The Sour and the Sweet

the ever-evolving blog of Sandra Vahtel

Sad

I’m sad.

That’s about all I have to say at this point.

I tend to think of “getting over things” as a linear process. As in, if I get to a place where I feel alright about, or that I’ve “moved on from,” this break up, that I won’t ever have to feel bad about it again. But I’m learning that that’s not how it works. Because no matter how good I feel some days, inevitably, on days like today, I feel bad again, and the rationalizing script starts to play over in my head like a worn Maxell cassette. It goes something like:

“Sandra, you only dated this guy for six weeks, what is the big deal?”

“Why should you care what any man thinks of you? Just write this guy off.”

“Get over it already. It’s not that serious and people are tired of hearing about it.”

And then I feel bad for, almost three weeks out, crying about it again.

But … why should I? I spent these last three weeks unloading on my girl (and guy) friends; drowning my sorrows; and, perhaps most pointedly, entertaining completely irrational “what if I’m somehow pregnant?” fears. But all any of these things have managed to do is utterly distract me from actually feeling my feelings. To feel sorrow and  hurt and disappointment and loss; to grieve and actually let those things wash over me, like sitting on the shoreline as the waves hit me instead of getting out of the way.

And I’ve always been very good at getting out of the way.

Not getting out of the way feels like drowning; and there’s a part, a very large part, of my dignity that winces over the fact that I’m crying over this (and then admitting it on a public blog). It feels weak, pathetic, desperate, and I don’t want to come off as any of those. I want to be seen as a woman who’s cool and collected, who doesn’t need anyone, who’s above all those mushy, messy emotions. Would Beyoncé be crying about this? Surely not. No, I’ll just brush that dirt off my shoulder and move on. Easy-peasy.

Yeah, well … clearly, that’s not me.

Now all my girlfriends have absorbed my indignant rage; the wine’s all gone; my period’s finally arrived. There’s nothing left to shield me from the waves of actual emotion that are coming in with the tide. And now I reluctantly sit and wait.

scrapes and bruises

I’ve been online dating since October; dipping my toe into the pool, so to speak. Since then, I’ve gone on more dates with more men than all my previous dates combined. That’s not a brag, it’s just fact—the pool is deep and the pool is wide. Some dates have been good. Some … less than good. But most of them played out in a series of awkward, stuttering starts and stops. Not one transitioned into anything remotely approaching comfortable exclusivity, until one did.

Or almost did.

Until it didn’t. Until it stopped. Suddenly; without warning.

I felt like Wile E Coyote in an old Warner Bros. cartoon, running so assuredly that I’d failed to notice I’d run off a cliff and was now simply treading air.

In the time we’d dated, I’d become quite accident prone. I stumbled twice hiking; took a rather Buster Keaton-esque tumble, rear-end first, into the bathtub; tripped over the corner of a box of bottled water at 7-11, and just last week fell while out for a walk in the neighborhood. That last one hurt, a lot, my knee opened up and bleeding after its run-in with the concrete, my jogging pants looking like I’d stolen them from the middle of a crime scene. It had been so out of character for me, so abnormal; I hardly ever fall down. I’d begun to wonder if it was some kind of sign, a thought I shoved to the back of my mind, until my phone rang.

And then there was one last inevitable fall.

How do you so quickly go from the top of someone’s A-list to the bottom of their D-list? Romantic relationships are the only ones on Earth that function this way and it’s jarring. One day someone’s a normal presence in your life and the next, your cell phone sits silent on the nightstand, refusing to buzz.

To say I feel heartbroken is not quite right. After all, we were only involved for six weeks, and that, in the grand scheme of things, is not so long. Even so, the hurt is palpable, the loss real. Heart-bruised sounds a bit better; maybe heart-scraped. It was a fall, but not from a height that shatters.

In an attempt to, I don’t know, feel better? Distract myself? I thought I’d take my dating experience thus far and turn it into some kind of art project. Those seem to be de rigueur amongst a certain set of artistic types; a way to differentiate my pain from the ordinary pain of everyone else. They also seem to be the jumping off point for blogs and book deals and appearances on The Today Show, so I thought, “here’s my chance.”

dates

My plan was to harness the power of Google Maps and literally pinpoint the location(s) of every date I’d gone on since October—my dating life, visualized. I spent a fevered afternoon at a nearby coffee shop, color coating each set of points to correspond to each man; eleven different shades in total, meticulously plotting out a first kiss here and a final goodbye there. Later, at home, I started to fill in the details of each point—number of drinks consumed,  conversation topics, fashion choices—but then something happened.

Or more accurately, nothing happened. I didn’t feel good, I definitely did not feel empowered. It wasn’t catharsis through art. There was no taking of the brokenness and using the pieces to make a beautiful mosaic. Instead, I felt worse; I felt pathetic; my only realization being that I have an apparent affinity for making out in the back seats of cars.

So I stopped and put it away. Maybe later, maybe one day, when all of this is not so fresh …

It’s been a week since that phone call, and while I’ve pretty much stopped crying and the tightness in gone—the squeezing in the center of my chest cavity that feels like something between suffocating and vomiting, I still feel sad. And I’m not sure over what, exactly. Lamenting the loss of relationship, yes, but it’s more than that. I can’t adequately point to my sorrow and say, “this is why I’m sad,” not like pulling up my pant leg and giving you the origin story of this peeling scab or that yellowing bruise. Somehow this pain defies definition or easy categorization, and that’s where I have to stop right now. Yes, I could try and extrapolate meaning and significance from what I’m feeling, but it’s not time yet.

And Yet

This month I officially got to the 40-pound mark on my “weight loss journey.” I only have 25 left to go to reach my goal weight. I can no longer be categorized as obese; I fit into size 10 pants. All of this is great; or it should be, anyway. And yet …

And yet, when I look at my body in the mirror, I see a smaller frame, but many of the same “problems” exist. My stomach refuses to flatten. My thighs are still dimpled. My arms. Don’t even get me started on my arms. I would think that after losing 40 pounds I would at least begin to have a body that would be considered “nice looking,” yet I look like a woman twice my age from the neck down. This is what happen, I suppose, when you’ve been so heavy for so long. So all the effort I’ve put in since October feels like a lot of nothing, truly.

I’m mad about this. Disappointed. Pissed. Yes, blah, blah, blah, health, I know. My fitness and cardiovascular stamina is unlike it’s ever been. I’m sure my health markers—blood pressure, blood sugar, cholesterol—are all much improved; not that they bad to begin with. But to be completely honest, I didn’t contact my nutritionist last fall because I felt the sudden desire to gain control of my health. Not quite. I felt like my weight was out of control and I needed to find a way to stop it so I wouldn’t get any fatter. This was my way of yanking the emergency brake.

~

One of my biggest fears is the thought of any man seeing me naked. My assumption is that when they eventually catch a glimpse, they’re going to cringe, they’re going to be disappointed, they’re going to leave. This shades my interaction with men. Even if I’m not doing in consciously, I’m always aware that I can’t let things get out of hand, because, you know, eventual nakedness. When your body’s been the punchline of many a joke, it’s hard to believe that anyone could ever take serious delight in it. What I see in the mirror today certainly doesn’t help dispel that fear. Sure, there are men who have wanted to get physical, but each came with a distinct whiff of fetishism, and I’m not talking about those kinds of men. I’m talking about someone who will love my body and embrace it fully, complete with all its imperfections; the dimples, the curves, the folds. That man surely does not exist, is what my fears tell me.

I spent several days lurking around in this head space; a dark place, let me tell you; until this week. Last Sunday at church, Joseph asked the congregation to think about those things in our lives that we feel like we just can’t live with out, whether through loss or because we never attain them in the first place. My mind went to my career and my relationships, and I thought, “no, I don’t struggle with that mentality, at least right now, anyway.” It wasn’t until Monday that it dawned on me what my “just can’t live without it” thing is—it’s my body, or rather the image of that “perfect” or “good enough” body that I’ve carted around with me for so long. I’ve lived with a desire to be thin, to have a “nice” body, or even a “normal-looking” body for years, as soon as I was aware of the difference between my body and everyone else’s.

For a long, long time, that desire existed purely as fantasy; going through several stages of weight loss this past decade was an attempt to turn that fantasy into a reality. Now, on the precipice of actually meeting my goals, I’m realizing that it could very well remain a fantasy. This is unfair, sure,  and that I need to let it go. When I lose those last 25 pounds, I’ll be in the “normal” weight range, but I know that I will still have a body that’s far less than perfect, far from good.

~

Now, it’s a hard sell in 21st century Los Angeles to be happily content with a fat body. No one thinks losing weight is a bad idea; even Christians think it’s good and virtuous (Self control is a fruit of the spirit! Your body is a temple!). You wouldn’t believe the amount of compliments I’ve gotten these last nine months—and they’re never because of how healthy I look, they’re always about how (relatively) tiny I’ve become. And yet, the smaller I get the worse I feel about myself, paradoxically.

Then this thought occurred to me; maybe I’m meant to be large. Whoa, I almost needed to sit down for that one. The moment that thought crossed my mind, it felt like the low ceiling that I’d been crouching under suddenly lifted. Maybe constantly holding my size at arm’s length, pretending like it’s not my reality, trying desperately to make it go away, seeing it only as an extremely negative thing, is denying a part of myself that’s truly a good part. Then I realized that all my empathy and my sense of justice comes from being overweight. I know how vain and arrogant I can be to begin with; if I fit into the current socially-accepted definition of “hot,” I’d be completely insufferable. I’d be a straight-up bitch. Now that’s a paradigm shift.

I’m not advocating that I gain back a bunch of the weight that I’ve lost. But I do think it’s important to come to terms with the fact that just because my body is imperfect, that doesn’t mean it’s bad. It’s a part of me, it’s what makes me unique. It can actually be a strength when all I consider it is a weakness. I should take care of it, yes, but I don’t need to deny what it is, wrestle with it, fret over it, be harshly critical towards it, or keep trying to desperately turn it into something it will never be. Phew. Even typing that feels like a sigh of relief.

~

And the man thing? To quote Mad Men and paraphrase Balzac, “our worst fears lie in anticipation.” Despite my strong belief to the contrary, I know that God would love to totally surprise me with a husband who will absolutely delight in every square-inch of my imperfect, life-ravaged body.

Not to sound twee or anything …

Recently, I’ve been trying to figure out what percentage of current, working writers have online presences (it’s high) and in my research I found Jami Attenburg’s tumblr and as I read it, I started to feel these stirrings within. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been laid up sick for the last three days—days I was so enthusiastically looking forward to use in the advancement my fifth and (hopefully final) draft—or what, but sitting here, looking at photos of book tours and jacket covers, it dawned on me that that’s what I want; like really, really want. Maybe it’s the sickness talking, in crazy fever dreams, but I have never had a clearer picture of my desired future before.

I want to pull the trigger and finally get this book done. I want to find a literary agent and then an enthusiastic publisher. I want to see my book on the shelves of bookstores and leave little notes inside. I want to go on a reading tour. And then I want an advance so I can do it all again.

And I’m not sure if it’s going to happen with this novel, or three novels from now, but I do know that I’m too far in to just stop and back out now. I’ve invested too much time, gone into too much debt, spent too many months on unemployment just to shrug my shoulders and say “meh” now.

Here is praying I’ll feel better enough tomorrow to get back on this horse.

Oregon Field Guide

I know what I just said about Los Angeles, but being in Oregon for three weeks reminded me just how nice it is to step out of the big city from time to time.

My roommate and travel-mate, Noemi, had never been to Oregon before, which is rather strange given her predilection for camping and hiking and the outdoors. She’s a curious sort, so while I might have chosen to sit in front of the television all day on my own, together we explored the northern half of the state, having adventures I’d never had as a young girl growing up in the area.

Herewith, I give you a visual tour of our trip; mostly pictures of plants and rocks and water (there’s a lot of that going on in Oregon).

on hitting milestones

Milestone one, it’s my birthday. I guess that’s not really an accomplishment, except that fact that I’ve lived for 32 years. Although that’s not as impressive as living say, 92 years. I’ve got a way to go.

Milestone two is a bit more … milestone-y, I guess. I finished the fourth draft of my novel today. This is the draft I started working on when I got laid off from my job in January. I’ve been working on this book for two and a half years, but this is the first time it’s got a beginning and an actual end, so for me this a real, live accomplishment-accomplishment. Let me just pat myself on the back for a moment, if you’ll allow me.

Now it’s out of my hands and off with a few readers. They are trusted friends—some editors, some just avid readers—who will traverse all 390-some pages of completed manuscript and tell me all the ways it’s inadequate, so that I might make it right.

I got a little emotional sending it out, I have to admit. I don’t feel precious about the material in any way; I’m not even fully convinced it’s any good, all put together the way it is. That’s why I’m letting people look at it now, so that I can hopefully make it suck less. What I was getting emotional over I think was simply the burden of working being lifted off my shoulders. This story has been with me for a long time, nagging me, always tapping me on my shoulder when I take too long in the morning to get going or dawdle too long on the internet. It exerted a certain kind of mental pressure, and with the completion of this draft all that pressure dissipated as I sent it along as an email attachment; finished for now. Finished. Good work, you’re done, exhale.

Tomorrow, my roommate and I embark on a journey to Oregon. She for two weeks, me for three. I know that when I get back the pressure will start to build again as I begin to get feedback from my readers. It will be time to incorporate. It will be time to correct. It will be time to start draft five.

But for now, for the next few weeks anyway, I will enjoy my freedom.

ten years

It was a quiet anniversary, not particularly noted; but the end of May marked my tenth year of being an Angelino. Ten years feels significant. So many people come and go in that time. Some of my most cherished moments have taken place in this city, as well as a few of the worst days of my life.

When I arrived here, fresh out of college, I had aspirations to work in pictures, and eyes full of stars. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to face. The incessant car culture, an entire system built around automobiles and traffic with all the attendant rules, laws, tickets and fees in tow; the insidious health culture that would have you believe wholeness comes in the form of a green smoothie, two hours of pilates, and the perfectly sculpted body. Sure, I had gotten use to the idea of wealth-as-status, having spent four years in Dallas, Texas; but for a girl from a hick town in Oregon, it was all just a bit overwhelming.

Everyone’s transition is hard. It must be. Los Angeles is just not a natural state of mind. It took time to carve out a niche and find friends and feel settled. But the whole time I still resisted the city’s charms. It was so much easier to simply gripe about the traffic or the smog or the vapid industry types that seemed to populate every nook and cranny of town.

Then 2005 happened and that was a pivotal year. I thought for a time that I might end up living in New Zealand, but that didn’t happen. Then my dad got sick and I stayed in Oregon for a few months and considered moving to Portland to “start again.” But that didn’t happen either. So I came back to L.A. at the end of that year. I made my choice and I stayed.

After that I didn’t find it so hard to love this city anymore. I’d accepted her as my home and in return I think she obliged. My friend Corey acted as my sherpa, uncovering for me a host of hidden gems and uncharted territory. I learned a lot about Los Angeles during that time; my curiosity grew, and with it my heart overflowed. Sure, at times the sprawl seemed impossibly large and crushingly impersonal. L.A. lacked, and still lacks, the razzle-dazzle swagger of New York; nor does it possess any of the stately charm of Chicago, none of the awe-inspiring lushness of San Francisco. And while it seemed like a cruel mistress at first, she ultimately rewarded patience and dogged curiosity. I worked hard to earn her favor and L.A. opened up to me her vast, innumerable treasures.

Granted, it’s hard to find fault with a place when you find yourself sitting on an outdoor patio in the middle of the city, in the middle of February, sipping a beer and lemonade, while the sun shines down on you a perfectly balmy eighty degrees. Nor is it unpleasant to be in one of the cheap seats at the Bowl, surrounded by your friends, drinking wine and eating cheese, listening to the L.A. Philharmonic as they provide the soundtrack to the sunset, and you watch as the Hollywood Sign fades from white to pink to gray to black.

Palm trees silhouetted against an early morning sky; subterranean bars on the edge of Skid Row; the opportunity to dine at a world-class restaurant or a suspect food truck, or both on the same day if you want; movie premieres and Q&As with directors and actors and producers; Shakespeare in Griffith Park; having Venice Beach to yourself in January; the fragrant bouquet of eucalyptus and jasmine that assault the senses in the early spring. Korean tacos, movies in cemeteries, that drive along the beach from Palos Verdes to San Pedro, Sunday morning dim sum, reading a novel chapter-by-chapter at Skylight Books, catching a string of green lights late at night. I’m not ashamed to say that all of these things, and many more, have seduced me over the years.

That’s not even mentioning the vast array of people who have made Los Angeles even more amazing. Friends, roommates, artistic collaborators, fellow students, grad school professors, coworkers, even strangers. So many have taught me about movies and music and art and life and joy and sorrow; together they make up a diverse tapestry of life experience and philosophies.

And now it’s been a decade. I’m no longer in pictures. Now I write, furtively and often alone, burrowed away like a mole. And all the time I meet newcomers who have been here six months, a year, two years. I take pleasure in introducing them to the secret treasures I know and love. I relish the opportunity to pique the curiosity of others as they too learn to love this city. Love it or leave it, quite literally, is what ends up happening.

I still fantasize about leaving. I wonder about Portland on occasion. I imagine what it would be like to utilize that EU passport. I even toy with the idea of Missoula, Montana—maybe it’s a boring enough place to really concentrate on my work. But no, who am I kidding? Los Angeles is in me and I in it. And I have no plans to leave anytime soon.

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