sober lifestyle

Imagination

When I was struck with childlike whimsy on Tuesday afternoon, it didn’t come with a side of foresight. So, I found myself ankle-deep in heavy, wet snow out on my deck, staring at three semi-round blobs stacked on top of one another, with nothing nearby to bring my spontaneous snowperson to life.

I had to traipse down to ground level, my hubby’s ancient duck boots filling with slush, and wrestle a few scrawny twigs off the shrubbery in order to fashion some arms. And I had to remove the soaked boots completely to go hunting through the house for everything else.

Even then, the best I could do was a swath of old T-shirt, a baby carrot and two de-stemmed chocolate Tootsie pops (you think that looks creepy; imagine if I’d chosen cherry!) If not for the souvenir Anthony Rizzo Cubs cap gifted to me by a local American Legion coach back in my reporting days…well, you could argue this accessory adds little cache to my creation here in 2021, given the team’s fire sale of an offseason. 🤕

“Can he pitch?” my dad shot back when I sent the above pictures to the family group text.

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Contentment

“Why don’t you just get your boobs done?”

That’s a thing someone actually said to me. Recently. I was joking with a coworker about being absent the day they handed out endowments — this is my brand of self-deprecating humor 🤷🏼‍♀️ — so I guess I asked for it. But still…

You can tell the speaker does not know me AT ALL.

“You’re really cute! You just need some Botox!”

That one is a blast from my past as a reporter. It came from a consultant who’d worked in TV news and was ostensibly trying to give me advice so I could elevate my on-camera game. I spent the last six years of my journalism career telling visual stories, and being in my late 30s/early 40s with the beauty sensibilities of a sports-writing — and sports-playing — tomboy, my sun-weathered face was apparently too craggily to be taken seriously in the realm of HD video.

But me? Botox? I was like, “If that’s what it takes to advance in this industry, I think I’m good crawling around on dusty gym floors and dodging referees out on frigid high school football fields for the rest of my life!”

🪦 <— Here lies that job. RIP. 😢

And look at me today: Sitting in a cubicle, or on a couch, usually wearing 10-year-old hoodies and stretched-out leggings, anonymously typing out marketing copy to scrape out a living while prepping for grad school and trying to figure out what I really want to do when I grow up.

Rest assured, my vocation will not depend on bra size or require any kind of aesthetic alterations. I’d prefer it didn’t require a bra at all, but anyway…

Shout out to my old friends in AHA! 😘

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Reaction

My job title right now is “Content Marketing Manager,” and although it seems like I’m barely scraping by just trying to manage myself, working for five different brands under one company umbrella, with a skeleton staff — and did I mention I’m the only copywriter? — I’ve been tasked with running a weekly Google Meet with the entire marketing team. On this call, we discuss the myriad visual and written content needed for various projects and campaigns.

Every project and campaign needs content — what is marketing without content? — so there’s a lot to talk about.

Being prone to nervous chatter and anxiety-fueled tangents, not to mention corny jokes, I don’t usually help keep it short and/or sweet.

The other day, I went a little further off the rails than usual.

We were discussing one particularly daunting challenge, and someone suggested we’d all get through it just fine, “but we’re going to need a lot of wine!”

Laughter ensued.

Some of us don’t drink, so that’s probably not going to help,” I fired back.

Laughter stopped.

All sound stopped.

“OK, moving on…” I scrolled my shared screen to the next item on the agenda, thinking, “Great job, Jen; you did it again.” 🤦🏼‍♀️

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Humility

Humility is perpetual quietness of heart. It is to have no trouble. It is never to be fretted, or vexed, or irritated, or sore, or disappointed.

It is to expect nothing, to wonder at nothing that is done to me, to feel nothing done against me. It is to be at rest when nobody praises me, and when I am blamed or despised.

It is to have a blessed home in myself, where I can go in and shut the door, and kneel to my Father in secret, and be at peace as in a deep sea of calmness, when all around and above is troubled.

Canon T.T. Carter

When I heard someone quote this passage in a recovery meeting, my ears perked and my curiosity was piqued. Humility, I always thought, meant meekness. Submissiveness. Devaluing yourself.

This definition? #LifeGoals.

I think these words belong in a frame right above my work station. Or tattooed on my inner forearm where I can look at them every time I feel fretted, vexed, irritated…basically, all day every day.

Of course, Canon Carter doesn’t really explain how to achieve this calm state of quiet-heartedness. I’m guessing it’s prayer and meditation. It’s always prayer and meditation.

It’s always the stuff that seems impossible to a busy-brained worrywart who’s basically addicted to background noise.

Example: I regularly do yoga in my living room with the TV on, unmuted. And we’re talking, like, crime investigation shows full of evil and death. 😳

No matter how you define humility, I’m really not it. I mean, self-worth has always been a huge struggle for me, so I’m certainly not walking around with a cocky swagger. I’ve always been afraid to initiate social interactions and have never learned how to take a compliment.

Actual conversation in my house:

Hubby: “I love you.”

Me: “Even though [insert character defect or personal failing here]?”

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Recollection

So many of my bad memories started just like this…

Sitting in one of my very first recovery meetings last summer, I heard people talk about all the mysterious injuries they would wake up with after a night of heavy drinking — unexplained bumps and bruises, dried blood caked here or there, broken digits and the like — and I thought to myself, “Not me! I never hurt myself while drunk!”

Many months later, WHAM! The memory burst into my brain, like a 160-pound human body from a higher row, suddenly toppling on the backs of unsuspecting concertgoers, then slamming into the hard stone amphitheater stairs at their feet.

In case you hadn’t guessed, the uninvited crowd surfer in that scenario was me, six summers ago, “celebrating” my wedding anniversary at the Interpol show at Penn’s Landing after pounding sakis at my hubby’s and my favorite sushi restaurant, then guzzling who-knows-how-many $12 hard ciders from vendors at the venue.

I’ve attached a “BEFORE” photo from that night. Didn’t think you’d keep reading if I chose the “AFTER.”

My shins ended up looking like ground meat after my unfortunate booze-fueled tumbling act, and the (untreated) trauma to my lower extremities was so severe I basically crawled through our subsequent Hawaiian vacation — where, as I’ve recounted in previous posts, I went on to take several more spills while soused. I couldn’t walk normally for like a month. I nearly had to pull out of a half marathon that November.

But no, I never got injured in the throes of alcoholism! 🙄

Tequila Sunrise-to-Sunset…would be an apt tagline for our entire 2015 trip to Hawaii. 🥴

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Resolution

How many licks does it take to completely blow up your healthy diet? Far too few, I’m finding.

True story: Staying sober during the pandemic has been easier for me than staying in shape.

I mean, thanks to my amazing husband keeping our house booze-free (I can’t in good conscience say “dry” when I’m dragging three recycling bins full of empty diet soda and sparkling water conveyances to the curb every Tuesday), I’ve had the safe environment I need to reach the 18-month recovery milestone, then tack on an additional 12 days (and counting).

However, when it comes to diet and fitness, another huge health priority in my life, I’m afraid I’m no longer earning a passing grade.

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions, but it might take a formal declaration of renunciation — made “publicly,” here on the internet — to get me to stop eating candy canes and mini Tootsie pops for lunch every day.

I told the hubby to stop buying these things, too, but the man has as much trouble resisting grocery store markdowns and buy-in-bulk deals (did you SEE the bag in the above picture?) as I do mood-altering substances.

I certainly can’t judge him. Whatever spikes your dopamine! We all have our addictions! And don’t they all seem a little more potent around the holidays, whether we’re out partying with friends and family or cooped up at home in “social distancing” mode?

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Enjoyment

One way I tried to feel close to home this holiday season was to tune in to “The Score,” my go-to Chicago sports radio station, via an app on my phone. I listened on my daily walks through the neighborhood, gritting my teeth through the copious commercials — Radio.com has replaced its ear-wormy Kars4Kids ads with repetitive plugs for some Astros scandal podcast 🙉 — in order to hear host Dan Bernstein and guests break down the Bears’ big make-or-break matchup with the Packers in today’s regular-season finale.

They touched on other topics, but the resident NFL football team and its many flaws, particularly its beleaguered GM, coaching staff and quarterback, dominated the discussion.

I’ve been thinking about something that was said for the past several days.

A guy wrote in to Bernstein’s show, taking to task all the Bears fans who actively root for failure in this Packers game because they want to blow up the team and start over. The thinking is, by getting beat and thus missing the playoffs, Bears ownership will have no choice but to make a change — fire Ryan Pace, axe Matt Nagy, end the Mitch Trubisky era once and for all…in other words, get rid of everyone responsible for these past two subpar seasons. You know how this stuff goes. It’s par for the pro sports course.

So, this guy wrote in to “The Score” to scold all the city’s Negative Nellies. His letter said, and I’m paraphrasing here: “If you can’t enjoy what you have in the moment, with your team in a position to beat a hated rival (at least in theory) and extend its season/get one step closer to the Super Bowl, simply because the team/franchise is imperfect, you need to turn in your sports fan card and find another hobby.”

Such wisdom! From a sports radio listener! 😳

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Milestone

The wind always blows straight into your face on the far side of the track at Honesdale High School, and what I can best describe as unwelcome resistance on a warm day becomes, in the winter, a good reason to stay in bed.

When I pulled up to the snow-swept track on the morning after Christmas, the car’s built-in thermostat read 14 degrees.

I had driven up there reluctantly, and groggily, leaving my husband cozy and warm under the covers in the guest room of his parents’ house. It was nearly 8 AM, and the sun was up, making this an unusually late start for me; however, without my usual high-octane pre-workout drink (I forgot to pack it) and a belly that still felt full of turkey, stuffing, potatoes, apple pie and “moose tracks” ice cream (I took the holiday off from my gluten-free diet), it had taken quite a bit of self-coaxing — maybe more like self-flagellation — to get up, get bundled up, and get my ass out the door.

My preferred form of exercise these days is running, and although conditions never seem 100% ideal, and sometimes seem downright hostile, I’ve managed to make a habit of it.

“It” amounts to around 20-30 minutes of movement, three or four times a week, and if you asked me how far I go on a typical day, I could only venture a rough guess. It’s not quite enough to consider myself “a runner,” or to make a significant dent in my level of fitness, or even to burn off all the calories I’ve consumed over the course of this celebratory (read: incredibly lazy) month.

But “it” is something. And once I clear that initial motivational hurdle and start moving, it’s something I always enjoy. Fresh air is life-affirming, even when it’s so cold it numbs your face, and any time spent out in nature feels like sweet freedom, when you’ve spent the bulk of your year cooped up in the same eight-room townhouse.

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