Swimming Pools, Ghosts, and Little Victories

It was a Wednesday in mid-July and the weather was a brutal 90 degrees with humidity that made the Weather Channel’s “Feels Like” temperature show 5,000 degrees.

Around noon, Francesca texted me, “That’s it.  We need to go water-walking tonight.”

It would be our first time joining the blue-hairs for water-walking at the public pool.  They say your late 20’s is the time to plan for your future – we were just looking 35 years ahead.

After work, I forged the river that was the atmosphere en route to my car.  I rushed home, visions of beautiful, blue, chlorine-filled coolness dancing in my mind.  After I put on my swimsuit, I readied my pool-going accessories and ran out of my apartment building.  I jumped back into the car and drove to pick up Francesca.  We arrived at the public swimming pool, found a parking spot, organized our towels and sunblock, and began the walk to the pool entrance.

That’s when an unexpected wave of panic hit me.

“Whoa.”  I said to Francesca as I stopped walking.  “I’m dealing with some issues right now.”  I felt my stomach contract and my chest tighten.  Francesca, who had been complaining about the heat all day, looked at me in a tone that made it clear ten-years of friendship was nothing compared to her need to be immersed in cool, chemically treated water.

“I’m sorry.” I said, swallowing the dense oxygen and trying to regain control of my body’s senses.  “It’s been over fifteen years since I’ve been here and there’s a lot of emotional shit I have to deal with, apparently.”

When I was a kid, the pool was awesome.  I loved swimming.  I felt like I could do anything as long as I was in the swimming pool.  I could swim faster, hold my breath longer, and swim deeper than anyone else.  The pool was my arena.  The other kids had soccer and basketball and football – the pool was mine.

But outside of the water - amongst the rows of sun-bathing teenagers with their judgmental scowls, around the boys I had crushes on who refused to acknowledge my existence, and in the locker rooms where my elementary school nemeses lurked – those places were my hell at the public pool.  How I longed for the weekend camping trips my parents would make to Devil’s Lake where I could finally feel safe at a swimming area without fearing the repercussions of being slightly chubbier than my peers. 

All of those little hurts from so long ago that I hadn’t even thought about for fifteen years came rushing back to me as we walked to the pool’s entrance.  To make matters worse I didn’t have my swimming shorts with me.  I was going to have to drop my towel and walk to the edge of the pool, bare, cellulite-ridden thighs and all. 

“This is ridiculous! I’m an adult now!” I practically shouted it as Francesca glowered at me, sweat beading on her brow.  I took a few deep breaths and tried to channel as much positivity as I could muster as we arrived at the entrance.  “I can do this.”

I kept my eyes directed at the ground the entire time I walked through the locker room, fearing the ghosts of past tormenters that might jump out at me.  We picked a place to set our things and Francesca easily dropped her towel and stood confidently as she waited for me to quit dawdling. 

Finally, I took one last deep breath and dropped my towel.  We quickly walked to the pool’s edge and slipped into the water.

And oh the relief!

The panic washed away as soon as I got into the pool, just as it always did when I was a kid. 

Francesca, finally being cooled, also lightened up as soon as we got into the heavenly water.  I’m pretty sure we stood there giggling for five minutes before we actually started walking.

Natalia and Prudence joined us after a few minutes and we all walked.  Then we discovered that perhaps we’re just a bit too young to do something like water-walking.  We still enjoy splashing and playing a bit too much for the Adult Swim, but perhaps we can fake it well enough on those hot summer days that we’ll be able to go back.

As the time for water-walking came to an end my mood had lightened to the point of giddiness at being with my girlfriends.  The water had washed away enough of the ghosts of my childhood pain that I jumped out of the pool and thought:

Fuck it.  Let those bitches see my thighs.

I think it’s safe to say that childhood Annie won a little victory that day.  That one's for you, kid.

Hugsnkisses,

Annie Jay

Step 1

I know a lot of people (yes, Mom, I’m talking about you) don’t understand why I called this blog The Grow-Up Plan.  If you’re a frequent reader you know that I typically write about drunken mishaps, failures in love and just sheer randomness. Sure, occasionally I’ll throw in some positive life advice for everyone, but that stuff is few and far between.

The reason I’ve named this blog The Grow-Up Plan, is because that’s what I’m trying to do.  I’m trying to learn who I am as an adult while simultaneously holding onto the whimsical, irresponsible side of my personality.  It’s just that sometimes, that’s the only side I listen to.

If I’m going to be completely honest, I have no idea what I'm doing.

I bet you've probably figured that out by now though, huh?

My ideas of how to navigate the waters of life aren’t any better than anyone else’s, and really, if you were hoping I’d be your savior who could point you to Happily Ever After, I suspect you’ve instead ended up with a drinking problem and possibly an STD or five. 

Sorry about that.

But I digress…

2012 was one of the roughest years of my adult life.  I've been floating in a state of limbo for the last nine or ten months and I think I’ve just figured that out in the last couple of weeks. 

The first step is admitting you have a problem, right?

I keep reaching out, lashing out, stomping out - doing different things outside of myself, but somehow also pulling back, pulling myself in.  I'm sure that doesn't make sense, but I can't find any other way to say what I mean.

You know how people send those "Here are all of the awesome things we did this year!" letters with Christmas cards?  My parents have never really been the type to send those, and I'm not the kind of person to send Christmas cards, period.  But this year, I found myself wishing I had done enough stuff to warrant a "My year was awesome!" letter.

Why did I care?  These kinds of things have never mattered to me.

But I’ve finally figured it out – I’m feeling that way because I've been so lost, looking back, looking in, looking out - at everything that was just so wrong.  Like the kid who's teased by his older siblings and becomes the schoolyard bully for lack of anything else to do with all of that pain, I was hoping for something to show off.  I was hoping for some kind of bandaid to put over all of this listlessness and loneliness that would sparkle and make the world think I'd finally arrived.

Fucking hell, have I really become that person?

No.  I'm not that person.

Earlier today I was doing the dishes and I had a revelation.  You know how a while ago I wrote about Confidence Girl?  She is great, she really is.  

The problem with Confidence Girl?  She used to just be called Annie Jay.

I mean – goddamn – I hope this doesn’t sound too arrogant, but…

Annie Jay is a fucking badass, awesome chick.

I don't need some gimmick to make me feel strong and confident.  

I am those things.

But somewhere along the way, I forgot.  Somewhere along the way, I lost those feelings.  But now that I've remembered what was lost, I think I'll have a much easier time.

I’ve been spending so much time just killing time.  I’m so done with that. 

I’m going to start this weekend.  This weekend I will do things that make me happy and not just try to pass time and end the monotony. 

I’m going to get back to being the girl who focuses only on the positive and stop living in this land of negativity I’ve secluded myself within.  I’m going to get back to being the leader I once was.  I’m going to get back to being the active person I used to be.

I’m going to remember that I am the girl who got two black eyes when drunkenly walking into a street lamp on a company trip and got a promotion the next week.  That’s the kind of presence I have and I won’t let myself forget it again.

I’m maafuckin Annie Jay and I’m not about to let myself forget it again.

Kissykisses,

Anniy Jay

If I Didn't Know Me, This Post Would Probably Scare Me Off

I was talking with Francesca today… FUCK I just need to make her get her own damn blog since I’m pretty sure every single post I write involves her!  It’s like I have this invisible conjoined twin that I didn’t even know I have until now.

Ok… anyway –

Francesca and I were talking about a myriad of day-to-day things when I mentioned my American Girl Dolls.

Now, now, wait.  I didn’t give up dating just so I could sit at home playing dress up with my dollies.  I promise, I didn’t.

Seriously guys. 

Ok, the closest I get to that is when I’m playing vids and I get to change my warrior’s clothes whenever I want (which, if I’m being honest, is pretty damned often).  But then I run around and slay dragons or scale buildings in a single bound, so I think it balances out.

Anyway, really, let’s get back on topic.

I was at my mom and dad’s house on Sunday for my mom’s birthday and I saw that they had brought my grandma’s American Girl Doll home.  It had been one of the personal effects that had been at the nursing home with her for the last couple of years.  The family decided that I could have it since I am the only granddaughter and also had American Girl Dolls of my own. 

My American Girl Dolls and accessories are sitting in bins in Mom and Dad’s basement storage room, waiting for me to have children of my own someday.  So that was where I figured I would put Grandma’s doll, Samantha, until the time came when they would all see the light of day again and feel the love of a little girl with an imagination to take them on many adventures.

When I went to put Samantha in the container with Kirsten and Illiana (my dolls). I got out all three of them because I couldn’t resist fluffing up their hair and giving them quick hugs before returning them to the box where they would sleep for a little while longer. 

When I mentioned this to Francesca, she mentioned that she’d had a little brother and dogs that never let her keep her dolls in good condition.  I told her how I never even took my dolls outside unless I had something for them to sit upon and always kept them in neat and tidy order.  I began to say it was just a product of my parents teaching me to always care for my things but then I remembered the real reason – I was scared to death of them.

I don’t remember how old I was when I first saw The Puppet Master (that isn't a link to IMDB, that's a link to a really neat-o blog I just found.  You can IMDB it yourselves you lazy pantses).  But I was young.  And I was paranoid, apparently.  I remember feeling like I always had to play with my dolls equally and treat them with the utmost respect, or they could crawl out of my closet in the middle of the night and turn into the monsters from The Puppet Master and drill through my forehead.

(See how I went from a sickeningly sweet moment or reminiscence to a moment of batshit crazy in just 3 paragraphs?)

Which lead me to thinking about all of the things I’m thankful for!  So, in keeping with the spirit of the season here is a list of things that I’m thankful for - with a little twist.

Seven Things From My Nightmares That I’m Thankful Never Came True:

1. That my dolls never turned into the dolls from The Puppet Master.  I think this one pretty much speaks for itself.

2.  That I never had to participate in a Hunger Games style event in a metro area.  This was a crazy ass dream.  From falling in love with people who were trying to kill me, to having to figure out which people in this metro area were part of the game and which ones were innocent bystanders (because they didn’t evacuate the city for the games)… Ooofta…

3.  That I never found my mom dead on the kitchen floor.  This dream was horrible.  It was right after I got kicked out of college and was living at home with my parents.  My dad had just started a new job that required him to be out of town during the week.  In my dream I woke up one morning and found her just completely void.  Then I had to call my dad and brother and tell them they had to come home – but I couldn’t tell them why because I wanted them to be able to drive home safely.  When I woke up in real life, I called my mom and told her I loved her.

4.  That I never had to drive across the river on a bridge made of juju bees.  Those little dots of hard jelly candy provide very little traction and have a habit of clogging up your muffler.

5.  That my friends and I were never held hostage in a high school gymnasium by the Saw guy. We were safe as long as we stayed in the gym, but people kept thinking of “bright ideas” to break free.  Then they’d get murdered as we’d all sit back and watch helplessly.

6.  That I never had sex with that coworker/friend/acquaintance who I’ve never been attracted to and actually kind of hate.  What is the point in sex dreams like this?  It’s all like “WOO! Sex dream! Wait… WHAT?!? OH NO! OH GOD NO!!”  But no matter what, you can’t get out of the dream and it just keeps going…  Some times in the dream you'll even really be enjoying yourself which fills you with even more shame and horrible dream-hangover feelings the next day..uzzhgugh

7.  That my hair and teeth never fell out in the course of 15 minutes as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror.  I think everyone has a dream like this as least one time, right? *shudder*Terrible.

I’ll be thankful for more normal things on Thursday.  I promise. 

If I don’t see you before then, Happy Thanksgiving to my friends in the US!  If you don’t live in the US, happy almost-the-weekend!

Much Love,

Annie Jay

PS:  So I was totally going to the American Girl Dolls website to link you to pictures of the American Girl Dolls I have (because I knew you would want to see them!) when I found out they don't even make the ones I have anymore! WTF American Girl Doll Company?  20 years is too long to carry a couple of brands of dolls on the market?? Samantha was always the classiest - anyone you replaced her with now is just a washed-up whore.

Because Everyone Needs a Confidence Girl Every Once in a While

This morning my apartment looks like a scene in a movie. You know the scene I’m talking about: 

As soon as you walk in the front door there is a shoe kicked off to the left.  After that there is another shoe, then a trail of clothes leading directly to the bedroom.  The pillows are a mess and some even lay banished on the floor.  The blankets are tangled and hanging haphazardly off of the bed.  You know the scene now, right?  Giggity.

Ok, I’m kidding about the giggity part. 

If I had told you what the scene looked like a few moments ago it would have included a girl sleeping mouth-first on her pillow, her mascara smeared.  Her long back-combed hair is sticking up and out at impossible angles.  She’s wearing old jogging shorts and a ratty t-shirt and is cuddling with a stuffed gryphon hatchling she calls Henry. 

That, my friends is what Confidence Girl looks like when she sleeps.  It’s pretty much the unsexiest thing in the world, but damn did that girl go to bed happy!

No seriously, there was no giggity. 

Confidence Girl is not the kind of girl.

Well… usually she’s not that kind of girl.

*ahem*

So who is Confidence Girl?

Well, you know how when you walk into a room full of people your heart stops beating and you get the overwhelming urge to run out the door? Yeah, man, I effing hate that feeling too.  I become sure that every person in the bar is looking at me and judging me – for my shirt, my hair, my waist line, my jeans, my purse, shoes, necklace, earrings, slightly curved toes...  well, you get the point.

Understandably so, being afflicted with this overwhelming anxiety every time you walk into a place is not a good way to meet new people or have very much fun. 

Or breathe normally when walking down a busy street.

Confidence is a funny thing.  One day I’ll be full of confidence and I’ll be sure that I can do anything.  The next day I’ll be sure that everything I do is wrong and that everyone knows it.  It amazes me how sometimes my self-consciousness can be such a handicap.

In 99.999% of the cases where my confidence is lacking, it will be as a result of negative self-talk.  I tell myself the world is against me and therefore I act in a way which makes the world be against me.  My self-conscious thoughts are self-fulfilling prophecy.

In order to get around my anxiety, I decided that I just need to STOP second guessing everything I do. 

I need to stop reprimanding myself for those silly little things I do that almost no one notices and even fewer people remember.

That’s where Confidence Girl comes in.

When I know I’m going to be going into an unfamiliar or uncomfortable situation – one that is highly likely to trigger my anxiety – I give myself a pep talk.  Before I even leave my house, I forgive myself for the mistakes I’m going to make (because I know I will make them but since I’m already forgiven I’m not allowed to stew and berate myself for those things).  I admit right away that I am not perfect so I’m not trying to live up to that standard the whole time. 

The next thing I do is tell myself that everyone I talk to is going to love me.

Gods - even writing this now, it all sounds so cheesy.  But it works every time.

I tell myself that my skin is thick and that I won’t let the sideways stares or the eyes scanning the size of my ass keep me from being absolutely fucking fabulous. 

I won’t misinterpret the laughter at that corner table as laughter about me and will recognize that the world doesn’t revolve around me and those people were just laughing at something else entirely.  I won’t let my paranoia get the best of me and automatically see everyone I don’t know as an enemy or a person whose sole mission is to ruin my time.  

My idea for Confidence Girl (who has most certainly cornered the market on lame superhero names) came this summer when I started hanging out with my Wild Girls – these gorgeous party girls who are fun, sweet and incredibly inclusive yet frequent all of the “cool kid” places I would have never felt secure going to before.  When I realized that I was denying myself new friends, who were quite literally begging me to be friends with them, I realized that I was holding myself back.

The first night I hung out with them, as I got ready I began telling myself that no matter what the night held in store, I would go along for the ride.  I told myself that I would pretend every person I talked to was already my best friend and I therefore had no reason to worry about anything.

And it worked.

From then on, whenever I know I’m going to be in a place where I would normally feel vulnerable in some way, I try to address those concerns before I’m even in the situation so that the girl who goes out into the world is the very best version of me I can present. 

That girl is Confidence Girl – not exactly an alternate persona – just me stripped of my anxiety and determined not to be held back because of fear.  Confidence Girl doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her and isn’t ashamed of anything she does.  I don’t allow myself to second guess anything once the time has passed either – what happens with Confidence Girl stays with Confidence Girl.

Confidence Girl is fun, intelligent, witty, brave, tough, a little bitchy (but only when she needs to be) and even just a little bit of a man-eater. 

I owe her a lot.

Have any tricks that you use to overcome your own anxiety? 

Hugsnkisses,

Annie Jay

Deep Breaths. Deep Breaths.

Alternate title: Why you shouldn't show up at my house unannounced.

It took fifteen minutes of walking around my apartment with an unsheathed katana samurai sword big ass knifey-thingy, for me to realize that I had let my paranoia get the best of me.

Huh... that’s a weird place to start a story and might be making you feel like you should never talk to me again. I guess I should start at the beginning –

As I’ve said in the past, I live above a bar.  Although that might sound like a recipe for sleepless nights and alcoholism, I can promise you it’s not as bad as you might think.  Sure, when I had the bedroom at the front of the building I could always hear the smokers outside at all hours of the night and the beer/food delivery trucks at all hours of the morning, but I live in the back bedroom now and don’t have any of those problems. 

And so what if my favorite game every night is “Name That Tune Through the Floor”?  Everyone needs to train their ears to be able to identify the muffled sounds of Jason Aldean or the Ying Yang Twins “Whisper Song” through their floorboards. 

For the most part, the fact that there’s a bar below my apartment just means that I always have a neighbor I can borrow a cup of sugar or a fifth of Jack from.  In my book, that’s a damn good neighbor to have.  Plus, they make kick ass tacos.

*ahem*

But on rare occasions, the idea of a bunch of rowdy drunks hanging out in your basement all the time is a little disconcerting.

Like the time when I was in the front bedroom and I heard two drunken girls in a fight outside.  I watched as the drunkest girl was carried away by her brother (fireman’s-carry style carried away) but then fought her way off of his back and ran away from him.  Fifteen minutes later I heard her screaming bloody-murder and I had to run out of the house because I was afraid a car had hit her. 

No, she was just two houses down rolling around in the front yard as her brother (I know what you’re thinking, it was definitely her brother, all of her friends at the bar had been shouting “YOUR BROTHER IS TAKING YOU HOME NOW! GO HOME WITH YOUR BROTHER!” and he told me their parents were coming to pick her up – he was definitely not an axe murderer.  Most likely.) tried to get her to calm down.  So I walked back to my barpartment and sat on the front step just in case things got more entertaining crazy again.  Five minutes later he walked by – barefoot.  “Fucking bitch stole my shoes,” he said to me. 

I have no idea how she stole his shoes, but I’ve gotta give her props for being wily enough to get them off his feet when he was standing on them.  And him, of course I have to give him props.  He’s a much better sibling than I would be in the same situation. 

Also because I probably can’t lift my brother (although he is quite svelte these days) onto my back and just stroll down the street with him.  Also because anytime we drink together we just end up reminiscing about comic books, Star Trek and video games, not running away from each other.

*ahem*

The point is –

You never know what drunken people are going to do.  So even though living above a bar that cops frequent usually makes me feel pretty safe (there’s always someone around at all hours of day/night in case something horrible happens to me) there are nights when my imagination runs away with me.

Shortly before my old roommate moved out, she went to Colombia for fourteen days.  Halfway into that time – my first time essentially living alone – was the night when I got scared – really scared.

I had just gone to bed when I heard what sounded like someone walking through my apartment.  At the time I was still living in the aforementioned front bedroom, which is right off of my living room.  The noises I heard seemed to be coming from right outside of my bedroom door.  I was terrified, but I tried to stay rational and convince myself that it was just the building settling and noises from downstairs seeping through the floor.

It was at that moment that I decided I’d be a lot more comfortable if I had some kind of weapon in my hand.  (Incidentally, it was also at this moment when I decided I wanted to learn how to operate a gun.  You know, just in case anyone ever came at me with one and I was able to get it out of their hands – that way I could defend myself with it.  Because it’s highly likely that I’m going to be attacked with a gun at some point and just as likely that I could wrest it away from my attacker.)

The only things I had in my room were pillows, Henry (my stuffed gryphon hatchling), books, jewelry, an antique hand mirror, a wooden statue of a sleeping fox with wings and my bedside table lamp.  I opted to cradle the wooden fox in my arms as I went to sleep that night.  Henry wasn’t too happy about being ousted for cuddles, but I felt a mite safer having some kind of bludgeon by my side.  The only thing Henry can do is “cute” people to death (which, let’s be honest, he’s really good at doing).

He'll hug the fear away.

The next day, after a night filled with nightmares of my violent and bloody death at the hands of a drunken frat boy, I told my friend Jason about the ordeal.  I told him that I felt like I would have felt better had I been in possession of some sort of weapon – even a pocket knife would have made me feel less paranoid.

Then he started laughing, reached behind a bookshelf and pulled out this:

Dancing groundhog lighter pictured to show scale.

And he gave it to me.  I tried to resist at first – you know, overkill and all.  But then he reminded me that if nothing else I would be able to pull out that great old Crocodile Dundee joke whenever I wanted.

So now that beautiful knife (which actually scares the shit out of me me a little) rests right between my bed and bedside table.  I wouldn’t say I look at it daily, but there are many nights when - before hopping under my covers - I’ll double-check just to make sure it’s still there.  I don’t even know if I could use it if I had to, but the comfort of having it there makes me feel safer on the nights when my paranoia gets the best of me.

Which (finally) brings me back to the beginning of this post.

The other night I was getting ready to go to bed and I walked by my front door, which actually leads to an enclosed stairwell with another door at the bottom.  I typically leave the downstairs door and upstairs doors both locked, but occasionally when I have company over they will forget to lock the door at the bottom on their way out.  Typically I will run down and check on this, but on this particular night, I didn’t think about it until it was too late.

I had just finished my before bed bathroom ritual (clean face, braid hair, brush teeth) and was walking back to my bedroom when I passed the front door and heard a voice so clear it could only have been coming from outside of my front door. 

I ran back to my bedroom and – for the first time – unsheathed my knife and walked slowly back toward my front door.  I stopped, heart hammering in my heart, just to the side of my door.  The knife was gripped firmly in my hand and I took a deep breath before calling out a weak “Hello? Is anyone there?” 

Of course there was no answer – the serial killers never answer when you ask if they’re there.  Dicks.

So I did the only sane thing a person could do.

I threw open my front door and yelled down the stairs. 

Still no answer.

So then I peeked around the doorframe and saw that the stairwell was empty. 

Still unsure of my safety, I tiptoed to the downstairs door.

It was locked.

I’d imagined the whole thing.

I ran back up the stairs (as quickly as I felt was safe with a gigantic blade in my hand) re-sheathed the knife, grabbed Henry in a death-grip-cuddle, jumped into my bed and pulled the blankets over my head.

I slept with the lights on that night.

Every once in a while I let my imagination get the best of me. 

This should also serve as a warning to any people that want to attack me – I have a gigantic knifey thingy and when I’m going crazy with paranoia you might just get accidentally stabbed.  Consider this your warning.

Plus, I’m taking kickboxing now.  So I’m tough, bitches.

*sigh*

Pray for me.

Hugs n kisses,

Annie Jay

PS:  Am I the only one who gets this paranoid when I’m home alone?