The Heavy Things

It only took me 4 years to think of something else to say.  It's a good thing I don't make a living with this thing.  Whether or not anybody actually wants to read what I have to say today, that is difficult to know.
So wow, what has happened since my last post?  I still live in France.  No wait, I'm like fully invested in France now.  Sure, there's this whole buying an apartment in an up-and-coming Parisian suburb thing that we did FOUR YEARS AGO.  But me, I even went so far as to actually become French.  Then I doubled down by having a baby here.
A baby, let's talk about that.  It has occupied a shocking amount of headspace since I decided I wanted one in 2015.  I always assumed that part of my identity would be motherhood.  I grew up surrounded by women for whom this was the case, so I've always reserved a part of myself for that purpose.  By that I mean, finding a job and lifestyle that were conducive to that possibility.  Keeping my dating life on track.  There was maybe a six month period where that went slightly off the rails, but by the time I met my husband, I'd pulled it back and was ready to say exactly what I wanted.  Ah, early 20's Joy.  30's Joy really misses your ability to eat carbs and drink beer, but not much else.
What I didn't see coming was how difficult it was for me to actually get to motherhood.  Multiple children on all sides of the family, vertically and horizontally, but every month a big minus sign and an unwelcome stain.  When motherhood is a goal you can't seem to reach, it feels like it's some club that everyone in the world can get into except for you, because for some reason you're not good enough for it.  And all you can hear is about how this person had a baby the first time they tried, and that one had a baby by accident.  It feels like every single woman you pass in the street is pregnant, some of them pushing a baby that can't even walk yet, swollen with number 2.  So you look into what could be wrong, but there is nothing wrong, scientifically speaking, not that they can see.  It is just Nature.  At the time, it was hard to say if that was helpful to hear.  One part of you said that it should happen, because they can't find any reason why it wouldn't.  But the other part of you, the darker part that watches crime documentaries and listens to murder podcasts, tells you that the reason it's not happening for you is because you aren't worthy.  As if Nature got a glimpse of your soul and said, "well sure, drug addicts and alcoholics can have babies.  Ted Bundy's mom could have a baby.  People who don't even want babies can have babies.  But this one?  There's something really wrong with her, best if she doesn't."
I carried that with me for about three years.  One thing the doctors told me during my multiple visits was that once it happens, you forget everything you'd been feeling, even if it had gone on for years and years.  It just goes away.  I was surprised that they were sort of right, no matter how much I swore I'd preserve all those thoughts and feelings in a part of my myself, because they were too consuming to simply forget.  I had to hold onto them, if only so I could sympathize with someone else who was going through the same thing.  I wanted to remember how I felt about everybody's well-meaning words, so that I could find better words.  One sentiment I heard more than once was that it would happen, probably when I wasn't thinking about it or even really trying.  And I always, always, always wanted to ask how did they know it would happen?  Did they have a crystal ball?  Maybe it just wouldn't.  And telling someone to stop thinking and/or trying so hard is sort of like telling a person who really has to pee to think about something else.  Bitches, that never fucking works, and neither does telling a person who wants to become a mother to stop wanting it so badly.  Only briefly does my desire to become a mother get eclipsed in that moment by the desire to punch you in the face.  Carrying the psychological burden of not being allowed into the motherhood club eventually turns toxic in ways you don't expect.  Every person who tells you they're having a baby, it cuts like a knife.  You want to be happy, to tell them that you're glad for their good news, that you hope only for wonderul things, but mostly you're beating down the monsters that are jealousy and anger and sadness and guilt and wondering what they did right and what you're doing wrong.  I never really found a good way to manage that.  We who find trouble sharing in your joy -- we know that these moments aren't about us, I swear we really do.  But we also are incapable of casting off the thing that's weighing us down, the thing running on a loop in the back of our minds, every day, all the time.  And for that, we're sorry.  I don't know, sometimes wine helps.  Occasionally tequila.
Strangely, the only thing I found that helped was talking to people who had gone through the same things.  Because they didn't make you feel bad for feeling hopeless or broken or guilty or unworthy.  Even if they'd managed to have a child, they unlocked those feelings from before for you, and acknowledged that there is no way around them.  And they didn't fill your head with empty promises that it would happen, because they knew how meaningless it all is.
But in the end, I did have my baby, didn't I, so what am I complaining about.  Sure, for something as natural as procreation and motherhood, I am continually shocked about how little of it is actually fucking natural.  Never had a BMI above 24 (though I admit I have been in the danger zone a few times) but somehow I got diabetes.  Everybody in the goddamn hospital told me there was no such thing as a woman who didn't eventually get milk, but how about we stop saying that.  I should probably see a therapist for that trauma alone.  Breast is best, how about a little empathy is best.  How about shutting the fuck up is best.  And maybe, maybe one day I'll get the feeling back in the my lower abdomen where they cut her out of me.  I'm hoping the fact that she literally licks the dog on the mouth helps with that bacterial flora she never got from me.
But maybe the weirdest thing is how isolating all these things can be.  I don't know if it's because our culture is still in the process of realizing that half of us are female, and maybe it's a good idea to talk a little about stuff that roughly half the population experiences.  Or because it's all a little uncomfortable.  I dunno, don't people send out pictures of their genitalia?  Doesn't that mean our understanding of what should be private has changed?
But for some reason, a lot of this we hold onto alone, or we comb Google, or we talk to strangers on the Internet through forums.  Like who came up with keeping a pregnancy to yourself until the end of the first trimester?  Do what you want, but it seems odd to me.  Don't tell anyone because it may end badly, and you shouldn't spread that around to people who care about you.  You shouldn't feel like you can talk about it to your friends, because disappointment and trauma are best kept to yourself.

But it is so heavy.  Looking on the screen, and seeing a black dot but nothing else when you know there should be a heartbeat.  Googling the English term for "oeuf clair" because, while plenty vivid in French, you feel like you should know what it means in your own language.  Blighted ovum, for those of you who are curious.  15-20% of pregnancies end that way, just a little info for you.  It is hard to sort out exactly how one should feel in this situation.  Acting like you lost something seems overly dramatic, because one could argue that there was nothing there to begin with.  All the same, something had been growing for two months.  Hope, confirmed by positive tests and rising hormones and nausea.  Washing vegetables with vinegar and not eating cheese or drinking wine.  And yet, at the end of 9 weeks, suddenly learning that you were nurturing a fantasy, a trick.  In the end, what you lost was something psychological, another thing for the "why you definitely need a therapist" column, though the physical aspect of it isn't super fun either.  It's like a heavy period, but, like, if your period was trying to break you.  The disappointment is heavy.  The crushed hope is heavy.  All of it, even the willpower to get out of bed; today, it was just too heavy.
So why say this.  I think because, I feel like it's too much to always have to carry this stuff alone.  And I'd like to put it out there, because I don't think keeping it in helps.  At least not me.  To be honest, I am, in all, really, deep down, okay with knowing that it just wasn't meant to be this time.  But it still hurts.  It is still grief and guilt and disappointment and uncertainty.  It is still a lot to feel.  But having laid it out here, this way -- it also feels like now I have a little bit less to carry.

Annecy: a Love Letter to France

I know I haven't been prolific on this thing at all. In fact, since I last posted, several important events have happened in my life. I ran another marathon. I moved to France. I spent 3 seasons on a women's soccer team. Xavier proposed. And we got married. 3 years ago. Plus now I have the world's cutest dog.

As a lot of my friends and family know, France has been a... let's say "varied" adjustment. I didn't speak French when I got here, but now I do. I didn't have a job, but I now have that as well. And for a long while, everything was a blur of counterintuitive and often frustrating experiences. The gears of bureaucracy grind at a maddeningly slow pace. In fact, everything in France seemed to take forever during that first year. If you need something repaired in your apartment, best hope it's not about to imminently destroy everything you own, because nobody is in any great rush to come and sort it out. We've had a leak in our closet for approximately two years and it seems it won't be fixed before we move out. Applying for the simplest things can take ages. A year and a half for a health card. 6 months in advance if I need to go to the prefecture to renew my residence card. Transferring information to the electric company. Buying property. Booking an appointment with a doctor. They can easily take weeks or months. Ironically, about the only thing that isn't painful is subscribing to a phone plan, which, as an American, always blows my mind. So to put yourself in my place, imagine everything you do is like working with your phone or cable provider. That is my life.

The truth is that the French are just not always in a rush to do anything. I had to let go of my ideas of time and accept that things just take a lot of it. Irritating bureaucratic things, but also beautiful and fun things: weddings, vacations, birthdays, parties, meals, and even pre-dinner snacks and drinks that they refer to as "apéro."

Other than time, I had to learn a lot about the many, many contradictions that make up the French mentality. It turned out that they were as conflicted as my own culture, but I wasn't used to it yet. In the beginning, I was so confused about their casual acceptance of their politicians' girlfriends and mistresses.  Things like that destroy careers in the US, but here, they're just met with a shrug.  One might imagine that they are nonchalant about all their relationships, the true embodiment of all our European tropes... taking a drag from a cigarette, a sip of wine, and saying "bah, c'est la vie." However, it took a short time for me to find that the French are, in fact, deeply familial.  There are a million and one little family events that you find yourself caring, or at least pretending to care, about.  All the dinners and anniversaries and birthdays and baptisms for people I've barely even talked to... but it's because they're my family, or they're family of a friend, which is also quite often a thing here.

Their culture is full of little dichotomies like this that I found difficult to understand at first. They don't wave flags or post patriotic images, but watch what happens when it's World Cup time. They don't have to get to work "on time" and God help you if you try to interrupt their breaks or lunches, but somehow they don't miss deadlines. They have some of the best healthcare and access to rights in the world, but studies show that they are deeply dissatisfied. They tell you that France is the greatest country in the world and that they have the best quality of life anywhere, but they complain about their country, as well as every other minute aspect of their lives, constantly. No, I'm not exaggerating.  Complaining is their national sport.  I mean, literally, it even trumps football, which many people might mistakenly think is their national sport.  Their national football team actually refused to play during the World Cup due to some grievances involving the coach and each other.  Grievances?  Another word is complaints.  Yes, during the biggest sporting event in the world, they decided their complaints were too great to overcome, and just refused to get on the pitch.  It was, by and large, the most French thing one could do.  In front of the world.  But don't get them wrong... the average French person was very critical of this decision.

Oh, and the criticism.  I probably shouldn't go too far with that because you would never finish reading, but that was probably the hardest thing to adjust to.  A friend of mine posted an article about the French and their feelings toward a football player.  He was booed whilst entering the stadium for a match, which seemed a bit harsh since he was at one point revered as a hero.  But the journalist's reflection on this was spot on... he said that the French would boo a children's play if they thought it wasn't up to snuff.  Yes, they are perfectionists, sometimes in the most excruciating ways.  Nothing is good enough!  Even if it is excellent, they will find at least one detail that they didn't like, that could have been better.  The flipside is that a lot of things they produce are excellent.  They dress impeccably.  They work incredibly hard, much harder than the rest of the world gives them credit for.  They have very good taste.  They expect the best, but that doesn't just apply to others -- they themselves could always do better.  And if you haven't had a genuine French meal in all its neurotically perfect glory, it is my belief that you haven't truly lived.

I could say more, but I'll stop.

Because this post isn't really about French culture. It's about Annecy.  Or rather, one tiny beach in one tiny city not that far from Annecy.

I spent the past very long weekend with some girlfriends in this area of the French Alps. To give you an idea, this is it on a map.

I don't really know why, but my expectations were mild. Living in Paris does that to you I suppose. You know there will be nice things about the trip, but your mind also goes to the inconveniences. Oh, it's the hottest summer we've had in years. Oh, getting around will be hard without a car. Oh, what if the house isn't very nice? Or we have a crazy neighbor (referring to our ski trip in March).  Oh, and there will also be French people to complain and be neurotic and just generally annoy the bejeezus out of you.

But what I found was unexpected.  Tucked away not 200 meters (yes, I do metric now) from our rental house, was a beach on the lakefront.  I should probably mention first that the woman who rented the place to us had already surprised us with her friendliness.  We always forget that French people are normal and helpful and kind and fun/funny outside of Paris, and that first interaction usually comes as a surprise.  She suggested the place to us, and perplexed us a little with her reaction to our questions about activities nearby.  She didn't seem to think we would need them.  When we went to the beach, it was clear why.

You had to pay to go in (2.50, but you'd be surprised by how many people would be deterred by this), but there were trees for shade, a food stand nearby, steps that led you into a lake, a diving board, and different kinds of pools for all ages.  It was well-worth the money.  We spent day after day on that beach, each one more perfect than the last.  Having grown up on beaches, I spent a lot of time reflecting on why I liked this one so much.  It wasn't any bigger, and not even necessarily more beautiful.  After all, it's hard to compete with the Pacific Ocean at sunset.  But then on Sunday, it hit me all at once: I liked it because it was so French.  Because all those cultural quirks I find so annoying in Paris have the ability to be pleasant and beautiful when they're turned on their side.

The families and family time.  Everywhere we looked, there were people with children, and I started to see the other aspect of family being important for family's sake.  Sometimes they're up and about playing and swimming and jumping in the water (seriously, that diving board was never left alone) but my observation was how good the French are at just being with each other.  They don't necessarily have to be doing an activity, though they love that too.  Often they just talk, they sit and eat, or they do nothing at all, and don't seem to be in any hurry to change that, because that is the point -- to be together, quietly or loudly, as long as possible.  It is deeply refreshing, because their lack of pressure to go somewhere or do something because just being seems like a waste... that feeling, it seeps into your soul.  That feeling that relationships can and should be cultivated without distraction or movement... that feeling is powerful, and makes you want to love the people you're with more.

Lack of fucks given about body image.  This was possibly the only time in my life that I started to feel my insecurities about my "bikini-ready" (or not really, because I love my beer) body melt away.  My dear friend made an interesting declaration... every body is a bikini body -- you will always look better in two pieces than in one.  People may disagree or simply prefer to wear one, but I appreciated the spirit behind it.  No matter where you stand, I will say that the French live up to their reputation about minimal clothing on the beach.  Boobs everywhere.  Young lady boobs, old lady boobs, man boobs.  It probably sounds weird to you if you're American, because we simply don't accept that.  However, when it's everywhere and it's normal and nobody is yelling at each other to put them away, a weird thing happens... it suddenly becomes not a big deal.  No, really.  The disparity between that kind of freedom and American culture was shocking to me.  We're always saying we should cover up because there are children and it might badly influence or confuse some poor adolescent boy.  And of course, because nobody wants to see THAT!  But often, what we really mean is that women whose bodies are less young or fit or beautiful should cover up, because there are far fewer objections to hot women's bodies being thrown all over the place in film or TV, in advertizing, or in music.  Or porn.  Which is everywhere if you have the Internet.  We don't seem to be in a big rush to ask them to cover up to preserve those poor innocent boy brains.  I would say it has something more to do with the idea of "everybody wants to see those hot women, but nobody wants to see Grandma in a bikini."  But I will posit something from my observations... maybe it's a healthy thing to see women as they are.  For men, for children, for me.  Because all those women I saw this weekend are just like me, or fatter, or thinner, or older, or younger, or you name it, but don't feel that they should be ashamed of it.  Before I start to sound sexist, the same principle applies to men... they do love their teeny tiny suits, and I found myself just thinking that they should wear what they are comfortable in, because it had nothing to do with me.  Their lack of shame started to chip away at my own shame.  With every set of bare boobs I saw attached to a woman sitting and sharing a glass of wine with a man who was not making a big deal out of it and was just treating her like a person, I questioned why this was such a big deal in my own culture.  I saw boys of all ages walk by women of all ages, and strangely, they didn't turn into perverts.  And I didn't see evidence that their ideas about sexuality shattered in presence of grandma boobs.  In fact, they didn't even stare, or do a double-take.  They were too busy talking, or having a sandwich, or jumping off the diving board.  It occured to me that, maybe when they're older and start to love someone with boobs in the future, they might not have an outrageous fantasy that they don't sag, that we don't get rounder, that we don't have weird inexplicable shapes and blotches everywhere... because, clearly, all women do.  Go on the beach and see for yourself.  Maybe that wouldn't be such an indecent thing to have back home.

And let's talk about apéro.  Most people are familiar with apértif, but if you aren't, it is essentially pre-dinner drinks and snacks, and it is a huge part of the French dining experience.  If you have dinner at someone's house or share a big meal during a holiday or special occasion, you can expect to spend a long time on apéro.  Sometimes hours.  In some cases, that's most of the meal.  Getting to the meal is not the point of apéro... sharing the time is.  Keep in mind that you can expect to have a large meal after, but the name of the game is quality rather than quantity, and usually you've spent so much time eating at the table that you find yourself hungry again once you get to dinner.  Since this beach was in France, bringing your own food for a picnic was expected, rather than buying it at the snack bar, and alcohol is most certainly allowed.  How can you have apéro without wine, after all?  So as the sun started to go down and the air started to cool, people went and pulled out their supplies for this evening ritual.  In these moments, you see groups of people huddled together, laughing and/or playing with the children, not at all concerned with dinnertime or someone being bored or even bedtime.  Everyone is snacking happily, passing drinks around, and watching the sun go down.  It goes on and on because in the summer it takes a long time for the sun to set, but you don't watch the time, or even think about it.  It's in these moments that the French shine to me, because they are so convivial, so loud and spirited yet without disturbing each other or hushing each other.  They're so connected and satisfied with this moment, with their food and drink, with their surroundings, with each other.  They're so alive.  Alive in ways that I have trouble feeling outside of these moments, when their cultural oddities all collide at once.  And all of it happening by the clean, green-blue water of the lake as the sun sets over the mountains.  That is perfection.

Despite my frustrations and anger from living in Paris, from being an outsider, from language, family, stress, job, responsibilities, it is these moments of vitality that make it all fade away.  It is these moments I feel I've been looking for all my life, that I've spent my adulthood wandering around the planet to find.  As much as I sometimes hate it, it is these moments that being here feels like home.  These moments that make me love myself.  That make me love the people with me.  That make me love France.

What an appropriate feeling to have on Bastille Day.  Vive la France, bitches.

26.2 miles OR how biology failed me terribly

this past weekend, i had the opportunity to take part in something i've never done before and may never do again, depending on whether or not madness descends the way it did this past winter: the marathon. despite having trained diligently for about 6 months, i had a lot of doubts about my ability to finish this thing. i mean, i'd never actually run that far before, though theoretically speaking, if you can run 20 miles twice, 18.5 miles once, 15 miles 3 times, and 10 miles 5 times, you should be able to finish this thing. for months, i followed my training program, even whilst ill and for a few weeks with a nagging pain in my rib cage. rain, snow, sun, in france, and sometimes with a hangover, i still went out and did my long runs every weekend.

so when i woke up on sunday morning to make it to my race, i was a whirlwind of indescribable emotions, the most prevalent being overwhelming regret. what was i thinking, for fuck's sake? how mad was i, really? i liken it to that ridiculous scene in "anchorman" when will ferrell jumps into the bear pit, looks around, and exhales "i... immediately regret this decision."

all those feeling aside, nothing quite compares to the energy of running with 8,000 other people, particularly at the beginning of the race. it's absolutely palpable, the anticipation. and being in the back, there are no sideways glances or traces of that desire to crush the competition. we all actually know that are only adversary is ourselves, so we smile, and think about the task ahead.

in the course of this endeavor, i learned a few interesting things. the first is that i'm actually awesome at the 10k and the half marathon. no joke... i didn't walk other than through the refreshment stations, which the guides actually suggest. it's better to slow down and take in your food and water, as you'll only be losing a few seconds by having something, as opposed to crashing altogether. my 10k clocked in at under and hour and my half at just over two hours.

then something... let's call it "ironic"... happened to me. my knee gave out around 23km. i don't really know what i did to it, but it's definitely a mess. i blame the 5km of cobblestones we're forced to run on in the first 13km. regardless, this is significant for a few reasons. the first one is 10 years of soccer without a single knee injury. my ankles were a mess, but i never threw out my knee. the second is that i've been training for 6 months and in all that time, my hips bore the brunt of the pain. and thirdly, this incident chose the super-convenient time of right-in-the-middle-of-the-race to happen.

so there i was, 17km to go, knee fucked to hell, and a weird pain slowly flowing down my shin. awesome, shin splints, yay! true story, this was one of those weird situations in which is was really painful to run, but almost equally painful to walk. so i kept on. oh, there's a medic! i thought. maybe i should stop. but my mind raced through all the possible outcomes of this choice. mostly, that they would tell me that it was screwed and that i had to stop running to prevent further injury. i can't blame them, really. it's their job to tell me how not to hurt myself, and you really can't argue with the logic. "6 months down the drain, 6 months down the drain..." kept running through my mind. no, i couldn't stop. well, maybe just to stretch myself out to see if it would help. so i did, and tried a lot of different stretches, to no relief. it was a tendon or something like that... and stretching wasn't going to fix it. i only regretted sitting down because it made it so much harder to get up. kilometer 29... only 13 more to go.

around 32km, i saw my sweetie and my supportive roommate who made it out to old town to cheer me on. i sort of curse that he got pictures of me in that particular state.

the rest is all a blur, except that i remember feeling a bit deflated as i watched some guys run by pushing a jogger with someone who had a physical deformity... i'm sure they were all running for charity, and seriously, good for them, but i have to admit that it was difficult to know that they were running faster AND pushing something. 15 minutes later, i watched the 5:00 guy go by. this was discouraging only because i felt worried about how much longer this was going to last. nevertheless, i did manage to finish in under 5 hours, after my last push around 5km to go. i guess i just kept reminding myself of how many times i've run that distance before, and that it would all be over in less than a half hour. i ran that last stretch, my left knee throbbing and my brain frantically suppressing the multiple wishful thoughts of death crossing it with every step.


so where does that leave me? well, i've learned a few things. firstly, that i think that my shoes might be slightly too small, as all my toenails are now purple. secondly, that i think the future holds more half-marathons and 10k's, but only after my knee heals. and oh yes, the knee. i think what i did to it is probably a mystery, but most might find it amusing that i walk something like this:



except less un-dead, i guess.

ah, who am i kidding? i haven't learned anything. i'll probably do it again, just give me 5 years.

resolutions 2011

i should probably add "being prompt" to the list, since this is 2 weeks after the start of the new year.

1. move to france/get out of prague



(though to be honest, it's french bureaucracy that's going to be the biggest challenge in this endeavor, and it's not prague's fault that i'm still here)

2. put this on my body


sorry, mom

3. run (and finish) the prague international marathon



let's start with these things and see where this year goes.

my day job is being awesome

and teaching kids. and really, you need to focus on the awesome as much as possible, or you might throw yourself in front of a train.



hanadi, me, and tereza, after our christmas program. hana teaches the butterflies (ages 3-4), tereza teaches the bunnies (2-3), and i have the lions (4-6) and the afternoon club (grade school).

also, i taught my kids "feliz navidad," and they were all about it. like you wouldn't believe. i'll have to remember that.

because it's christmas and at christmas you tell the truth...

i started watching love actually again, whilst eating sweets and lying under blankets because it's -10 outside. makes me feel better about not going home for christmas. and i remembered this guy:



because i love this scene. but more importantly, because he's the same as this guy:



what?
yes. i am right.

he holds signs declaring unrequited love and fights zombies in an unparalleled display of bad-assery. the only downside to all this is that the walking dead, which is the best new show i've seen this season, just had its season finale. now what is going to force me to irrationally turn on lights when i enter rooms?


so winter is going all right, i guess.

i haven't had anything to say...

because mainly, i don't think there are enough words to describe both how content i am and how much my heart aches for something bigger. so i will leave you with pictures. really, the best thing for those of us who feel like we've run out of words.