So, here’s the thing. I think when we feel bleak, sometimes the best thing to do to get you over your slump is to focus on helping somebody else. And I’m not talking about in the opening the door for somebody at the grocery store way, I mean get involved in something bigger than yourself, perhaps gaining some real perspective along the way kind of way.

Remember my filmmaker friend Mike? I’ve written about him and some of his films, most recently his project that took him to the DRClast year. Just for kicks, I’ll show you the two of us in High School:

circa 1987, for REAL

Yes. Those really were my bangs. And those really were his glasses. Total sidenote: we were freshmen in high school here, and this was the beginning of The Crush. You know, the one we all had on some guy in high school? That mullet was HAWT. Just saying.

I had the opportunity to spend some time with him while he was screening a film (at an all male college, btw. Yeah. ME surrounded by college boys and being the only woman in the room. Talk about the best place to be when you need to feel objectified for a while. He dragged me out of there kicking and screaming). That day Mike gave me a gift – he gave me that thing that is so much bigger than I to care about. And I’m going to share it with you.

I wrote for the first time about his Congo project a few months ago when he was fundraising. I don’t want to oversimplify, but sometimes it’s a good way to hook people, so forgive me Mike for doing it again in this paragraph: Basically some of the minerals used to make all the gadgets that we are all so addicted to come from mines in the DRC, and because of the political instability there, we are indirectly helping to fund horrible atrocities.

Horrible Atrocities. That’s actually a very polite term for what I’ve learned is actually happening. It’s a phrase that helps you rationalize or compartmentalize when the reality of what that means is too much to process. I sat in a hotel room with Mike last week listening to him talk – and holy crapballs the next time we get together I’m filming us talk because had you been there you would have left the room changed for having heard his stories – and he explained to me what the phrase Horrible Atrocities means to him because he lived among these people for weeks. He smelled their smells and listened to their pleas and recorded their stories.

And he also saw their hope. These are not a people who are just resigned to living a fate worse than death. They still have hope. And hope, blogosphere, is mighty.

This post isn’t one designed to shock you into caring about all of this, nor is it a post designed to make you feel guilty for your iPhone. But the seed I am hoping to plant today is this: As both consumers and constituents, we have the power to change the world around us.

Mike leaves in a couple of weeks to go back to the DRC. He’ll be there for 3 months this time. And do you know what I get to do? I get to help tell the story behind the story. He is trusting me with his voice and his vision while he’s away, and I will be writing and Tweeting and Facebooking about the film, the issue, the people, and his process. I’m going to help him find people to care about the subject of this film. Lots of them. Ten thousand of them. And I’m starting here, today, with the people who have connected to me as a fatass smartass weightloss blogger. You’re invited on this journey, too.

This is what I need from you right now: 2 clicks. Follow @Mike_Ramsdell on Twitter, and ‘like’ The Conflict Minerals Project on Facebook. I’ll ask for more later I’m sure, but for today, this is it. 2 clicks.

We both got significantly better looking.

What is that saying about the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different result?

Well, now that it’s all out in the open that I’m struggling, I guess I can follow that up by admitting that I am also insane. I am doing the same things again and again, expecting that somehow they’ll turn out different. Or that I’ll turn out different. But really, I’m not much different today than I was 7 months ago when I was laying on the floah. Well, I’m upright. And my ugly hair has grown out. And I have taken to wearing super short Athleta running skorts and tight tee shirts to work because I need the endorphined up manly men to stop by my office to see what I’m wearing so they can go over to the coffee pot and objectify me. I’ve found that being objectified is about as good as it gets on those days that I feel like a chubby, middle aged depressed chick with a trunk full of baggage.

And as long as we’re on the topic, the Honey Baked Ham story…

Gym Eye Candy Guy: I look at you and it makes me crave Honey Baked Ham.

Me: (Blink. Blink.) I feel like that’s supposed to be a compliment, but I just can’t quite make the connection. Can you explain?

Gym Eye Candy Guy: Think about it. At Thanksgiving, the turkey might be the centerpiece. But it’s the Honey Baked Ham the men want to devour.

Yeah. I’m totally okay with that right now.

I finally agreed to go to counseling with Trophy Husband and our first appointment is next week and the truth is I am whacked out scared because once you say things out loud, they’re real. You can’t say them and then see that they crush or infuriate or amuse or embarrass the other person and then take them back. You can’t un-say them once they’re out there. And even though we have this shared experience of the last 14 years together, I just don’t know what he’s going to say once we’re in the room with a third party and a couch and a professional opinion. We have been horrible communicators and swept lots of things under the rug and I don’t know if we’re going to counseling to try to work on our relationship or if we’re going to counseling to try to decide if our relationship is worth saving or if we’re going to counseling because we both think it’s the other person who is batshit. I don’t know if we’d even agree on the reason for going. I just don’t know.

I guess all of the stupid shit I do to try to stay ahead of the beast has been put on pause.  I’m not  happy about it, but it is what it is. And also, I’m not going to stop curling my hair and wearing short skirts that push the boundaries of the dress code. But I’ll slow down. And I’ll go to therapy.

You know those people on Facebook who shout from their status updates how perfect everything is and how happy they are and how each new day is more perfect than the last? Well. I see through those people. I see through you, Facebook Nothing But Happiness Proclaimers! I know you have bad days and problems and perhaps an overdue phone bill and a secret box of Little Debbies hidden behind the quinoa on the top shelf of the pantry. I know your life is no more perfect than mine.

And mine is not perfect.

Being that I’ve created an atmosphere here of honesty, I’ve avoided writing with any regularity because my MOM reads this blog for crying out loud. My mom and my high school drama director and old friends from college and now all kinds of people who take my Zumba classes and all of a sudden I became hesitant to write my life because I don’t always feel like cracking jokes and because more and more I have to make eye contact with people who come here to read this stuff. You know? Somewhere along the way I misplaced the fearlessness or brazenness or whatever it was that allowed me to write this snark, and really I just don’t feel that funny anymore.

Then yesterday I was at a Zumbathon and somehow I mentioned something about a bad day and my tiny little anxiety problem and somebody said to me “Really? I just can’t imagine you being down. You’re always so energetic and happy!” and I thought to myself whatEVER. You obviously don’t read my BLOG. I’m a fricken MESS.

Except that I haven’t been writing much. Not real stuff. Not lately. It’s not pretty and it’s not funny and it’s not optimistic. So maybe I have turned into one of those Facebook people. Putting on a front.

I think it’s time for MrsFatass to get her balls back. So, if you are related to me or to Trophy Husband or are otherwise squeamish about reading the intimate details of this three ring circus of a life I’m leading then now would be a good time to save yourself and click away. Because shit is about to get REAL up in here.

I’m struggling. I’ve recently become a wife and mom who now also works outside of the home. Like, aside from the umpteen Zumba classes I teach. I have a real, grownup job. And I can’t effing keep up. I mean, women have been doing this since the dawn of time and I’m not looking for sympathy but I am not kidding when I say that I am not good at this. I’m tired and impatient and never know when Thing One has an early release day or needs Book Fair money and Thing Two wears the same ill-matched outfit several days a week because it’s what she chooses when she dresses herself and fuck if I have time in the mornings to argue with her about what pink shirt goes with what pink skirt and what pants that don’t wiggle (don’t know what that means? I didn’t either. Took me weeks to figure out she meant leggings). My house is filthy because the only chore I can manage to keep up with is laundry, and that’s because half of my job means sweating profusely in my clothing so I can only wear it once and the other half involves the fact that I basically wear a uniform to work. My beautiful, long awaited garden box is still without a single plant in it and I look at it lovingly every single day, wishing I had my hands in the dirt but instead I’m actually so tired at night that sometimes I don’t shower after class, I just fall into bed sweaty and hot and also sometimes it’s my way of keeping people from wanting to touch me or hug me or hold on to me because I can’t possibly do another thing for another person. My kitchen table is piled high with unopened mail and a load of socks I need to sort and toys that I’m trying to keep away from Woodson which isn’t really a big deal except that it’s become symbolic of all of the family meals we are no longer eating together because I’m always on the run. Trophy Husband is trying hard to do more than his share so that our schedules will work, but the truth is he and I are hanging on by a thread and he spent an hour locked in the bathroom today on the phone interviewing a potential marriage counselor, because we are no longer equipped to manage ourselves on our own. I’m a shitty friend who doesn’t return emails or requests to talk or Skype because I can’t talk about any of this without a keyboard, and I’m a shittier daughter because my dad is sick and my mom is exhausted but I just can’t figure out how to talk to them every day because my mom will see right through me and I don’t want her to worry about me and I don’t want to cry anymore and I love them so much. And I need to go to the dentist because I have a very sensitive tooth and it’s kind of freaking me out.

Too much? I told you shit was gonna get real.

Okay. So where do we go from here? Well, I still haven’t told you all about Disney or finally getting to shoot a gun or whatever happened in all of that #ashamed brouhaha. And aside from all the Zumba I have found another way to feel really good about myself and it involves pushing the envelope with the dress code at work and when I tell you about that it will explain the Tweet I sent out earlier about me making somebody crave honey baked ham. As hard as things are right now, I really do have some things going on that make me happy and calm and comfortable in my own skin and excited about looking into my future.

We’ve got a lot to catch up on, blogosphere.

Still here. Still moving forward. Still evolving. Still figuring my head out. Still dancing. Still loving. Still going going going.

I’m on the beach this week. And also at Disney. (I’m told that it is the happiest place on earth). A friend sent me this video last night and it was an affirmation that I’m on a good path.

And also? I saw this on the beach yesterday. If I was a photographer, that photo would be the first in a series of the nutty stuff you find washed up while you’re walking the beach.

Those of you who have been around a while know that Spring means a post about a garden. Because that’s what I do. I plant things. I plant and nurture and agonize and prune and Google and order lots of books off of Amazon and then ignore them and pretty much just do what my inner voice tells me to do. And then I come here and turn it into some story about how a garden parallels some life thing I’m going through.

I’m very predictable that way.

This is the one I wrote about a year ago after I met my mailman at the door and was handed this lovely box full of color and hope and Sweet Peas. God it made me happy. It was a perfect gift. Or so I thought it was. At some point last fall it became a source of pain and I let it go. About the same time I wrote about the day I hacked up my dying garden and also hacked off my long hair. Man, I’m good with that crazy woman in her nightgown in the garden destroying shit image. Didn’t something like that appear in Mommie Dearest? Whoa. But I did that. I destroyed it and threw it away because all it did was make me sad.

But do you remember how, after all the hacking was done, and all the debris was stuffed in the garbage can and hauled to the curb, I found out that no matter how hard I tried, the darn thing wouldn’t die? It was still growing. It never stopped.

And then we had this warm winter. And everything came back. My garden grew all winter. Perhaps with a limp, but it did. It grew. Much to my chagrin, it grew.

Well. It’s Spring again and it’s time to decide what to do with that garden. Had the winter been hard and cold and gray and killed everything off, I can see me thinking “nope. Not this year. I just don’t have it in me to do it all again.”

But that’s not the kind of winter we had. Our winter was mild. It never froze me out. And it never killed the growth. Not in me, and not in the pots on my deck. So you know what? I’m going for it. I’m going to plant the garden I always wanted. Exactly where I always wanted to plant it, except that before, I didn’t have the box.

But now I do. Now I have the box. I have the very best box. And it’s time. Time to plant and grow and nurture and agonize and be that person that talks incessantly about their garden the way some people talk incessantly about their pets.

 After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul and you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning and company doesn’t always mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts and presents aren’t promises, and you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes ahead, with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.
And you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much, so you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure, you really are strong, you really do have worth, and you learn and you learn. With every goodbye, you learn.
…..by Veronica Shoffstall

Email: XXXXYYYY@gmailcom

Subject: newspaper interview

Message:
Sue, I’m a freelance writer here in Wilson and I was given your name and a little information about your blog, etc. and asked to write a story about you for The Wilson’s Times’ next “My Wilson” insert. I apologize for the late notice, but my story is due by the end of day tomorrow and I’ve got a wild day tomorrow so I was wondering if I could interview you by phone tonight. (Also, I just got my ADD meds filled Friday after two months without them, so I’ve pretty much been running around with my hair on fire and looking down to see if I put pants on every day for a few weeks.) Please call me on my cell at any time: (555) 555-5555. Thanks so much. Look forward to talking with you!

****************

Dear Newspaper Reporter,

If you’re asking me to call you, then you haven’t read too much of my blog. However, being that you actually have to check on whether or not you’re wearing pants, well, you just might be crazier than I am. I’ll call.

MrsFatass

It was almost a year ago that you all helped push me into that room in some fitness center in Charlotte to work toward getting my Zumba license. Almost a year ago that I stressed and whined and fah-reaked out about it, trying not to worry that I’d be the big girl in a sea of tiny, fit aerobics instructors all in spandex. Almost a year ago that I took what felt like a huge leap into a brand new line of work.

That weekend almost killed me. The hours of stressing dancing and all of the sweat and aches and pains. And you emailed me and Tweeted me and Facebooked me the whole time, full of YOU CAN DO THIS that truly helped get me through it. And in the days that followed while I was exhausted and trying to walk without wincing, you gave me all kinds of love.

Blogosphere? I was scared. Maybe I hid it well, maybe I didn’t. But lets just say that I was not in my comfort zone.

So. Things here have been quiet for a few weeks. There are reasons, most of which will be revealed here over the next few days. But here’s the first one: I was training for another Zumba license. Yep. Another physical challenge, another process that tried to mess with some of those deeply held insecurities that are in there but I’m always fighting against. Another day ending in pure exhaustion. And exhilaration. Because I did it. I got a licence in Zumba Toning. (And I also did boy push ups in public. 4 of them!)

My body has been telling me that I needed some cross training. In a week I was teaching as many as 8 classes, and for my schedule that doesn’t leave a whole lot of additional time for hitting up the gym for other kinds of classes (though I try to do it anyway) so I was pretty much all cardio all the time. I started thinking about something else I could train to teach that would be fun for the people that come to my classes and good for my own body as well. So I decided to do Zumba Toning.

Zumba Toning incorporates the use of light hand weights (if you’ve watched the infomercial then you’ve seen the cool Toning Sticks that go chickachickachickachicka when you move them around). Not the kind of weight work that is going to make you look like Arnold used to, but definitely the kind of weight work that will help strengthen and tone. And continue to improve posture and cardiovascular health. And all that.

I’m strong on the inside, like in my heart, but my muscles? Not so much. So I enlisted the help of a trainer at work (I love her. And actually texted her that once on accident. Ever think you’re sending a text to one person and then realize it went to another? Yeah. I did that to Red. I sent a text that said I LOVE YOU and she recieved it. It was hardly weird at all) and she helped me get my head in the game for 8 straight hours of holding hand weights and dancing. She told me once that I had excellent form, and holy crapballs did that mean a lot to me. And not just because I love compliments. That one in particular went a long way in making me feel good about this decision to take on the new license. Because this time the worries weren’t so much about being the biggest girl in the room, they were about being the least smart about what I was doing. I imagined being surrounded by fit bodies with LOTS OF CREDENTIALS. And I’m just not there quite yet.

Anyway. For close to a month I taught all of my regular classes, but also spent a lot of time hitting the weights. And a lot of time reading and studying my anatomy. Well, not MY anatomy. Just anatomy. And then Sunday came and I just hoped I had the endurance to make it through the day without being the first one to collapse to the floor in a puddle of sweat and tears.

And I made it through. Through the master class. Through the drills (the first one was 30 minutes of nothing but squats, lunges, and calf raises. I only cried a little and I don’t think anyone noticed). Through the lecture. And I ended up a Licensed Zumba Toning Instructor.

I am stronger than I was a year ago.

So you know how sometimes you love reading a blog and then all of a sudden, with no warning at all it just goes dark for a couple of weeks and you’re left to kind of wonder what the heck happened?

Thank you to all of you that still came here every day looking for something new. I’m sorry to disappoint.

I’ll be back soon. Promise.

MrsFatass rocks the red carpet at Zumbathon

Yesterday, I learned that this piece on Shape.com went live. I, along with 7 other women, answered the question “how did Zumba change your life?”

I answered that question in about a zillion words, and that answer was boiled down to just a few, and as people always say when somebody writes down what they think they said – I don’t love the quote. But I do love the message – Zumba has changed my life.

I got a lot of questions yesterday like this one: What is it about Zumba that changed things for you? Was it the exercise itself? Making you feel better about your body and thus yourself as a whole? etc.?

You’d think I could spout off eloquent answers to this kind of question without even thinking about it. I’ve written here many times about my promises to myself. Do cardio, see my doctor, wear a bikini. And I’ve written about the different ways that music has held me up when I’ve wanted to lay on the floah.

But I fumbled through long, wordy answers all day.

Here’s what it is about Zumba. I found a kind of exercise that makes me not dread doing it. I do a lot of different things to get exercise that I like okay – TurboKickMyAss, Spinning, Walking – but I still had to fight the sit on my sofabuttdentwatchingBravo demons in order to get there.

Zumba drew me in with music, and music is what keeps me there. I’m sure I could get on The Google and find some scientific information about music therapy or something, but I don’t really care. It’s my own experience that matters most to me right now. Music was the bridge between me doing exercise just to try to get in shape and me really loving what I do enough to do it consistently, and to push myself to become stronger. And it truly exercises my crazybrain. I crank up the volume, and in 15 tracks a class can work out the rollercoaster of thoughts and emotions and worries and stresses that I hang on to every day.

Especially the irrational ones. That’s the kicker. Anxiety is an irrational response to a situation. Whether the stress or fear is real or perceived makes no difference. And something about the marriage of the music and the exertion helps me let go of all of that. And makes me tired enough to sleep.

I stumbled into my first class so long ago simply because I knew I liked to dance, and now I walk taller and smile more genuinely and feel more sexy and get to go dancing at least 5 times a week. And I get to encourage an inspire other people to do so. I love that.

So. That’s what I wish I could have said. I can’t stop being blown away that I am actually part of a feature about how Zumba changes lives. Because I’m living proof that it can. Zumba, or any passion you uncover. I’m very thankful.

Don’t forget tonight’s TwitterChat about the Georgia Billboards from 9-10pm EST. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Click through #Ashamed, Still #Ashamed, and all the links therein. It will be a good conversation!

I am searching for you!