On showing my scars….

September 16, 2011 / micahdl / Leave a comment

From time to time, Life likes to smack me up-side the head with a good reminder of how old I am. It doesn’t happen all that often, but when it does…hoo boy! It’s a solid reminder that I am far too old to be making the same silly choices I made in my 20s. Sometimes it feels as though my brain thinks I’m still 22 while my body is most assuredly in it’s 30s.

Many times, these reminders come in the form of a good, old-fashioned hangover. I’m sure plenty of you can relate to that most wretched of feelings. I used to be able to party like a rock star….go out on school nights, dancing and drinking till all hours of the morning, and wake up after a mere 3 hours of sleep ready to kill it at the office and do it all over again. I was like a walking Katy Perry song. Then, one day, I turned 30. And I tried to do the rock star thing once. Or twice. The good thing is that I had the sense enough to attempt this on a Friday night. That’s the ONLY good thing. There’s nothing more embarassing than the way I am SURE I acted those two nights.

But my drunken escapades aren’t really the point.

The point is that I am, we all are, prone to make silly mistakes even though we know better. It’s the great chasm between ability and prudence, isn’t it? Just because I can do something doesn’t mean that I should do something. Mistakes are bound to happen, no matter what. It’s human nature. Doing stupid things is basically part of our DNA. We play with fire, we get into shenanigans, and if we’re lucky, we come out the other side relatively unscathed and without a rap sheet. The good news (I suppose), is that our mistakes never leave us completely unscathed. We are left with scars and burns and reminders and memories of the mistakes we made, which is probably life’s way of helping ensure we don’t do it again. Unfortunately, some (like me) tend to cover the scars with make-up and laughter and go ahead with life as though nothing happened.

Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I let the scars show, if I let the pain exist in reality, even if only for a moment.

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On fixing the unfixable…

September 8, 2011 / micahdl / Leave a comment

When it comes to fixing things, I tend to be an #epicfail most of the time. I’m not super handy around the house, even though I grew up learning everything about everything from my dad, in that regard. I can make pretty decent guesses about how to fix things, but when it comes down to actually fixing stuff, I fall apart.

Unfortunately, that hasn’t really transcended every area of my life. You see, I have this bizarre “savior complex” wherein I feel it my moral obligation to “fix” people and situations. It’s really bad and probably wrong most of the time. If people wanted fixing, they’d probably seek professional help. Or, at minimum, they’d ask a friend for help. I think that part of the reasoning behind this savior complex is that I am generally not happy unless everyone around me is happy, especially my family and friends. It’s emotionally draining for me when someone I care about is struggling with something, anything…and it causes me to feel as though I should fix whatever is wrong.

That said, there has been one thing in my life that I’ve successfully fixed (albeit temporarily, it would turn out) and I’m quite proud of it (though I will be the first to admit that I had a TON of help).

Lily. My first car. A 1989 Ford Escort.

What a piece of sh*t that car was! So many issues and so much drama happened with, in, and around that car, I can’t even begin to describe it all. But there was this one time in 2000, before I’d moved out of my parents house, that everything just hit the fan with her.

I’m pretty reliant on the various systems in any car I’ve ever owned. I depend on it to tell me when the tire pressure is off, when it’s overheating, when it’s too cold to expect the heater to work, these kinds of things. So when the systems failed to advise that Lily was overheating, I had absolutely no idea. I was just going along my merry way, driving to and from my various jobs that summer (my schedule was insane: cheer coach from 8a-11a, Good Times Burgers from 12p-430p, then closing shift manager at McDonald’s from 430p-2a…every single day). I needed my car desperately so imagine my shock and anger when I discovered that not only had I cracked the head in my car, I’d also blown the timing belt…en route from Denver to Greeley. I flipped my lid. Called my dad in utter panic because, well, my dad has always fixed my cars and normally when I’m freaking out, it turns out to be something far less than I imagine it is. Not so, this time. Dad came and got my car (while I, in my righteous bitchiness, continued to Greeley to visit a girl friend) and took it back to the house. Two days later, I came home at 3am from a horrible day at all my jobs to find my dad in the driveway, floodlights abounding, and a new engine ready to drop in the car. “Get changed and get out here,” was all he said to me. Didn’t even say hello. That’s when I realized what a bitch I’d been to my dad. I earned that. And there we worked for another 2+ hours, putting a new engine in the car, my dad teaching me all about the wires and connectivity and nonsense of my car’s inner workings. It was a wretched evening (and an even more horrible morning), but I learned a lot that night…about myself, my dad, my car, and my attitude.

That wouldn’t be the last from Lily. In December 2003, I was driving home from work (not a small task, given that I was living and working on w-a-y opposite sides of the city), rounding “Stadium Curve” when I felt something lurch under my foot. Yup, the clutch pedal came off…while I was driving in rush hour traffic. I made it home without incident (I swear I have guardian angels just from that) and Dad and I fixed that issue the next day. Then in February 2004, Lily finally gave out. The head of the new engine had cracked in four places and the timing belt snapped again. Even my dad conceded the following: 1) I needed a new car; 2) I shouldn’t be alive; and 3) if ever a car was going to blow up, it would be Lily.

I got a new car the next week and called her Kate. Kate’s clutch pedal fell off, too. I’m waiting for the shoe (or pedal) to drop with my current car, Eleanor. And when that happens, I’m swearing off vehicles and just taking the bus everywhere.

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On feeling the burn….

September 7, 2011 / micahdl / 2 Comments

The first cold rain of the season came yesterday and carried on through the evening. Fall is definitely here and it came with a bit of a vengeance. One week, it was 95*F; the next it’s barely scraping 70*F and the rain and chill has come. Fall can be a bit of a strange season for me…it signals the end of summer (my favorite) and begins to usher in winter (my least favorite). It’s also the beginning of football season which, frankly, is about the most exciting time of year for me, second only to Christmas!

Fall brings with it a myriad of delicious sights and smells, many of which conjure up some wonderful memories. Many of those memories revolve around two things for me: my childhood (and sometimes my teen years) and fire. Aaahhhh fire. I grew up in an old, old mining cabin that had been added to and remodeled over several years. While there was central heat in the house, my parents opted instead to make good use of the giant woodburning stove in the corner of the house. There was a smaller, pot-bellied stove in the dining room and around the time I turned 13, there was yet another stove in the kitchen on the opposite end of the house. But the big one in the living room holds most of my memories.

When it was cold weather season, my dad would create these intense fires that could sear the skin right off your back. My brother and sister and I used to love sitting on the hearth, heating our backs for as long as we could stand, then running to the couch and slamming against the cushions to feel more and more of that heat. I remember the smell of the fire waking me up in the mornings for school, knowing that the clothes I’d picked out the night before would be laid out beneath the stove, all warm and cozy for me. We’d all sit around the stove in the evening, somtimes watching television, but mostly my mom would grade papers, my sister and I would take turns practicing the piano and doing homework, my brother played with Legos and cars, and my dad would read a book.

The stove became a staple of life for us. It wasn’t Christmas morning without a roaring fire. Once, my dad even made good on the song and we had chestnuts roasting over that fire. When we remodeled the kitchen and installed the “blue stove,” my dad taught us the magic of cooking indoors with real flames (and, often, how to put out whatever disastrous fire we’d created in the process). Dad would cook up Red River Cereal and fried eggs every Saturday morning in the fall and winter, while Mom would warm her bum against the stove (a skill I have inherited and something that the two of us still do, to this day, whenever the “blue stove” is nice and warm).

Of all the things I so desperately love about the house I grew up in, the fireplace is by far the thing I love the most. By the time I reached my angsty teenage years, I could sit and sulk by that fireplace for hours. But more than anything, I loved introducing my friends to the wonder of that stove. I have distinct memories of standing next to that stove for many a formal photo in high school. I remember bringing a boy home to meet my parents for one of the first times and he just stood by the stove, waiting for whatever might happen next (and with my parents, the options there are limitless). Christmas not so many years later when a good and wonderful friend would join my family for Christmas Eve Soup, made on the “blue stove,” the house reeking of Christmas and fire and love…and mulberries (apparently).

I love fire. Not in a pyromaniac kind of way, but in the way that only someone who has grown up with a wood-burning fireplace can love fire. In the way that only a person who has felt that intense heat on their face can love fire. In the way that only those who know the chasm of difference between a calm orange glow and a terrifying blue streak can love fire.

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On learning to lean and balance….

September 1, 2011 / micahdl / Leave a comment

Life, for me, has always been a bit of a balancing act. Sometimes, that’s taken to quite literal extremes. I tend to wear shoes that have a heel height of more than 3 inches. Currently, I’ve been rocking 5″-6″ stillettos. It’s not great for my feet or back or whatever, but I really just don’t care. I love the way I feel when I wear those shoes. It’s just that it takes a bit of skill to manage them, especially when I’m walking on tile floors at the office…watch out!

I tend to have decent balance as far as that’s concerned. After years of cheerleading, I can usually handle the balancing thing (unless I haven’t had enough to eat, then I just get shaky and dangerous). I’m pretty good on a balance beam most of the time.

But when it comes to the rest of my life, I tend to topple in one direction or the other.

I’m notorious for planning my entire life in 15-minute increments, but rarely do I plan for my own down time. I can’t remember the last time I actually had something on my calendar that didn’t involve making an appointment or planning an event or having to be somewhere. Yeah, I’m that person that basically has to schedule naps. Disturbing? Yes.

I’m pretty tough when it comes to my emotions, but there comes a time when breaking is just a necessity. Fortunately, I have good friends who know my tendencies and call me out on them…and then are just generally there when I start to lose my balance.

Breaking, for me, is always a challenge. I don’t want people to think I’m weak or out of control. I want to be strong and pulled together. Most of the time, I am. Breaking means admitting failure or shortcomings, neither of which I’m comfortable with. But maybe experiencing failure or shortcomings isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Maybe it’s just the thing we need to push ourselves further. I’m not sure I believe that, not right now. But it bears some consideration.

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On smelling my memories….

August 30, 2011 / micahdl / Leave a comment

Any time I’m asked, “If you had to live without one of your senses, which would it be?” I generally respond with, “I can’t possibly choose.” But if there’s a sense that evokes the strongest emotions and memories in me, I’d probably have to go with smell.

Sight is a funny one. I love seeing things like sunsets and graduations and lightning storms, but I also get really queasy at the sight of blood…to the point that some scenes in SCRUBS has caused me to gag a little.

Taste is one that I could never do without…mostly because I love food so frickin’ much! I’ve tasted some disgusting things in my life…mushrooms, ultra-hoppy beer, deep-fried artichoke hearts. But for all the ick, there’s eleven billion times more deliciousness.

Touch is…questionable. Most of the things I hate in life (courduroy, certains types of t-shirts, mushrooms, pruny skin) generally have to do with texture. Most of the things I love in life also have to do with texture…the feeling of a long-needed hug, the way my hands feel after a paraffin wax dip, rinsing conditioner out of my hair. I love it all.

Hearing is one that’s a no-brainer for me. My life would be much less interesting and fulfilled without all the music and laughter I have grown to love. But oh how I hate the sound of a fire alarm chirp or a yippy dog barking next door at 2am.

But smell? There are just so many to choose from. And they seem to come about at the most random moments.

The cologne of a boy I liked in high school…helps me remember all the pretty dresses I wore to formals in high school and who I went with to them.

Any time the R&D folks whip up a new pizza at work….mostly just makes me think about how much I love pizza.

A wood burning fireplace…makes me remember when my dad would make a big fire at 5am and put our pre-chosen clothes on the hearth so they were warm when we’d wake up for school.

Skunks…makes me giggle thinking about the one time my dad actually got sprayed. It also just makes me think about the house I grew up in and all the fun we had on all that land.

The perfume my mom wore when I was a little girl…makes me remember wanting to be grown up enough to wear it myself.

Fresh baked sourdough bread….makes me miss my grandpa so much it hurts, but also helps me remember every Christmas break I ever spent with all of my grandparents and how much I loved doing that (despite my extreme opposition of the roadtrips to get there).

Not all smells make me think happy thoughts.

Tequila and blueberries reminds me of some painful years and poor choices.

Brisk fall air is a double-threat, making me think simultaneously about football and delicious soups and hot cider, but also about the lazy, cold days of high school, sitting in the front room watching movies totally oblivious to the pain and commotion surrounding me.

York peppermint patties makes me laugh pretty hard when I think about wallpapering my dorm room with the wrappers with my best friend…but that smell also makes me think about how that was one of the worst and hardest years I’ve gone through to date and every bad thing associated with it.

I can’t always choose when I smell one thing or another. I’m always grateful for the happy smells, especially the ones that are few and far between (the fire place or the bread). Sometimes, I’ll even stalk the smells just because I know how happy they’ll make me. Some are unavoidable, like the fall air…particularly in Colorado. So I force myself to remember the good in those moments. Cheering at a football game. Snuggling on the couch and watching crappy television. Going to the mall and wandering aimlessly because, hey, that’s what we did in high school. Spilling coffee on the ceiling of my dorm room with said roommate (don’t ask. It’s a very long story). Staying up late to finish term papers and a pot of coffee.

It’s not that I’m ignoring the painful parts of my life (or the lives of the ones with me). It’s that I’m choosing instead to focus on the good. There will be bad, no matter what. It’s a near-certainty. It’s just that going through the pain is hard enough the first time. And while it’s pretty much inevitable (for me, anyway) that those hard parts of my memory will come screaming back when I least expect it (and with as much force and indignity as the first time), I know that I have some happy things stocked up to drown out the bad.

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On climbing walls and crawling through mud….

August 24, 2011 / micahdl / 1 Comment

This is going to result in some rambling. I’m okay with that. My blog; my rules.

I ran the Warrior Dash last weekend. I’ve been wanting to do that since it first came to Colorado last year. Obstacles, running, mountains…it all sounded like something that was right up my alley! Basically, it’s like field day for grown ups…in that you get a delicious (free) beer at the end. Mmm! So with nary a training day under my belt, I headed up the hill with Todd and the dogs and embarked on “the craziest frickin’ day of my life!”

I should know better than to race at elevation without training. I mean, yeah, I live at nearly 5300 feet so I can take on just about any sea-level challenge, no worries. But when the race itself STARTS at 10,000+ feet, I should have really reconsidered my lack of training. I DQd myself on the second (of TWELVE) obstacles because I had to launch myself over a 4-foot high wall…it should be noted that, thanks to years of cheerleading, I’ve generally focused all of my strength training on my lower body. So lifting myself (all 122 pounds of me) is a pretty daunting task. And I simply could not do it.

The rest of the course went about as expected: not well. The mud pit = hilarious and fun, but it’s worth stating that there was mud in places that there should only be mud if I’m at a spa. Made for a pretty interesting run after that craziness!

The worst of it came at the end of the course when I wound up with disgusting bruises on both my wrists and my knees along with some pretty major cuts and scraping (which are finally starting to heal). It was just today, four days after the event, that I noticed some pretty nasty green and purple bruises on my legs from said obstacle. One is the size of a small continent.

Doing the Warrior Dash taught me some things about myself:

1. There are certain things that I cannot and will not ever be able to do. I need to be okay with that.

2. I really really am absolutely terrified of heights…to the point to near-hysteria.

3. I can be brave when I have to be, despite the hysterics (and, often, despite the cursing).

Bravery, I think, comes in a lot of different forms. And just because we ask for help doesn’t mean that we haven’t done a brave thing. Sometimes, asking for help IS the brave thing. I have friends that I think do brave things all the time. Some of them go back to school at nearly 30-years-old to pursue a dream. Some of them go off to war, knowing full-well the potential danger in front of them. Some of them simply get up every morning and face the day head on, despite what life as thrown at them. Some of them leave the safety of home in an effort to prove to themselves (and maybe others) that they are brave enough and good enough to do it.

I wonder, then, what makes us feel brave? Is it when WE feel it, individually? Or is it when someone else recognizes our fearlessness and applauds it? I’m honestly not sure. Maybe it’s both. Maybe sometimes we need people to reassure us that what we’re doing really is very brave, regardless of the fear or of the unknown.

Pursuing a dream is one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen. My best friend did it almost 10 years ago and I’ve seen what that kind of pursuit can lead to…and now I get to watch another friend do it!

And let’s just be honest about how brave going to war is.

Sometimes life is just a real bitch. We don’t know why things happen the way they do, but to not let it get the best of you? C’mon. That’s pretty amazing.

Just having the gumption to change your life…that’s…wow. Even if you do it (or did it) to prove a point to everyone EXCEPT yourself, you still did it…alone. And look how incredible you are because of it!

And maybe, just maybe, while we’re all trying to prove to everyone else how brave we are, we really end up proving it to ourselves.

So did I have fun at the Warrior Dash? Absolutely.

Would I do it again? I’ll never rule anything out, but I think I’ll stick to being the cheerleader for now…

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On becoming who you will be….

August 22, 2011 / micahdl / 3 Comments

It seems that back-to-school season is upon us. I don’t have kids, but I know plenty of people that do. “First Day of School” photos are running rampant on my Facebook feed right now. My cousin’s first day of Grade 1 is today…she’s starting a new school in a new state on the opposite side of the country. And she looks all kinds of adorable in her Arizona-style clothes. I bet North Carolina’s winters are going to be a little bit of a shock (invest in some Ugg boots, kiddo…you’ll be glad you did!).

So this is a special edition of Use The Clutch, for all the little ones starting school this week.

School largely defines and shapes who you will become. Like an office for us grown-ups, it’s where you’ll spend almost all your time and energy. Work hard. Play hard. But the most important thing I can offer you is this: Be yourself. Be kind. Be the person about whom your teacher says, “I sat the new kid next to you because I knew you’d be friendly and helpful.” But above all else, and most importantly, don’t let anyone else decide the kind of person you should be.

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On the necessity of sleep….

August 18, 2011 / micahdl / Leave a comment

Vulnerability is a funny thing. It can hit us at the most unexpected moments. For some, it happens on an anniversary of an event. Or maybe passing by a certain restaurant or coffee shop. Scents are a good trigger for other people.

Me? I feel most vulnerable when I’m tired. And not just, “Oh, I could use a nap” tired, but completed exhausted. Absolutely worn to the bone. That’s when I start having doubts about anything and everything. Nothing triggers my vulnerability more than sheer exhaustion. It’s part of the reason I try (though sometimes in vain) to get at least seven or eight hours of sleep every night. I make better decisions and life choices when I’ve had a good night’s sleep.

Being that tired makes me feel like crying, like not getting out of bed, like the only thing that can comfort me is snuggling my dogs. And even they don’t normally like to hang out with me, making it that much worse. Exhaustion makes me question every decision I’ve ever made or should make. I start thinking insane things and on top of all that, my iPod seems to know when I’m vulnerable and chooses to play the most heart-wrenching and/or depressing songs. Can’t a girl catch a break?!

So I guess I’m interested…when do you hit your breaking point? What makes you feel at your most vulnerable?

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On unintentional side-effects….

August 16, 2011 / micahdl / Leave a comment

As is probably obvious at this juncture, I’ve been thinking about happiness a lot recently. And I’ve been having very Phoebe-esque reactions to it.

Remember that episode of Friends when Phoebe want to find a good deed she can do that DOESN’T have the unintended side effect of making her feel good? I wonder if I’m reacting to happiness in a similar (though backward) fashion. Is there something I can do (or am allowed to do) just because it makes me happy?

I’ve been getting manicures from the same woman for over 15 years. I love getting manicures. I love seeing this woman who, over many years, has really become a friend. So do I get manicures purely because it makes me happy? Not exactly. I like that it’s HER that I get manicures from. I could get a manicure from anyone, anywhere, anytime I want. But I keep going back to the same person because she’s the person that’s been doing my manicures for 15 years and frankly, I’d feel terrible if I just stopped seeing her.

Baking makes me feel especially wonderful. It’s a very happy place for me to be, the kitchen. But the alterior motive is that, well, I know I kick ass in the kitchen and I love to make things for other people. I can’t really remember the last time I baked something and actually ate it myself. It’s the process that makes me happy, not the result. The result usually makes other people happy. Which reminds me: I need to make some cookies for a girl friend sometime this week.

So when I think about doing something, anything, that makes me happy, I wonder what the unintended results might be. Will someone else end up unhappy? Will someone else end up happy? Will something I do cause a string of events that I have no way of predicting, thus no way of altering or stopping or whatever?

Sometimes, doing something that makes you happy has the distinct possibility of also making you feel pretty crappy. I feel that way, sometimes, when I go shopping. I like buying things for myself (specifically bags and jackets), but when I’m spending money on me, it means that there’s a debt to be paid. It means that as soon as I sign the receipt, someone will call me to go for dinner or drinks and I can’t. I have kind of intense guilt over spending money sometimes.

Similarly, when people tell me to “just do what makes me happy,” I want to ask them if they’d still feel that way if they knew that what would make me happy has the possibility of making them UNhappy. So how does that work? I honestly have no idea. But apparently, I’ve been told, I’m the only one really, truly looking out for myself.

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On letting go and feeling alive….

August 15, 2011 / micahdl / Leave a comment

Most of the time, I’m a pretty reserved person. I don’t get all that excitable, as a general rule. Even when I’m doing things I absolutely love (like singing or baking), I don’t really just let loose and go crazy. Karaoke, you’d think, is a pretty safe place to just go nuts with the singing (just watch my friend, Jill, and you’ll understand) but I never really let go. She’s a performer; I’m simply not. When I’m baking, I like things to be in order and clean…the idea of getting flour all over the place gives me a little anxiety because I know what a pain it is to clean up. Ugh. It turns into cement, if you’re not careful.

But dancing? That’s when I can really let my hair down (sometimes literally) and just be in whatever moment I’m in. Whether I’m ghetto-booty dancing with LT and JPB, or losing my head to pop music with Edubs (and sometimes Steph, if I’m lucky), or spinning around a ballroom with whomever my partner is at the moment, that’s when I feel like I can forget everything around me and just live. I never thought I’d experience that feeling of having everything around me disappear, but when I’m dancing, that actually happens. It especially happens when I’m on a ballroom floor. Until I started learning “real” dancing, I didn’t know how alive I could really feel.

Dancing, especially the waltz and foxtrot, makes me feel feminine and beautiful. Being spun around a dancefloor with a partner that knows that he’s doing? Exhilarating. My dad and I do this Father-Daughter Ball thing every year and we’re usually asked to teach some style of dance to everyone there. I like the teaching part, but dancing with my dad is something I never thought I could love as much as I do. He’s a beautiful dancer, and ever-so-patient when I screw up a move. He loves teaching me new things and sometimes, like with the Viennese Waltz (one of the hardest I’ve ever done), we just make it up as we go.

Ballroom dancing seems rather counter-intuitive to everything (or at least, most things) I believe in. I’m a pretty independent person, probably a feminist (nah, definitely a feminist), I don’t want to be treated like I’m going to break…these sorts of things. With dancing, I’m almost entirely dependent on my partner. After all, as the woman, I’m in a pretty precarious position, being the one moving backwards about 98% of the time. I have to trust my partner intrinsicly…that he won’t let me fall, won’t bash me into another person, won’t break me or step on my feet.

Other than my dad, there’s never been a single man out there that I’ve been completely dependent on for anything, ever. It’s just not my style. But dancing? That makes me feel the way I think so many girls want to feel: protected, cared for, showed off, beautiful.

There’s not much in life I’ll let loose for. I’m just a reserved, fairly collected person (not to mention a sucker for etiquette). But get me in a swirly dress on a dance floor and you’ll see just how crazy I can get…

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living fully. fully living.

On showing my scars….

On fixing the unfixable…

On feeling the burn….

On learning to lean and balance….

On smelling my memories….

On climbing walls and crawling through mud….

On becoming who you will be….

On the necessity of sleep….

On unintentional side-effects….

On letting go and feeling alive….

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