

So if I am noticeably absent from the blogosphere in the coming months, know that it is because this semester is trying to kill me. 

I am quite sure I saw it positioned around the canyon corner on the desert path where I like to run, sneakily holding on to a rope pulley system, poised to drop an anvil on my head when I zip by.

And just the other day it tried to disguise its mouth to look like a swanky restaurant so that I would walk in unsuspecting and it could eat me alive.

Mean semester. 

Star Wars: The Dork Awakens

A (not so terribly) long time ago in a galaxy (not so very) far, far away...

A sister and brother were born. Their sad, beautiful mother died in childbirth and to protect them from a father who had become an evil lord (and was just evilly whiney prior to that) they were sent to a home in California. They were raised, not as twins, but as siblings who were two years apart. The "Sky" was dropped from their name (for safeguarding purposes and all.) 

Leaving it as merely Walker.

This may or may not have been the fantasy that filled much of my childhood imaginings. I mean, my last name WAS Walker. And my brother and I? Well, the force was strong with us. Let me tell you.

So imagine my surprise when I texted him after seeing The Force Awakens and said: STAR WARS!!!!! And he responded back with: Yep. Star Wars!! 

I should have known by the not-all-caps response. And the two exclamation points instead of four. But I kept pushing: Did you see it?? Did you love it!?
He replied: Yes and I really liked it. But am I allowed to be a little disappointed?

No. No you are not. And I will tell you why. 

Because I didn't love Episode I-III (I know, I know. My true fan rating just went way down.) And I wasn't even super excited for Episode VII. (I mean, Yoda is dead. How awesome could it be?)

But...It. Was. Fabulous. 
And sure, maybe a little (lot) reminiscent of Episode IV. But do you remember what happened with New Coke?? There's a reason they stopped making it. 
A very good reason.

So what did I love about it? Well, kind of everything. (Just ask my husband, whose arm I hit excitedly and repeatedly through the entire movie.) But a few things in particular:

The Old Gang
What can I say? I love them all. 
You can regard your Henry all you want. You can chase your Fugitive. Hijack your President Marshall. You can dig your Indiana Jones. For me? There is just one role that Harrison Ford was born to play. Han Solo. He just was. 
And sure. I sat there just like everyone else trying to figure out just how old Carrie Fisher actually is. But just like I have learned not to judge how people parent, how dirty their house is, or how many pairs of black boots they own...as I continue to get older, I have learned not to judge how people age. I mean, we can't all be Chewie.
C3PO? Just as obnoxious and robotically annoying as ever. (Contented sigh.) 
And, yes, the absence of Yoda was keenly felt by me. But as far as I'm 
concerned, no Yoda at all is still better than computer-animated Yoda.

The Falcon
Am I giving anything away here? Well, too bad if I am. You should have already seen it by now. 
I had a Ford Festiva once. I think it cost me $500. It ran and ran and ran and ran. And ran. It got me from California to Utah and back more times than I can count. 
Did it shake when I went over 50 miles an hour? Like Oola, the Twil'lek slave dancer. 
Did the driver side mirror have to be duct-taped on more than once? You bet your Jabba the Butt it did. 
But it never once broke down on me. Not once in all the years I had it. And I bet if I were to come across it now, half buried in the sands of the distant planet of Jakku...it would still get me across the hyperspace route of the I-15. It may take a little longer than twelve parsecs. But it would get me there. 


The Stormtroopers
When I was a kid, we had one of those tall metal wall heaters in the hallway. I don't remember anymore if it was me or one of my siblings who used to have nightmares about Stormtroopers emerging from it in the night. (I think it was a younger sibling. I mostly had nightmares about how my dad would bogart it every morning while the rest of us would hover nearby shivering.) Regardless of who it was, the truth is...Stormtroopers were scary. And somehow, 30+ years later, they still are. There have been a few small tweaks here and there. But essentially, the uniforms are the same. The blasters the same. They don't need a sleek updated new look. Because a legion of synchronized, marching, anonymous, evil soldiers? Still scary as hell. Which just tells you how awesome the original series was in the first place. 

This far from covers all of the things I loved about the movie. Whiney new bad guy: Loved. Oscar Isaac: Loved more. No Jar Jar: Loved the most. 

But the best things were the things that reminded me of the movies I loved as a young Jedi-wannabe. Light speed. Droids. X-Wing & TIE Fighters. Jedi mind tricks. The score. Oh the score. It gives me goosebumps still. 

I recently saw one review that said that it is ridiculous to bill this movie as a sequel when it is merely a remake.

I have just four words for you, Star Wars-hater guy:

If it ain't broke...

Because of Him

As I reflect on the wonder and awe that Christmas can bring, my heart is heavy as I think of those close to me who have recently lost someone dear to them. Those I love who are spending this special day, of all days, without someone they love. Perhaps for the first time.

Husband. Father. Mother. Son. Sister. Brother. Daughter. Grandparent.

I ache as I imagine how difficult it must be to face this day with that deep and abiding loss. I search for meaning. And for answers: What does it all mean? Why?

It seems so wholly and intrinsically unfair. 

What cheer can Christmas bring to those who are suffering so profoundly? Is it not just another glaring reminder of the one(s) they are without?

I have struggled with feelings of how undeserved and unjust it all is. That this day, of all days, should be faced with such deprivation. 

Is there any cause for happiness and celebration?

Is there any contentment to be found for those who are filled not with delight on Christmas, but with tender sorrow?

It is my prayer and longing that there is. 

That those who have lost someone precious and adored can find joy on this day. 

That the knowledge of the events that transpired thousands of years ago, that we now celebrate, will bring peace to their hearts.

That the uncomplicated essence and meaning of Christmas will bring comfort.

That a quiet benevolence will fill their spirit.

As I think of the babe, laying in the manger, in a cold and squalid stable whose birth we commemorate this day, I think of the hope. Of the unconditional and profound love that this simple birth represents for us all.

Because He came, there is meaning to our mortal existence.

Because He came to earth, we have a perfect example to follow.

Because He came, we know how to reach out to those in trouble or distress, wherever they may be.

Because He came, we gather to worship Him.

Because He came, death has lost its sting, the grave its victory.

We will live again. Because He came.

-Thomas S. Monson

Christmas Blessings

Truth: I feel like a failure. A lot. 
My kids need more time. My husband needs more time. All of them need me to be nicer. My house...oh, my house...my poor filthy house.  It needs love. Some serious love. 

Christmas is supposed to be a time of peace & love & goodwill & all that jazz. For me, Christmas the last couple years has been like a giant magnifying glass for all my failures. A neon billboard screaming: You're the worst!

I have finals at Christmas time. So when I should be making treats and decorating and snuggling with my kids watching Elf and Home Alone, I am studying. And when I am not studying, I am so exhausted that instead of doing all of the things I should be doing I am laying prostrate in bed, useless and depleted, binge-watching The Office. 

Not only do I not have the time or energy that my family needs from me, I can't even make it up to them by spoiling them with gifts. Because I also have no money. Which is no fun the rest of the year. But is even less fun come Christmas time. 

And I know. It's not about money. My kids have everything they need. (Except cell phones, which they're not getting. Even if they are the last kids on earth without them. Which they are totally convinced they are.) But I'm obviously not making them anything. Or spending any time with them. Or taking them anywhere. So it would be nice to be able to buy them something. 

And we have always loved being able to do Angel Tree gifts. My kids surprise me every year with their thoughtfulness & generosity in choosing gifts for others their age. (Yes, I said surprise. I love them, but they're not always the nicest.) But we just can't do it this year. Which makes me feel sad. And failure-ish.

These were the feelings rolling around in my head this past Sunday afternoon. Like marsh-wallows in my thought chocolate. As neighbor after neighbor delivered kind & thoughtful gifts. Which is one more thing we've had to forgo this year. (Because I still haven't come up with a clever enough rhyme to make packages of ramen a suitable gift. Common? Lawmen? Bombin'??)  

And then at about 10 o'clock at night there was a pounding at the door. Like some seriously scary knocking. I thought for sure it was the police or some crazy serial killer (who murders people but is polite enough to knock first.)
So I made my husband answer it, because if it is a homicidal maniac...well, age before beauty, right? Only it isn't the police. And it isn't a well-mannered home invader. It is bag after box after bag of gifts for my children and food and other household items. 

And I'm not going to lie and say that it is easy to be that family. The one who needs. Because it is not. Holy crap it's hard. Really really hard. And I thought we were doing okay keeping it on the down low. I just kept asking over and over again, Who knows we needed this? Who knew how broke we are? (After which my 5-year old started exclaiming, Who knew we needed a box of oranges??) And my first thought was to be crazy embarassed. And to think of the many people who need it more than we do.
But the looks on my kids faces as they looked through bags for gifts with their names? (Which probably was similar to the look on mine when I saw that case of toilet paper. Case. I wanted to spread it all out and just lay in it.) 
It was priceless. And it was enough to make me swallow my pride and just be super duper grateful. 

Extremely. Magnificently. Grateful. From the bottom of my bursting, happy heart. 

And it has brought a little joy. A little peace. A little hope back into my life this season.

They say that it is better to give than to receive. And that may very well be.

But receiving? It's not easy. But it's pretty freaking awesome, too.