Skinny Me

I woke up this morning skinny.

I don't own a scale. The last time I weighed myself was in February at a health club in West Palm Beach. I was crushed when I stepped on the damn thing and discovered that all that running I had been doing hadn't yielded me a single pound loss. Over the course of the following six weeks, I tightened up here and there, but I was confident that I still held on to every single pound.

Last weekend I was lounging in a hot tub in the mountains with Kickball Guy and Katie. Kickball Guy announced that since he started running with me, he lost 10 pounds.

"He can take his pants off without unbuttoning them!" giggled Katie.

I made a face at him. "I've lost inches, but not pounds," I frowned.

Just that morning, I pulled my slim-fit Lacoste polo out of my closet. I hadn't worn it much last summer because the slim fit is really only for slim people. I pulled it on and it fit perfectly. Better than ever.

"I weigh myself every morning," explained Kickball Guy. "Most days I haven't lost anything or even gained a pound. But I got up one morning and discovered I lost 5 pounds overnight. You just have to give it time."

I frowned again. "I have no thyroid and subsequently a dysfunctional metabolism; I'll never lose a pound," I huffed.

I spend an inordinate amount of time standing in front of the bathroom mirror and pinching my sides. I can distinguish the good days from the bad days. When I stuck the toothbrush in my mouth this morning and resumed pinching my side, I immediately recognized the difference. I didn't really think anything of it though. I just declared it a good morning.

Then I got dressed. The big cosmic joke with women is that the breasts are the last place we gain weight and the first place we lose it. I put on my bra and realized I ran myself right out of a C cup. The bra was too big to the point that it slid down my rib cage. Once again, I just thought the elastic was busted and made a mental note to go shopping.

And then I put on the skinny jeans. Skinny jeans don't lie. The skinny jeans were two inches too big. I shoved my calves into my boots and noticed the space between the boots and the pants.

The skinny jeans were the anomaly. The only thing I couldn't justify. I looked down at my jeans. "We'll just wait until I get to work at look at the horrid floor-length mirror under fluorescent lighting, then we'll see what's what," I told them.

The jeans in the office bathroom looked different. I looked different.

I woke up this morning skinny. I'm declaring it my 5-pound day.

Love-ectomy

This is the dawning of personal belonging...

This is the eve of “I don’t believe”

This is me; I love myself

Yeah, fuck everyone else

I don’t need nobody’s help

‘Cause this is Love 2012

--3Oh!3, "Love 2012"

I think I'm done. Dating for now, that is.

In hindsight, this date and this date affected me more than I'm willing to admit. The Dating Man has me down. I'm disheartened. I'm jaded. I find myself approaching new matches and new dates from a place of fear instead of a place of hope. When someone initiates contact with me, I squirm, close one eye at the screen and peer through my fingers as I wait for the picture to load. Please let him not have a facial tattoo/man purse/front butt. Please let him not be creepy/live in his big rig.

My heart has become fickle. My missile-seeking baggage radar is on alert. My guard is up.

The last guy I was communicating with initiated a phone call instead of just meeting. I've since learned to just sit in silence and let guy do all the talking and, in the process, disclose his baggage. He told me he moved from Florida "to get away from a bad situation." Mmm hmm. Without prodding, he told me his lung spontaneously collapsed because he smoked too much weed and cigarettes. (The cigarettes were easy to give up; the weed was not.)

I remained silent on the other end of the line. "Oh! Uh huh."

After his 3-week hospital stay, he then gained 30 pounds (from not smoking pot) and not exercising (because of the self-inflicted lung problem) and I'm hearing all of this on the phone before I even meet the kid.

And look, I know my past isn't a basket of glittery kittens, but at least I know to ease into the ugly. If someone says, "Tell me about your past relationships," I'll respond with "I've had past relationships, but I'm here with you now." What I won't say is I lived with an alcoholic who pawned my shit, took a shit in my car and treated me like shit when he was drunk, which was all the time. When I was in therapy, my therapist told me there is such a thing as being too honest. Ease them into that kind of ugly. I never spoke a word of it to Valdosta.

If this blog were a movie, the scene would look like this: I'd be standing by a large round table, still as stone. Hands shoved in my jeans' pocket; pink Converse shoe rolled to the outside of my stance. Behind me people would be passing me in fast-forward speed. Everyone is bustling and I'm stuck.

I'm surrounded by people, yet I'm lonely. I see Jenna and Schmoozer each up to three times a week. I've received a very concerned e-mail from Government Mule that's gone unanswered. It's like the more people I'm around, the more amplified the loneliness becomes.

The only thing I can think of to rectify the situation is to perform an -ectomy on what's causing my unhappiness. And that's dating. Getting dressed up and feeling hopeful and putting myself out there time and time again is, in fact, not bringing me closer to love. It's depleting my resources. It's depleting my tolerance, my spirit and the things about me that I love.

So the thing I've decided to do is to perform a love-ectomy and instead love me. If you thought this blog was naval-gazing drivel before, you just wait. It's about to get uncomfortable up in here.

Cashing In

I was at Christopher's apartment recently. (That feels like a duh statement, but bear with me here.) I was at his apartment and noticed that he had all of his cash stacked on the side table adjacent to his spot on the couch. I sucked in my breath when I saw it; I couldn't believe he would just leave it out like that.

I panicked a bit as I stared at the bills. Maybe I should tell him to put it away or to hide it, I thought. Maybe I should conveniently go in the bathroom while he does it so he knows that I don't know where it is. It took me cognitive thought to realize that Christopher left it out because he trusts me. He isn't going to call me up and accuse me of stealing his money like the ex constantly did. (It's funny how the things he accused me of doing are the exact same things he did to me. It's the fucked-up version of placing your values onto other people.) Now he's gone and I'm left standing in Christopher's apartment panicking and not trusting myself for the sole reason that my ex didn't trust me because he knew he wasn't trustworthy. I've never stolen a dollar in my life and yet I'm still allowing him to place his values on me like I'm some kind of bad person. I need to learn to trust myself again in so many ways.

I also realized that Christopher isn't going to take my money either, and that maybe it would be okay for me to start carrying cash again. I exhaled and felt the panic melt away.

Then it made me sad that I've been through so much that this is the way I think, versus the millions of other people out in the world that would have never thought twice about cash on the table. Like Christopher.

Revolution/Resolution

I had a positive breakthrough in therapy last week. I spend a lot of time talking to my therapist about my relationships with other people: my coworkers, my father, my friends and my boyfriend. And if I ever air a grievance about any of them, it essentially boils down to this: he/she is not responding in the exact same way I would respond.

I have a really difficult time with placing my values on other people. I assume people are being 100% honest with me because I don't lie. I think people should revere me in the exact same manner I hold them in esteem. They should feel more because I'm sensitive. They should care because I care.

This leads to a lot of disappointment. My therapist gave me several suggestions, including don't do that and lowering my expectations. She says it may be a maturity thing, but she tries to value people for what they have to offer. And just stop and leave it at that.

So that's my New Year's resolution: to value people for who they are.

I'm going to think of my father as a good human being who loved me as much as he is capable of loving me. He can't do any more than that, and I shouldn't resent him for not giving more of himself.

I'm going to love my friends because they are kind and funny and I have a good time 100% of the time I am with them. I am not going to long for more time together or more confiding in each other.

I am going to give Christopher a break. He's a boy and just not wired the same. His brain does not function on the same chemical level mine does. It's really as simple as that. And he seems to like me more when I just let go and am not so anxious.

I think it's a good positive step to take in life.

A Million Little Pieces

I've been in my new apartment for a week and I still find myself tracing a finger along a granite countertop in the bathroom thinking this place is mine with a hint of I don't deserve this.

I think about Scott with regularity. Not with any emotional feeling or attachment. But I think of my apartment I previously rented and how he moved in and screwed everything up for me and I somehow think I still must be punished in my new life. I should pay penance; I shouldn't have bigger and better.

It's been quiet. It's been a bit lonely. But things have been good.

I'm in love with my new refrigerator. It's the most kick-ass, high-tech thing I've ever seen. I opened the freezer to load in my groceries and after a moment, the motor shut off and the refrigerator made this loud, annoying beeping sound until I closed the door. That's new.

I also love my central air. I set it at a pre-determined 78, just cool enough for me and the dog without making the power bill high. I still find myself shivering and looking for a blanket at night. I also cannot tell when it kicks on because the unit is completely silent. No clicks on the thermostat. No gushes of air through the vents. No tell-tale hum.

There are some downsides to the new place. I miss my valet trash service and don't really care for lugging garbage to the shoot. There isn't a designated area for the Femme Fatale, so I must walk her through the city neighborhoods instead of the safety behind building gates. The elevator is kind of slow. But really, these are minor inconveniences.

The other day I went grocery shopping. I walked down the aisles of Aldi's and put one of everything into my cart. I mechanically walked to the dairy cooler and grabbed the sticks of butter that I've had to buy for years. Then I remembered Scott wasn't here anymore and I was free to make my own butter choice. I put the sticks back and grabbed a tub of low-cholesterol margarine and smiled.

Scott pops up in my life as a reminder of things that were. When I stacked my favorite goblets in the cupboard, I saw the swirl in the glass and remembered last Valentine's Day when Scott got mad with me and smashed one of my glasses against the wall. I remember picking the broken shards off the floor, trying to determine what he broke until I saw the swirl. In my new cupboard I counted and confirmed I have one less. Seven instead of eight. My mother had felt bad for me and bought me a new box of goblets for my birthday. "11 instead of 12," I had said.

I imagine the same will happen come Christmas when I'll set up my collector's alma mater santa that he smashed in a million pieces after an angry swipe off the counter. My mother and I sat on the floor of her living room and spent an entire weekend gluing it back together, her shaking with rage the entire time. "It's always your things he breaks," she said.

My things. An absent goblet, 2 broken bowls, 2 shattered plates, and 5 smashed wine glasses. A cracked santa. We're all a little worse for the wear.

But we're still here. Well at least the santa and I are.

Home to Me

Well I did it. I signed a lease this weekend on an apartment. It was the very first apartment I looked at weeks ago, and everything I viewed since then was just to comparison shop or to try to talk me out of it.

It's on the west side (the building states it's Upper West Side, but let's face it. This isn't New York). It's the largest apartment I've had in the city at over 800 square feet. It's also the nicest with a foyer, granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances, nice cabinetry, and spacious closets. The garden tub could easily fit two. Breakfast is also provided every Saturday morning for all the residents.

The building security is pretty tight. Not only is the parking garage gated and locked, but all the stairwells and elevators also require an access card. I guess it would be annoying for visitors to constantly have to be buzzed in, but with the crime of my last neighborhood (and the lack of visitors I'll likely have) this is a welcome change.

Before I looked for an apartment, I decided on a maximum rental payment that I would not go over. This rent is a dollar beneath my maximum. I tried to find an apartment that was cheaper, and I viewed some, but I didn't love them as much as I loved this one. And I justified it by telling myself after everything I've been through, I deserve an apartment that I love. I'm still not sure that this was the right decision. Although with this building I'm avoiding a gas bill and my good credit score was my deposit, so it's all relative I guess.

The only catch was to get the apartment I wanted for the price I wanted, I had to take the next available apartment instead of them holding it for me therefore losing profit. Instead of moving in a month, I move in two weeks. which in my head was a lot faster than I was prepared for.

After I left the leasing office, I drove straight to the furniture store and picked out a new bedroom set. My old hand-me-downs were in pretty bad shape so I sold them at a yard sale last month. I picked out a new bed, nightstand, and armoire with the intention of adding a dresser when I can afford it. I financed 40% of it for a year with no interest and I wrote a check for the rest.

I've never bought new furniture before. It felt weird to point at things lined up against a wall and have a middle-aged salesman running around to assist me. He measured things when I requested it and he worked it up with the dimensions of my new bedroom. I am not used to being catered to.

I'm also not used to spending that much money. With the rent and the new furniture, I hit the top of my financial security. I worry that I spent too much money. I haven't been in debt in for a while and I worry that the $1,200 I financed will break me. I'm worried that I'll run through my savings.

Even still, my new rent is still cheaper than the rent at the apartment I had with Scott (which I got stuck paying more often than not). And water and electricity for one will be less.

I guess I'm just scared. Of living by myself again. Of becoming lonely. I'm moving out to avoid living with the stress and repercussions of my mother's impending divorce and I'm afraid it won't make me happy. I ran around this weekend and made all of these decisions like it was my god-given right, and now I'm terrified of the consequences.

What if they weren't the right decisions?

News

Today I was offered a permanent position (and health insurance!) at the company I had been working under contract for. Which means this weekend I get to put a deposit down on a new apartment.

One reason I was so hesitant to leave Scott was knowing I would have to give up my apartment. The one I had been living in for years before I met him. (He would not have left if I asked him to, so really it was the only option to get away from him.) I loved that building. I always viewed that original move into the city into that apartment building as my independence, and to give it up was rather difficult for me. I felt like I had been hurt and abused to the point where I could no longer take care of myself and I required rescuing, although my mother always told me that was not the case.

I've decided not to go back to Midtown (the borough I originally moved to because Christopher lived there. It was the only one I knew and I was told it was trendy at the time.) It's time to close that chapter and move on. Besides, the neighborhood was scary after dark and I would be stuck in traffic for most of my commute. I've decided to move to Westside.

I don't know much about the west side other than it's closer to most of my hangouts and convenient to work. It's the same price as Midtown due to an up-and-coming buzz about it and has a lot of new growth. It still has about the same amount of violence, so a neighborhood comparison will be interesting. Westside's Kroger doesn't have a scary nickname to my knowledge like my Midtown one did. That's an immediate improvement.

So, I will again be establishing my independence. And this time my independence will be from my partner rather than from my parents. Scott's currently lurking in a treatment facility in Downtown, so I will also be further away from him. Christopher is across 16 lanes of interstate highway in Brookwood. It feels good that I don't know anyone in my neighborhood; it's just more evidence that I'm doing this move for me.

I have a hard time remembering that May, and subsequently my breakup and unemployment and moving home, was only 2-1/2 months ago. I've encountered a pretty quick turnaround time on all fronts. I'm proud of myself for trudging ahead with life despite so many obstacles and I believe that the reason I'm doing so well is because I never stopped moving forward.

In four short weeks I will be living on my own again, debating the necessity of cable TV and eating Chinese dumplings for dinner. I can't wait.

$$ The Story of Sarah

My therapy appointment went really well this week. With the physical and—slowly—the emotional separation from Scott, my therapist wanted to know how I got this way. I started therapy with her in a tizzy over domestic abuse and suicide attempts and rehab, and now that the immediate reasons of why I sought professional help had become that of a controlled fire, she wanted to learn the underlying causes.

With every age bracket, she asked what I most remembered about pre-school (not much, but I was told I was a reader), elementary school (bullied by the entire fifth-grade class led by one Michael H. that I still periodically cry over the meanness of it all), middle school (extremely shy, not a lot of friends), high school (oh dear god, where do I start? The realization that I lost the father lottery, the angry mother who told me I was heading for average-ness, the death of several friends within several months, or the Christian cult who told my close friends not to talk to me anymore?) And then she asked for the most traumatic singular event in my life (hello, boyfriend who pooped in my car and then choked me over it).

During the half-hour exercise, I cried when I regaled the story of the Southern Baptist youth leader who told children not to be friends with a little girl, and I hollered when I described the rage of the physical fight I had with my boyfriend. And she said it was okay to react that way. It felt good to tell my life story—the story of Sarah—to someone who listened and didn't make me feel shameful over it.

I watched as my therapist widened her eyes, her mouth forming a perfect O. When I was done yelling, I folded my hands in my lap and looked down at them. She closed the manila folder which now contained the Story of Sarah and looked at me in the eyes. "No wonder," she began softly. She leaned forward and made sure I was paying attention. She repeated a little louder, "No wonder you found yourself in this position with your boyfriend and you tried to stay and make it work as long as possible. At every critical emotional-forming point of your life, you've been met with opposition. You've been told it's better to be in a bad relationship than to be single, and you've been consistently told you're not good enough. You," she said, "have a broken heart."

I immediately understood she was not referring to Scott, but to my life in general. Right when we discovered the meat of my issues, my time was up. She's always encouraged me to come every 2 weeks instead of every week, but this time she looked at her planner and said, "Same time next week?" and then probably drew dollar signs next to my name. I smiled. It was official: I was fucked up. And the validation of knowing I was fucked up was priceless. It made me positively giddy.

When I got home, I walked in the kitchen and poured myself a congratulatory glass of wine. My mom hovered around, hoping I'd share some of what went on. I told her my therapist asked about my childhood and then declared that I have Major Issues. "So long story short, I probably should have been in therapy 20 years ago," I laughed as I tipped back the wine glass.

My mother crossed the kitchen and grabbed me. She didn't share my joy at the news. she held me tight in what felt like an apology for things that were mostly out of her control.

Making My Way

My mom made a friend for me. There is a woman at my mom's work who my mom really gets along with and they discovered they had daughters the same age that live in the same city who both enjoy knitting and sewing. So they passed our numbers along and I called (er, messaged through Facebook) and set up a lunch date with a visit to a local yarn shop. The first meeting was awkward—a bit like a blind date—but we kept calling each other and kept making plans and after the third time around, it seemed like a normal friendship, not a set-up by our mothers.

So now, instead of spending Friday nights on my couch with my craft books and materials, I'm sitting on her couch with my craft books and materials. I feel like this dramatically drops the loser quotient. One: I'm being social without actually having to go out. PJs is still an acceptable wardrobe. Well for her because it's her house; I have yet to cross that line. Two: I have living proof that I'm not the only single girl in my age bracket who isn't out drinking, but engaging in hobbies. And three: she has a subscription to crafting magazines and I don't, so I feel like I'm not the geekiest person out there.

Because I made the effort to network, I had another opportunity come my way. I was out to lunch with friends at and all-you-can-eat sushi buffet the other Friday and my friend brought her brother and the brother's girlfriend. Brother's Girlfriend asks me if I like to knit. I flashed her my scarf and she invited me to a once-a-week group stitch and bitch that knits for charity. So now I'm meeting people with my own interests and doing something to help others. Another reason I'm not feeling like a loser anymore.

Also, at the same sushi lunch, a guy friend revealed he had two front-row seats to Cirque du Soleil and would I like to go with him? I clapped in response, never having been to any form of circus before. It was fucking fantastic.

Loner

The only way I can afford professional hair coloring is by going to the Aveda school in my city. Where else can you get highlights for $45? Nowhere, that's where. And even though the students work on you, and sometimes they accidentally whack you in the forehead with their hair dryers, the instructors will never let you leave if you're unhappy or in tears (from non-hair dryer related activity).

I was in the chair last Friday. It took me months to make an appointment that I could stick to and by that point, my roots were looking "arty" to more than one person. The student hair dresser and I were making small talk and then she asked where I liked to party. I can't even remember the last time I used party as verb. I remembered when I was younger—her age and not yet enveloped in responsibilities and my career—and the importance of the verb party. And all of a sudden I was embarrassed at my lack of use of the verb.

"Um, I don't really party anymore," I bit my lip.

She put her round brush down. "But you said you live in Midtown?"

"I do. I just don't go out all that much." And then I lied, "Recession and economy, ya know?" The truth is that I've become a bit of a homebody, and I've been perfectly okay with that. Everything I need for entertainment is already within 800 square feet of me and I don't need to get out of my pajamas to do it. And Scott is usually there as an added people buffer.

"So what do you do?" she asked.

"Uh, I, uh. Well, I knit. A lot. In front of the TV. And I watch movies. A lot. I have one of those Blockbuster online memberships."

And this girl looked at me through the mirror like she was highlighting the hair of a loser. Worst of all, I kinda felt like she was right.

"I've been thinking about getting into tea," I added lamely. "You know, the expensive loose leaf kind."

Her expression didn't change. We didn't talk much after that.

After she was done and left me at the counter to pay, I gave her a larger tip to compensate the time she spent with the loser who knits.

Then I went to the mall and bought some tea. The expensive loose leaf kind.

Morning Sickness

I had morning sickness the other morning. The first morning a wave of nauseousness blanketed me while I was driving to work. All of a sudden I was sweating and checking the shoulder of the highway for room to pull over. But as soon as I arrived at work, I had some crackers for breakfast and I was fine again.

The second morning came and with it, the same wave of nauseousness. This time it was little more severe than the one before it, alleviated with a bagel for breakfast and a muffin for an after lunch snack.

The third morning came, and any time I wasn't actually chewing and swallowing, I was nauseous again. And I wasn't ill in an upset stomach kind of way, but a motion sickness kind of way. I could feel my eyes roll around in my head. The computer screen was too visually stimulating for me to get any work done.

Even though I was four days out of my period, I was convinced I was pregnant. And I wasn't the only one. Scott nervously asked me what my other symptoms were. "Nothing, just constant motion sickness," I answered. "And my hair kind of hurts. Like how it feels when it's pulled back into a tight ponytail, but I haven't worn one in days."

Because I was too ill to work, I did nothing but sit at my desk and think of pregnancy tests. I would do it without telling Scott. I won't tell him how nervous I am about this. And I won't bring up the fact that I've been at my job for less than a year and therefore not qualified to take maternity leave, nor have a job waiting for me when I get back. Nor will I think about how I feel like I just feel like I've gotten my life back in order and a baby right now will totally screw up all of my work over the past few months. I've even felt so good I stopped taking my antidepressants...

I don't want to brag, but I've been having a fabulous year. I realize I'm only 21 days into it, but I'm not looking this gift horse in the mouth. I've just been feeling so good and so in control of my life. I've forgotten to take them a day or two here or a weekend there, and I've never noticed a difference. But I never developed a game plan for getting off them... I just sort of stopped taking them.

I squinted in order to focus on the computer monitor and then I promptly googled "quitting antidepressants." The list of withdrawal symptoms were incredible: nauseousness, motion sickness, vomiting, etc. Everything I felt was listed (so was mania, but let's pick and choose here).

I had to call my pharmacist to refill my prescription and then I put my head back on my desk to try to make it through the day. On my way home, my own driving made me motion sick, exacerbated by the brightness of the brake lights in front of me. "Just seven more minutes," I told myself. "Just seven more minutes and I'll be at the pharmacy."

I think the speed bumps in the pharmacy parking lot is what put me over. I opened the car door and threw up for the first time. I was ready for a second, but some kids were walking through the lot and I didn't want them to see me. I tried waiting them out, but they met another kid and were standing completely in front of my car door.

I struggled to get out of the car and shut the door. Every step I took made me feel closer and closer to something involuntary happening. I turn towards the kids to see if they'd moved on yet, but they were in the middle of a freaking drug deal. My pharmacy is in my neighborhood which is not a place you want to be out alone at night. But drug dealers or not, I wasn't going to throw up in front of them, even though they'd probably assume I was detoxing myself (which if you think about it, I really was).

That something involuntary did eventually happen. Behind the charity book drop in front of the pharmacy storefront. My only solace is that I probably wasn't the first person to do that there, although I probably was the first non-homeless person to do so.

One shower and one pill swallowed later, I was feeling okay again. Apparently I'm going to have to wean myself off them. It's such a foreign feeling to be physically addicted to something. To be ill without it in your body. I imagine it's what addicts go through, but I'm missing the psychological addiction of it all. I don't want it, I don't need it, however unless I stick to my schedule, I'm one very sick girl. It's such a peculiar idea for me.

Coach

Somewhere in mid-November, when I was broke and sitting on my couch alone because I was paying off my credit card, I decided my Christmas present to myself/ reward for getting out of debt/ reward for surviving the year would be a new Coach handbag. I have one of the signature handbags covered in the brown Cs, but this time I had my heart set on creamy black leather.

Two days after Christmas I walked in the Coach factory store among every other woman in the surrounding area. Ladies had 2-3 bags dangling off their arms: at over a $150 a piece, you couldn't tell the economy is in major meltdown mode. I accepted my 10% off certificate the doorman handed me and proceeded in.

I had my mother accompany me this time because I wanted something classic that wouldn't look ridiculous years from now. If I was going to spend this much on a purse, I wanted it to last. However, my mother is abusively frugal and buys her bags secondhand. I didn't know how she would react to my extravagance.

The handbag I had my eye on for months was hanging in the crook of a slender Chinese woman's arm, along with the red version of the bag and several other choices. She had the only black one left and I stared at her forlornly as I stood in line with my okay pick, but it wasn't the one I really wanted. I debated putting mine back and just saving my purse allotment for another day. I knew I couldn't approach her and ask her if she really wanted it, because my asking would just make the desirability of the bag increase. Instead I shifted my weight on each foot and whined my mini-tantrum.

Then she did it. She put the bag down. I immediately ran out of line, picked it up and ran back in line without even asking her. To me, if it was on a table, it was fair game. The tag on the bag read $328. The factory price was marked at $309, marked down again to $146.30. The 10% I received at the door took another $14.63 off and a scuff on the front—the assumed reason the lady put it back—reduced it by another 10%. In the end, my $328 bag sold for $118.50. I threw in another smaller Coach bag my father gave me for Christmas and my final total was $75. Even my mother, who hasn't spent more than $3 on a purse in years, got into the spirit of my deal.

And the best part about it wasn't the $75, but knowing I could afford it free and clear. I splurged on an item without the guilt of the credit card statement or even wondering what else I had to skimp on to afford it. It was mine and I deserved it and every bit of happiness that came along with it. It feels good.

I haven't even used my brown Coach bag since I bought the black one. Every time I look at the black one, I am reminded of how hard I worked and of my accomplishments and the good vibes return and I smile. I have the same feeling with my little car I got last summer. It was my down payment that took me a year to put together and my own loan with my credit and something I had to work at to get. I paid cash for all my other cars, but this one is different because it's nice, not to mention new(ish).

So I guess at the end of the day, I like to work. I like to save and I like to earn the things I have.

And I like them to be nice.

Back

It feels good to be back. At work. With a combination of my 4-day work week, company holidays and 3 vacation days, I scored a 17-day break from the daily grind. It was so long that I spent most of yesterday fumbling over the keyboard, re-learning how to type. And while it was awesome, I managed to screw up my sleep schedule and I've seen enough of the Lifetime Network to last me another year. Also, believe it or not, I got tired of wearing only pajamas and other elastic-waist pants. It's time for belt buckles and zippers. Not to mention daily showers.

I've always worked best under a consistent schedule. The two years in college where I had a steady boyfriend and our patterns were the semesters I made the dean's list and headed for magna cum laude. The semesters where I was single, I landed myself in academic probation (which I also attributed to the bout of mono I had during finals, another side effect of singledom). So even though it means I have to get up before 6 a.m., it feels good to be back.

2008 and everything I hate about it is gone, and so far 2009 is going swimmingly. All the goals I've set for myself—opening a second retirement account, funding an emergency savings and getting rid of my credit card debt—have all been put into motion, the most notable being that I am officially debt free again. Just a few months ago I felt so helpless, but with the aid of time and some great medication, I am once again organized and in control. I'm back in more ways than one.

Stay tuned. The pink is going away.

Letter from the Editor

My predecessor's face smiled at me from the upper-right corner of the Letter from the Editor page. She's pretty. She's very pretty. She has a boyfriend in TV I hear.

It's hard seeing who I'm replacing. With her facsimile of her appearance, I imagine she's also brilliant, and funny, and rich- everything I'm not. I already know she has natural style. For her photo she paired a black open-collared button-down with a chunky turquoise necklace. I don't own a chunky turquoise statement piece; the closest thing I have is a mock-vintage black beaded necklace from Ann Taylor.

My issue doesn't compare to hers. As far as journalistic integrity and proper grammar, I win. I can follow the rules like anybody else. But I think my writing lacks the flair hers had. I didn't insert any personal anecdotes. I didn't have time to come up with marketing genius wording, I was juggling too many projects and the deadline kind of snuck up on us all for that. My interviews are good. My ad copy is good. It's just going to have to be good enough.

I had my photo shoot for my editor's headshot today. I couldn't get an appointment with my stylist because of the holiday season. The photographer compensated by saying my dark roots looked punk rock. Awesome. I am so not punk rock. He said I smiled easily and he liked the shirt I wore: a raspberry two-in-one where it looks like I'm wearing a white collared shirt underneath from TJMaxx. But my nipples give the thinness of my shirt away because it's cold out today.

Now the graphic designer has my photo and he's asking since my smile is so cheeky—I'm not smirking, I just have big cheeks—does he have my permission to remove some lines on my face? Hell yes, he does. But then another graphic designer gets involved and I can hear them critique my photo, and thus also my appearance.

"Here's before," he zooms in on a cheek-induced crinkle below my eye. "Here's after," the crinkle has disappeared.

"I mean, the before isn't that bad," I hear the other designer remark.

"Hey, that's my face you're talking about!" I shout from my desk.

"Don't do too many touch ups though, it should look natural," the second desginer advises.

"Shut up, Chris!" I holler again.

Before I know it, the original designer is back at my desk and inspecting my face. He points to my lower lip, "Is that a beauty mark, or a blemish?" he asks.

So he must have noticed it on my photo. "It's a mole," I respond blandly.

"I better leave it then!" and he disappears back to his desk while I feel more and more like a monster.

A few minutes later, he shows me the photoshopped version. It looks like me, but I still don't like what I see. Each of my cheeks and my chin form a noticeable triangle around my smile. Maybe that's the human form, but it looks awkward on me. They say I look friendly and helpful in my photo, but all I see is a big face of awkward- the same as that 7th grader whose face hadn't caught up to her lips yet and sported braces and had cowlicks in her hair.

"I bet you took really great school photos," the designer remarks.

I think back to my 7th-grade self, "Nope."

I wonder if my predecessor will pick up the new issue of the magazine. I wonder if she'll stare at my photo now in the upper-right corner and I wonder what she'll think about me.

Putting It All Behind Me

I know Thanksgiving is this week and I have a couple of more holidays to endure, but I cannot wait until this year is over. It's just seemed like struggle after struggle, hardship after hardship. Now that things are looking up, I just want to move forward and put it all behind me.

Scott has been doing well at his new job. When I was shopping at the store the other week, his manager even told me that it was going to work out there. He's expressed clear interest in becoming management, and they seem receptive to his ambition. Once he's management, he'll be making more than me. Which I am a-okay with, other than the fact it seems more and more apparent you don't need a college education to do well in society. The only thing college seems to ensure is Saturdays and Sundays off.

He's also been really good at paying me back his portion of the bills from when he was out of work. I incurred a bit of credit card debt during that period, which I am paying interest on, so I am applying every penny he's given me to paying that down. I've also worked up a budget. After I paid all of my bills, I cut the remainder of my money in half and sent that to the credit card company as well, and I just live off the rest. It comes out to roughly $10 a day for food, gas, and whatever else I spend money on. It's been working as far as paying the debt down—I should be back at a zero balance next month—but it gets tiresome living like a pauper by the 21st of every month. But the end result will be much worth it.

When I'm done with my debt, I'm going to begin the new year with setting up additional retirement, savings, and investing accounts. I just don't want what happened when Scott had that accident and lost his job to happen again. The next time something financially burdening happens, I am going to be ready for it. Or at least prepared.

Scott's been watching me being so tight with my budgeting that it's starting to affect him too. I couldn't be happier since I'm the saver and he's the spender. When he saw me come home from the store with Big K cola, instead of my staple Diet Coke because it didn't fit in my budget, he said it really impacted him and he's made a few changes in his spending as well. Just yesterday he dropped all his additional features on his cell phone plan, which I had been telling him he didn't need for months, and it dropped his plan from $70 to $40 a month.

The year hasn't been a total wash. I had a lot of personal growth throughout 2008: I switched jobs which was great career-wise and it included a 25% raise; I got my first (almost) new car and my first car loan, which is a big deal if you've ever had bad credit; I took a class online that I needed to be eligible for grad school because I'm thinking about doing it; and I got out of debt in three months. If you look at it that way, I did pretty well this year.

I just want new beginnings and a new chance to flourish. With the new year comes the new presidency. I am just so excited about our new government elects; I think America absolutely made the right decision and I can't wait to see what happens next.

Things are going to change around here.

Under Pressure

The short story of it all: I got depressed. What I was feeling was beyond a case of the blahs, I had lost the ability to process things normally. Anxiety attacks began overpowering me daily. Incorrectly billed medical statements would send me into a downward spiral of snot and tears. I just couldn't handle things anymore like a normal person--anything and everything sent me over the edge.

During my last visit with my endocrinologist, I was advised going on anti-depressants when I said my fatigue wasn't getting any better. My eyes began to tear at his suggestion. I had been this depressed before, when I first began this blog after a bad breakup in '05. I worked through it then without the aid of prescriptives. I thought I could do it again. I politely turned the doctor down.

But the difference between last time and this time were my responsibilities. As in, I didn't have any last time. I had lost my job the week before the break-up and I had nothing to do but watch reruns of ER on TNT and get better. This time I had a job, and the boyfriend, and all the responsibilities of keeping the house running.

One night I locked myself in the bathroom and lay on the shower mat and cried. At that moment, I lost the will to live. Suicide wasn't something I considered. It was more of I could lie on this mat for the rest of my life. Everything else is just too hard. Scott and I then got into a terrible fight. I still think he picked one with me just so I would show any emotion, any spark of life.

The next morning I called my doctor and asked for the prescription, and within three days I was feeling like myself again. The anti-depressants were like a breath of fresh air. Incorrect medical bills now only required a phone call instead of a cryfest. I feel human again.

I don't plan to be on them long-term, but in the meantime, they're my godsend.

Yeah, I'm okay. I'm still here

The rumor of layoffs had been circulating for about a month. I'd get a phone call from my friend in IT and he'd whisper any new information in hushed tones. We exchanged anything we knew about secret meetings in which all the managers suspiciously had the same time blocked off their Outlook calendars. More than once, he called to tell me it was happening tomorrow, when in reality it never did.

But the last time he called, I had the feeling. This was it.

At 7 a.m. the next morning, I sat at my desk reading the morning news and any e-mail. A new e-mail from Mike popped on my screen, with a link to MSN Money. It detailed the company's third quarter outcome and announced plans to lay off 20% of the staff. I was stunned that I had to read it off the Internet before my manager said anything to us personally.

Within the hour the sheriff's department showed up. They guarded the exits and paced the hallways. The communication between Mike and me ceased. We were too busy focusing on ourselves and most likely just sitting in fear. I looked at my calendar, searching for signs that they planned to keep me. I had a training in the morning, but no meetings scheduled after that. I had no meetings scheduled for the rest of the week, nor the rest of the month. As if fate heard me sigh, at that moment I received a meeting request for that afternoon. I sighed again, this time with relief, and accepted it. Then I looked over the other members in the meeting and saw that it was my boss, my boss's boss, and my boss's boss's boss. My imagination told me it was the meeting where they would let me go. I frowned and sank in my swivel chair.

My boss came to get me for the training we had scheduled, as we walked to his car I knew I couldn't keep my anxiety in anymore. "Am I being fired?!" I blurted.

"No, you're safe," he laughed. "Unless I'm being misled, most of our department is safe. He listed off the particular people, and I noticed he didn't include everyone, but I kept that thought to myself. He started the car and pulled down the road, past IT's building.

Finally at ease and relaxed for the first time in weeks, I opened up, "Well it's pretty scary that they bring the police in to fire people."

"Yeah, they like to be official about this kind of stuff," he explained. This wasn't his first mass layoff experience at the company. "They go through the buildings and finish up by lunch. After lunch we'll have a departmental meeting where they announce who was let go and how we'll proceed."

I chewed on my lip and thought of the press release from the Internet. It said that the most of the employees being let go were people who didn't interact with the customers. I don't interact with any customers, neither does Mike in IT. Although I knew I was safe, I was still worried for him.

After the hour-long training, my boss and I exited the main building. It just happened to be raining that day, harder than it had in months. I zipped up my raincoat and pulled the hoodie strings tight. It was such a miserable day. Ahead of me, an older woman was walking through the parking lot with a single cardboard box. I didn't think anything of it until I saw the collage of her gray tabby poking out the opened top. There must have been six different pictures of her cat in various impromptu moments. I studied the woman's face: it was stone cold with red-rimmed eyes. I swatted my boss with my training materials.

"Oh, I didn't even notice," he whispered.

I buckled the seat belt in his car, and then turned around to inspect the front door. Three more people followed out, rolling their oversized briefcases behind them. "We're so far away from everyone else, I bet they're going to do our building last," I supposed.

"No," he corrected. "They're already done with our building."

I came back to my desk with the news that our small team of five was one person lighter. 20% lighter. Our department of 40 was 6 people lighter in total. I was told we were lucky to lose so few people. Entire operations shut down in other states. It was 10:30 a.m. and the local newspaper already picked up on the layoffs and covered it on their home page.

Mike sent me an e-mail titled "MY TEAM IS SAFE," but it detailed how he witnessed groups of 15 and 20 going into conference rooms and afterwards only 2-3 people would go back to their desks. I picked up the phone and called him, "How are they doing this, like American Idol? If I read your name, take a step forward. The rest of you can go."

"I don't know, but I nearly had a heart attack when one of the head boss's secretary came over with a clipboard and declared, "You're not supposed to be here anymore! Apparently we're moving cubicles, but the way she said it, I thought they lied and were letting us go."

That morning, there was a lot of walking up and down the hallway outside my cubicle. I couldn't decipher if it was people nervously pacing, people rushing to the bathroom to gossip, or people carrying their things to their cars. I was afraid to leave my desk.

We took an early and long lunch. We really didn't have a whole lot to say to each other, but we couldn't stand being in the office anymore. The environment was eerily silent as the remainders reflected on what just happened. I wish they had let us go home early after the uncomfortable afternoon meeting where they read the list of people fired. They should have let us regroup and come in fresh the next morning, but instead we sat at our desks. No one worked as personal calls were made: Yeah, I'm okay. I'm still here. I think the bosses knew we weren't working, but as long as we pretended to, it was good enough for the afternoon.

At home, Scott jumped up and down when he heard I made it through unscathed. Because we're one income family, we couldn't have made it if I had gotten laid off. But I couldn't share his jubilance. Inwardly I was relieved, but I couldn't be happy. It was such a miserable, long, oppressive day that I just wanted it to be over. "I'll be happy tomorrow," I told him, "But for now, I'm going to bed."

Bad, Good, Ugly

"We found a few benign cells," the doctor tells me over the phone, but before I can breathe a sigh of relief, he quickly finishes, "but not enough to rule it as benign."

"So it's inconclusive again?" I ask, thinking about the inconclusive statistic which means imminent surgery.

"No, not inconclusive, just... not benign."

So, not cancer, but not benign.

In my flow chart of hypothesized outcomes, this wasn't one of them. He then looked over my blood work to see if I was eligible for medication to shrink the tumors. "No," he tsked. "Your levels are high, so any medication would not only be useless to you, but it would also throw your body into hyperthyroidism."

"Hyper? As in rapid weight loss?" I asked.

"Yes, as in eyes bugging out of your head," he corrected.

"Oh."

He gently encouraged me to have the surgery to remove my thyroid and "put this behind [me] and move on with [my] life." When I told him I was not ready to have surgery yet, he then gave me the option of waiting another six months and having a third biopsy to see if there are any changes. I greedily accepted and promised him that if I felt any pain in my neck, or noticed it larger in size, I would have it out immediately.

In other news, I had to have a different biopsy on a very scary part of my body, but that came back all clear with nothing wrong. The relief of a benign biopsy made me giddy.

In other other news, they are laying off 20% of my company tomorrow. The shit keeps a commin'.

Cats

I have a small scar under my left eye. I got it Christmas Eve 2004, when I was at my then-boyfriend's Mark's parent's house. The Femme Fatale was with me and, having never seen a cat before, she was obsessed with their house cat. She wanted to smell him, and she wanted to play with him.

Mark stood in the door jamb holding the cat protectively, more for the cat's comfort than from the likes of the Femme Fatale: the Femme Fatale doesn't have an evil inkling in her 50-pound furry frame. I walked over to where she had her nose raised straight up in the air a la Snoopy, trying to get more of the cat's scent. I reached down to grab her black nylon collar to hustle her from the cat's space when the cat went all Kitty Ali on me and attacked my face.

I dropped the Femme Fatale's collar and shielded myself. The dog fled the scene on her own. I felt the blood run down my face, then my fingers and arms, without even having to look. Mark's dad ushered me to the kitchen sink where I dumped the blood cupped in my hands and held my face under the faucet until the water ran clear again. The cat had missed my eyeball by less than half an inch and left an two inch long incision across my face.

I've never had anyone comment on my scar—it faded into a quiet indentation beneath my lashes—but I notice it every morning when I put on makeup. Every time I spy it, I feel comforted. I have an outward scar to reflect and validate the inward pain resulting from that relationship. A battle wound. And then I wish every one of my ex-boyfriend's parents owned cats.

He Loves Me

We began with a bang. How cliché is that. What isn't cliché, however, is that the bang was me laying a Vespa down in the middle of the road.

That particular bang was a year ago, today.

At 12:01 a.m. Scott went outside to get something out of his bike while I climbed into bed and opened a book. He brushed back the curtain that separates the bedroom from the rest of the loft and carried a bouquet of roses and a card. "Happy anniversary, baby," he said.

The roses are beautiful; I've never seen anything like them. At first glance it looks like the petals are aging, but actually they're red with darker red tiger stripes. I tried looking the breed up this morning to see what kind they are, but I haven't found them yet. The card personified Scott's personality: it was sweet with a hint of romance, but it opted for the joke instead of exaggerated sentiment. It was like it was written for him.

"I decided to give you this tonight instead of tomorrow because I won't be here," he explained. "I asked the girls at work what I should do, and they said to give you this tonight, otherwise they said you're just going to sit at home alone tomorrow and stew. I'm sorry I can't be here."

The scheduling between us has been difficult. By the time he gets home from closing the restaurant, we only have about an hour before I have to go to bed in order to be up for the morning. He works weekends too so there isn't going to be an anniversary date. Not even a dinner. He even has to stay late tonight, so I'll probably be asleep before he gets home.

I understand this and I'm not upset over it. I was the one who wanted a better job for him; he took it for me. For us. And these are the consequences.

I spent the morning trying to think about my other one-year anniversary with The Alcoholic-- Mark and I split up three weeks before our one-year anniversary, so The Alcoholic would have been the only one. I wondered what I did all those years ago. How we celebrated. But I couldn't remember a single detail about it, not even what season of the year it fell on. It took me hours to realize that we didn't have one either. We took a break two weeks before our anniversary and got back together two weeks afterwards. This is the first time in my life I have ever made it an entire, consecutive year with someone. This is my first anniversary.

It makes me wish we could do more-- do things properly. But the fact I'm going to be spending tonight watching The Other Boleyn Girl while eating Chinese takeout doesn't even matter, because I think about all I have gained within the past year: I fell in love, I gained a partner, I gained a roommate, a car washer, a scratcher of backs, a lover. Someone who laughs when I painstakingly clean out the refrigerator, but forgot to turn it back on so everything in the freezer melts over my efforts. Someone who holds my hand during the season finale of Grey's Anatomy. And I am just so unbelievably happy.