zumba, anyone?

I've been in Texas for a month and since I'm currently jobless and school-less, I decided I needed to do something to get my butt out of the house before I melt into the couch, never to be found again. I searched and found the perfect solution: Zumba. In case you're totally out of touch with social media (Zumba was featured on the Today Show, duh.), Zumba is an aerobic fitness class using moves based on Latin dance. It's loud, fast, and a more fun way to burn calories than to trudge on the treadmill for an hour.

So I drove my booty over to the community center on Thursday to pay for my class. The guy at the desk asked if I'd ever done Zumba before. He said, "Ok, don't worry, she's really energetic, but there are some older ladies in there so it's not as extreme as some Zumba classes." I didn't know I had cause for worry, but thanks community-center-desk-guy, now I am. I went home and YouTubed (yes, it's a verb) some Zumba videos. All the instructors are these sexy Latina mamas with tanned skin, perfectly round booties, and hips that don't lie. Envy. I must channel my girls J.Lo and Shakira.

I was getting ready to go to and the hubs asked "What are you going to wear?" He's learning. He knows this is a legitimate discussion. From what I saw on the videos, the appropriate attire is more along the lines of dance wear: tank tops, Danskin style tight pants, and sleek shoes that look like a firmer style of jazz shoes. I surveyed my clothes collection. Hmmmm....yoga pants, nasty t-shirt, and chunky running shoes will have to do. I got into my car and blasted some Peas. You're mine, Zumba. Let's do this.

I've never taken any sort of Latin dance classes. Expect that one time I went to a tango class with Justin Day at the Cascade Theater. But that doesn't count because he was super good and basically pushed and pulled me into submission. He might as well have been dancing with a broom. So besides that, these feet have never known salsa, mambo, merengue, samba, or cha cha cha. Ok, maybe a little cha cha cha.

I pulled up to the community center and there were quite a few women heading to class. I got inside, signed in, and waited. All the women were standing in the center of the room stretching. Man, this is serious business. So I sat up against the wall in the corner and did a little stretching. The instructor came in and was wearing a "Zumba: Join the Party" tank top. She put on a Brittany Spears-esque microphone and then said "Is tonight anyone's first night?" Like the chump I am, I didn't say anything. "So, everyone here has done Zumba before? Anyone's first night?" she repeated. My cheeks got warm. I mustered up a raise of my hand. "Anyone's first time?" This chick wasn't gonna give up. "Mine!" I finally yelled as I waved my hand again. I felt like someone from the Price is Right. She took off her microphone and came over to me. She told me to not worry about messing up, to have fun, and to just get the foot work down and the arms will come later. Gulp.

These women are insane. I shouldn't be staring at their middle aged booties, but I can't help it. These ladies can shake their thangs and I love them for it. It wasn't as scary as all the build up led it to seem. There were a few instances when I looked like a 13 year old boy at his first dance, but overall I kept up. I was definitely smiling and sweating by the end, which I think was the whole point. I think Zumba is a keeper.

pimples and insecurities

The other morning I woke up with a few zits on my chin. I know, "big deal Carsen", right? But here's the thing, I never had acne in high school so I thought I had dodged that bullet. Nope. I had it pretty easy in high school, zero acne for starters gets you a long way. I wasn't very popular, super smart, crazy talented, wildly funny, impressively athletic, or any of those things that high school movies are made of. But I had some friends, my grades were decent, and I didn't do too bad in the extracurriculars. However, the one thing I had going for me was my self confidence. Rarely was I haunted by any disturbing social rejections. On the rare occasion, I would come home and lament to my mom and say girls don't like me! Most of them would never even give me the chance. My mom would console me by telling that they are probably just intimidated by me. That made no sense to me. How can I be intimidating? I'm not even 100 lbs. My mom preceded to tell me that I have more self confidence and security than most people ever dream of, let alone awkward teenage girls. "I do?" I never considered myself to be any of those things. In fact, these girls that rejected me were prettier, smarter, better dressed, more popular, and seemingly more confident that I ever thought I was. I felt like the awkward one; how could I be intimidating?

Now here I am, with high school 5 years behind me and I'm feeling more pimply and insecure than ever and thinking aren't these things for teenagers? Aren't you supposed to grow up, leave old insecurities behind, get your braces off and laugh at your childish ways? Why is it now that after I've married my handsome husband, that I feel less than confident? I think it's because marriage is a bit invasive. When you're dating you can spend an hour getting ready at your place and your mate shows up to see the finished product. When you're dating, your boyfriend drops you off at home and you let out that big fart you've been holding in all night. When you're dating, you brush your teeth before you ever have to see that person. When you're dating, you filter your emotions and can keep the ugly ones concealed. Marriage is a whole 'nother game. Now certainly my husband saw me without make up, witnessed me angry or upset, and heard me rip one while we were dating. As he likes to affectionately remind me, "he knew what he was getting into."

I just can't help but notice that this kind of intimacy shakes my confidence. Bed head, morning breath, and gas is just the tip of the iceberg. I won't get into sex or emotions because those are much too private to divulge in public, but those can be the most unnerving of them all. I think pre-marriage I had a lot of neat little (healthy) barriers protecting from being too exposed. Now those are being ripped off, one layer at a time, leaving me often feeling like a teenager wondering who will take me to prom. And like a younger person, I still very much want to impress my husband. This crazy ride isn't for the faint of heart.

title-less

I was sitting in my bed playing solitaire on my laptop when she came into my room. She sat down on the floor by my bed, with her back on the wall. Her worried expression told me something was up. I closed my laptop and moved to the edge of my bed, waiting for her to speak. Words never came. In their place came tears. The hot, heavy, sticky kind of tears. The kind of tears that have been held back for so long that they have collected so much raw human emotion, you tangibly see their burn when they finally break free of their prison. The kind of tears you feel in your soul, not just your heart.

We've cried together on more than one occasion. The kind of job we had, where we lived wasn't easy. Especially for the ones we loved all around us, the ones we fought for on a daily basis. Many times we had seen each other cry. Injustice, death, disappointment, disease, frustration were all common causes of our sensitive hearts' tears. But this was different.

I held her as she sobbed. She said nothing except for a few words of exasperation. She knew that she didn't have to speak literal words or tell me what was wrong. Friends are like that. They just know. Except I didn't. I waited for her to tell me, but she never did. She quietly wiped off her tears and left. I sat on the floor awhile longer, wondering what just happened, wondering if I should go upstairs and talk to her. I had been urging her to take a test for so long that it never occurred to me that she finally did. I knew the possibility was always on her mind, lurking around every corner like a creepy stalker that just wouldn't leave her alone. I just didn't know that she finally faced him.

I woke up the next morning and went to her little apartment upstairs for breakfast and for answers. She was still crying and so was our friend who came for her shift that morning. I felt like a little child watching her parents' marriage fall apart, wanting answers, wanting to understand the adult world, wanting to know "is it my fault?" But I also didn't want to smother her with questions or prod or be in the way or do anything abrasive. We hadn't been friends long and in this highly intense situation, I felt like I didn't know what to do because I was afraid I didn't know her.

I had just kind of showed up one day and she was just kind of there. I watched her take command over the crazy ship she captained, intimidated by her position. I just wanted to please, to work with my hands, to make a difference. I thought this would be easy when I showed up. I showed up saying, "here I am!" heart and hands open wide, thinking that would be enough. I thought I could be a strong and hardworking deckhand, happily about my business changing the world. I had never imagined the storms would be so strong, nor the waves so large, so overwhelming.

We finally exchanged words and my dense mind wholly understood. "So you did take a test?" She looked confused, like her tears had already done the talking for her. "Yes, that's what last night was about." My nineteen years of life experience had failed me. My head understood before my heart did, as always; which is why I like it better. My heart is too slow to comprehend, to believe, to let go. It's finicky like that. So I followed my head. I quickly got the supplies I needed and asked her to pee in a cup. I walked over to the clinic with specimen in hand and performed my own test. I needed to do it more than I needed to hear it. It didn't take long to turn positive. And in that dark, damp, concrete clinic in a small country surrounded by a big ocean, I cried. I cried those same hot, heavy, sticky tears that had been collecting since August. I cried tears that burned when they broke free, the kind I could feel in my soul. My best friend was pregnant.

"Babe, if you're not good at something the first time you try it, you have to practice."
I gave John "the look." Silly man, when will he learn. We were about to go ice skating together on a quaint outdoor rink in Walnut Creek. It was no Central Park, but I've always wanted to go ice skating outside with my beau. John played ice hockey for many years, but this was my first time to try out the sport. Knowing that I'm competitive and am sorely grumpy if I suck at something, John was trying to give me a pep talk as we laced up our skates. "You can't be good at everything the first time you try it," he continued. "Is that a challenge?" I asked. (When you're competitive, everything is a challenge.) "No, I just don't want a grumpy girlfriend if you're not good at this." I grinned because it feels good to be known. I grinned because he was worried I'd fall on my butt. I grinned because that sounded an awful lot like a challenge.

There are a lot of things I am not good at. I've never been exceptionally good at sports, yet held my own because I am insanely tough, determined, and mostly stubborn. So while I can count on both hands how many points I scored my two years playing basketball, I was always the fastest down the court and if we were running man-on-man or a half court press, I couldn't be stopped. Just don't give me the ball. My coach actually told me if I ever had the ball, just pass it to a "big ugly." I guess that's what she called the players who could actually do something productive with the ball. Being five feet tall doesn't help my case either. I'm really not good at video games. As soon as I get a controller into my hand, the tongue comes out and before long I'm hurling insults at inanimate objects. It isn't pretty. And don't even get me started on my math skills. But the things that I am good at, I was good the first time I tried it.

I learned how to swim when I was 2 years old. It just sort of happened. My mom decided it was a good idea to enroll me into swimming lessons to hone the skill. In one summer, I passed all the levels that the swimming school offered. The instructor told my mom, "you need to get that girl on a team." And so she did. I certainly got better with practice, and I was never some Olympic star, but I was a "lean, mean, swimming machine" as my dad called me.

I felt awkward in those heavy skates. "It's just like roller blading," I tell myself, a hobby I enjoyed many years ago. The rink is smaller than I expected and there are so many children to dodge. We start out along the wall as John gives me a few pointers. I'm bored already. "Can we go faster?" He smiles that smile that sucked me in so long ago, one corner turned down, the other up, with his eye brows mimicking the same little boy cock-eyedness."I don't know, can you?" he smirks. I'm feeling a bit uneasy on the ice, but that doesn't stop my need for speed. I push off from the wall and start taking baby steps unassisted. With one fearless push of my feet, I'm gliding like an ice princess. He's ahead of me now, showing off his skills. Not to leave me behind, he turns around and waits for me. He sees that I'm doing pretty well for my first time around and shakes his head. I can't help but laugh. I love watching him skate, like he's in his element. He stops and carves into the ice gracefully, he shows me some tricks, with some prodding from me. My cheeks are flushed and ears sting from the cold air, but a smile is plastered on my face. He says "Babe, you get faster and faster with every lap." He knows how to make me smile. "Want to try backwards?" "Don't push it, buddy."

We're married now and I got the same lecture as I was tying up my tennis shoe laces, off to my first Zumba class. "Even if you aren't good, just have fun, ok?" His little pep talks always feel like a challenge to me; maybe that's why I love him so much. I think about this little conversation as I walk in through our front door. "Well how was it? Did you have fun?" he asks as I kick off my shoes. "Yes, love," I say as I bend down to kiss him. "And guess what? I was pretty good too."

sleepless

We've all been there. The clock is ticking and yet we can't will ourselves to sleep. Most of the time it's because we're too anxious, nervous, excited, worried, or just overall an emotional mess. Sometimes we've had too much caffeine. Sometimes our husbands are having a coughing fit. Sometimes the people in the apartment above you are getting down and dirty. Sometimes there's a loud noise outside that startles you awake. Sometimes...*sigh

My night last night started as usual. I brushed my teeth and got our allergy medicine and vitamins out of the bathroom as usual. And like every night, my husband and I laid down and played a round of Words with Friends. (That's not a euphemism.) And then just like every night, he fell asleep first and I followed shortly into the land of blissful sleep. (I promise we're not really 80 years old.)

And then it all fell apart. I could feel myself slipping out of sleep, like my mind was loosing grip on the rope of Dreamland and I was falling back into consciousness. I fought it, but to no prevail. I awoke to the sound of John coughing. But it isn't just coughing. Actually, no, the coughing isn't even the worst part. It's the SNIFFING. He sniffs a big one, and then lo and behold is coughing. I try so hard to be sympathetic. I'm able to muster up a sincere sounding "are you ok babe?" Sniiiiiff. Cough, cough, cough. Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiff. Cough, cough, cough, cough. I feel it boiling inside me, that feeling when you're about to burst. I manage to contain myself a bit longer and say, "maybe blowing your nose will help." All I can think about is the phlegm being sucked into the back of his throat and it further irritating the cough reflex. (Sorry, I hope you weren't eating.) He gets up and goes to the bathroom. I hear him blow his nose good and hard. "Thank heavens," I'm thinking to myself when...SNIIIIFF. Heaven. Have. Mercy.
Cough, cough, cough.
I inform him where the mucus relief/cough suppressant medicine is and pray that the next half hour before it starts working goes by at lightening speed.

Eventually, he stops coughing and falls asleep. I start to do that same, until...CLICK, CLICK, CLICK... It's coming from the ceiling. It's a loud "click" but a clicking sound nonetheless. We make jokes about the person(s) who lives above us because seriously it sometimes sounds like they're playing rugby or soccer or fighting bulls. We can joke about it because most of the time the nonsense happens in the afternoon or evening and isn't much of a bother. Ironically, I saw the inhabitant today. I call her "the little girl upstairs" only because she looks smaller than me, meaning that she probably shops in the little girl section. I wonder if she morphs into a 300 lb bronco-riding man when she walks through her front door. Or maybe the girl I saw was just visiting the 300 lb bronco-riding man that does live there. If that's the case, which seems more plausible, then the 300 lb bronco-riding man was not riding a bronco last night, if ya know what I mean.

I was determined to not let this keep me awake, so I went pee (hey, I was up), and looked for my iPod. I found my headphones, but not my iPod, so I just decided to listen to Pandora on my phone. The Pandora application wouldn't open. I'm not pleasant at 2:30 am, especially when my blood sugar levels are at about 30, and when I can't for-the-love-of-all-that's-holy JUST GO TO SLEEP. If someone had said something to me, I might of snapped their head of, literally. However, my stubborn self fixed my phone, found the Debussy station, and started to fall asleep with "Beau Soir" serenading me.

And then, because the universe hates me, a train drove through my bedroom. (Not really, of course, but it sounded like that.) I did what any mature, intelligent, composed woman would do and screamed into my pillow. It must of been a therapeutic, soothing kind of scream, because I fell asleep after that. My husband just texted me saying that he was tired and didn't sleep well last night. Ha.

mini-moon

Because of the nature of the Army, we didn't know if my groom would be present for the wedding until exactly one week before the nuptials were planned. (The particulars of all that is another post entirely.) This meant that because we didn't know how long he would have off of work (or if he was coming at all), we didn't plan any sort of honeymoon. Once we found out he did get a week off and factored in driving to Texas and saying goodbye to our friends and family, we were left with the night of the wedding (staying in town) and the next night.

His parents booked us a lovely hotel in town for the night of our wedding, complete with a jacuzzi tub, rose petals on the bed, and chocolate covered strawberries. It was fantastic. The next morning we drug ourselves out of bed and met about 30 of our friends and family for breakfast. (Which we would have never done if we hadn't been moving across the country the next day.) I then turned all sorts of grumpy because we had to go back to both of our parents houses to finish packing. We went to my parents house first which is in town and where the moving company was coming to load up all our stuff. I packed as fast as I could and then realized it was time to say goodbye. It was such a strange feeling wanting so desperately to get out of there and spend time with my new husband and yet bawling my eyes out because I knew I was leaving my family. After a tearful "see ya later," we drove 30 minutes outside of town to John's parents house to get some things he needed. My mother-in-law and I talked business while John packed. Finally, it was time to decide what to do for our one night "mini-moon". My mom found an amazing deal on an unpublished hotel in San Francisco. All we knew was the rating (5 star) and the price of the room. We decided to go for it. After we booked the room we found out it was the stunning Joie de Vivre hotel right off the Embarcadero. I was so excited! It was early in the evening and we had enough time to have dinner and spend time in the city before we headed to our room for some quality time.

My husband packed up my little Toyota and I got in the drivers seat to head out. I asked him for the keys as he got into the car. It took all of ten seconds for me to realize the keys got locked in the trunk. Since my car has no trunk release and all the spares were on one ring, the one in the trunk, we called a locksmith. They'd be there within the hour. So here we are, married less than 24 hours, unable to go anywhere, and stuck at our parents house. Awesome. (Yes, you can laugh. I did.) We went inside and watched a musical and had pizza for dinner. Finally the locksmith arrived and with some effort, opened the trunk, and made this bride very happy.

My spirits were unshaken and I sped to the city. (John was still kicking himself at this point). An hour or so later, we arrived at our destination. We could not find the hotel's parking lot, so we pulled into a little driveway. A valet attendant told us that parking was valet only or we could find something on the street. We paid the $50 and gave the guy my Toyota key (that stuck out like a sore thumb with the Lexus and Mercedes and Porsche keys almost as badly as my actual car did.) There was a group of people dressed in Italian suits and Manolo Blahnik heels (not together, even if it is SF) waiting outside for their car. I was in a sweatshirt and Chucks and my counterpart was wearing jeans and a t-shirt as we made our way to the front desk.

At 9 pm (and already feeling out of place), we were told that they did not have our reservation. The website we had booked through had not faxed the hotel our information yet. The man at the front desk was apologetic, incredibly welcoming, and upgraded us to a top floor room with a view. I have no idea how much the room cost, but the run-of-the-mill room we booked started out at $212 a night (we paid $100 for it.) Never have you seen such giddy mini-mooners. Long story short (or is it too late for that?), we dressed ourselves up, went to the restaurant attached to the hotel, sat at the bar, made great conversation with two gay guys from Canada, explored the roof top terrace, and made sweet sweet love. :)






Our view

Deployment

My husband has received orders for deployment, leaving mid-late July. I've been an Army-wife for 5 minutes (ok, 3.5 weeks) and the reality of my love leaving has come crashing down. Nothing is certain in the Army, even when they say it is, but they are definitely gearing up to leave. Not only are we learning to be husband and wife, but we are learning to be soldier and the "home front."

My hard-working husband took a nap this weekend and I ended up in tears. All I could think about was that this may be our first and last months married to each other and I couldn't stand not spending time with him. It took me almost an hour to explain this to my confused husband who woke up to me "pissed" (this is often how I come across when truthfully I'm hurt, scared, anxious, etc). I was finally able to articulate my feelings and have a "big person" conversation with him. (Marriage is like a giant mirror; one that has made me realize I'm very much still a child.) Now more than ever I realize what a gift he is and how precious our time is before he goes. It's not healthy to dwell on the negative, but for my personal well-being, I have to think of the worst and then learn to cope with the possibility. I'm slow to process emotions and therefore a bit of dwelling is required. "People want my husband dead" is a large pill to swallow, yet some how facing the possibility of that helps me to look it square in the face and say "I ain't scared." (Well, that's a lie, but I can still say it.) Turning on the lights and actually looking at the monster under the bed makes it much less scary than when you're hiding under the covers in the dark.

Maybe one day, with a ton of Grace, I might be able to say that truthfully. My soldier's name means "God is Gracious" and "God rescues." I'm praying for those to not just be name meanings, but a prophesy over his life, a banner he can wave before the enemy, both of this world and not. While this process is sometimes uncomfortable and full of growing pains, I rest in the truths that Our God IS gracious and that He does rescue us. I think there is something carnal about declaring those truths (especially when you're scared), like ripping out the roots of weeds that are suffocating a seedling, hands dirty and making way for fresh growth. And so even if I have to say them half believing, half scared out of my mind, I will... because slowly my faith rises.

Keep Writing

This is my third attempt at a blog. For whatever reason, I can't seem to be consistent with my writing. But a friend told me to "keep writing" and I think I'll take his advice. So here I am, California girl in a Texas world, writing as I learn about love, life, and faith.