don't knock it till you try it: library literary readings

Tonight I went to see Said Sayrafiezadeh speak at the downtown Minneapolis library. Said (I'm going to act familiar and use his first name, because I'm lazy) is the author of When Skateboards Will Be Free, a memoir about growing up in the Socialist Workers Party. 

I haven't read the book, but I saw a little blurb about the reading in the City Pages and it sounded like it might be good. Also, since I am "a writer" I thought it might be high time for me to go out and start, you know, "supporting other writers" or whatever. 

But truth be told, I generally dread readings. It is the rare author who can actually read well in front of an audience. Because of this--or maybe just because I have no attention span--I generally find that I don't retain anything from the presentation. I have no idea what the book was about, no idea how he answered the question about the title or what it was like when his dad read the book.

Tonight, however, I was pleasantly surprised. Said was funny and engaging--not a boring, droning literary type, but not a pompous cocksucker either. Virtually unprecedented! He said some interesting stuff about why it was a big deal for him to be in Minneapolis (his parents met here, the Socialist Workers Party was really big here, etc.). He read an excerpt from the book, and he was so good at reading I was actually able to follow the story! Then he talked some more, and then he answered some questions. 

My favorite part was when some woman tried to tell him that the Socialist Workers Party actually got a lot of political work done (Vietnam protests, women's "liberation," etc.), even though she heard him say on NPR that the party wasn't politically effective at all. He was all, Whatever! Well, I guess he was more like, "I respect your opinion, but I completely disagree with you." I swear, it seemed more badass at the time--guess you had to be there!! 

So I was pleasantly surprised by the reading. Said was fun to listen to, and he made me want to read his book (usually a reading has the opposite effect on me). My only criticism is that the whole operation was so safe. I guess that's to be expected--it was at the library, after all. But the evening included not one but two introductions by white guys in suits. Tons of information about the library was shared, and donations were solicited. After the reading, audience members had the opportunity to get their books signed while drinking water and munching on cookies in the atrium. 

Furthermore, I was surprised by the advanced age of most people in the audience. Hey, I think it's great that tons of seniors came out to support a brand-new author. However, where were all the young people? The author is only about 40 years old--I thought he'd draw a somewhat younger crowd. There might have been one or two other thirty-something nerds in there, but virtually everyone appeared to be over 65. Is this what it will be like if I ever go on a book tour? 

don't knock it till you try it: running

Since I didn't have the nerve to audition for the spring musical, I joined the track team during my freshman year of high school. I figured there would be nothing to it--I'd been playing soccer for years, and that involved lots of running, right? I liked the sound of "distance running," so I went ahead and signed up for that team.

It didn't take long for me to realize that I actually hated running. Every day after school, the other runners (tall, thin, blond) and I (short, dark-haired, childbearing hips) would head off to some local nature preserve to sprint ceaselessly around the trails. Although in soccer I was considered a fast runner, on the track team, I sucked.

Like the rest of my personality during that era, my running was depressive--just getting started was an almost insurmountable task, and once I was moving, I just went through the motions (laboriously) until it was over and I could go home and sleep for 15 hours straight. Needless to say, after that experience I didn't even think about running for well over a decade.

However, the years went by, and eventually I found myself shacking up with a recreational runner. For many months I refused to accompany him. I had only negative memories of the tedium of slogging endlessly around a track, usually in a stadium in Blaine.

But eventually I gave in and started experimenting with running again. At first it was horrible--my lungs hurt, I was exhausted after five minutes, I was bored out of my mind--but I gave it lots and lots of time, and eventually it became tolerable.

Now I go running every so often--sometimes even two or three times a week!--and I think I can say I almost like it. But I have not yet turned into one of those people who "love" or "crave" running, nor do I prance around Lake Calhoun in full eye makeup and a jog bra. But who knows what tomorrow might bring.

don't knock it till you try it: going to a restaurant alone

Last week I traveled to Regina, Saskatchewan for a work-related trip. One of things I hate most about business trips is all the enforced merriment with coworkers, including the dreaded group dinners. These aren't horrible by definition, but I just hate the way it always goes--the meeting wraps up around 5:15, and whoever is facilitating says, "Okay, then, let's all walk back to the hotel, drop off our laptops and meet in the lobby at 5:45. We've got a reservation for six-o-clock sharp!" 

But we had a giant lunch at 1:00--doesn't anyone else want to think about something other than food for an hour or so? Doesn't anyone want to go for a walk, or make a phone call, or just not see the other meeting participants for at least half an hour? I guess my introverted, reclusive nature is to blame here, and not my energetic, positive coworkers, but I will still complain bitterly. 

So on this last trip, although there were at least two group dinners, I managed to legitimately excuse myself from both. One evening I went out with a coworker unrelated to the business trip, and we had lots of food and wine and gossiped about work-related things and it wasn't nerve-wracking at all. The other nights, I somehow managed to go out by myself. 

When I tell people about doing things alone, they often look at me with pity, as if I can't find anyone to accompany me. Maybe this is actually the case, but I don't really care--I like going out by myself. Granted, sometimes it sucks--there's nothing like going alone to an all-ages rock show at the age of 16 when the band you came to see doesn't play for four hours and all you have to occupy the time is drink soda and maybe play some Ms. Pacman.    

But in general, I like to go out alone. One of the nights I waited until a little after 8:00 (two hours after my coworkers had dinner!) to go out and look for a restaurant. I found a bar/restaurant that specialized in beer. I'm not that crazy about beer, but it seemed like a good place to go alone--there probably wouldn't be a bunch of starry-eyed couples looking over at me and wondering if I'd been stood up by my Internet date or something.

I ordered some food, and some beer, and my waiter was very nice and charming but not in a smarmy way. There were other single people there, but they were all dudes. I think a single woman in a restaurant or bar is often an anomaly. This can be a bad thing--everyone assumes you're a harlot and you get lots of unwanted attention--or it can be a good thing, and your waiter comps you a beer and invites you to join him and the rest of the waitstaff later that night at the Irish bar down the block.  

Don't knock it till you try it: one-piece swimsuits

In The Meaning of Sunglasses, a book about style that I really enjoyed, Hadley Freeman weighs in on a variety of fashion topics (ankle boots, the etiquette of beauty treatments, hem lengths) in a smart and entertaining way. However, when I went swimsuit shopping the other day I was haunted by one of her opinions. As Freeman wrote in the book, "A woman in a one-piece bathing suit is either a professional swimmer, someone with issues about the shape of her tummy, or someone traumatized by a missing bikini top accident."  

Now, I hate my body as much as the next girl, but in my old age I've come to realize that the odds of being chased down a beach by a bunch of 12-year-old boys making fun of my awkward body are slim. (They were not so slim when I was nine years old at the Richfield pool, but that's a story for another post.) So, to prove that I'm okay with my abdomen, I boldly hauled a bunch of two-pieces into the dressing room, including some so-called "tankinis," which Freeman thinks are the perfect compromise in that they cover more skin while not binding your chest. 

I tried on all the stuff and was sorely disappointed. Everything fit absurdly and looked ridiculous. There's not much else to say without straying into Cathy territory. Anyway, despite agreeing with Freeman on many of the points she made in her book, I wasn't sold at all on the "tankinis" (a word I can't stop putting in quotes because I find it really embarrassing.) There was something bulky and awkward about them, at least the ones I brought into the dressing room. 

The time had come, I decided, to try the one-piece. Could the style really be that dowdy? I grabbed two that didn't look completely elderly and went back to the dressing rooms. They were both great! One was fushia in a sort of "50's bombshell" style, and the other one was kind of like a very short halter dress. I didn't feel like a professional swimmer at all. 

Conclusion: Screw bikinis and tankinis--one-piece bathing suits are the best-kept secret in the world of swimwear. 

don't knock it till you try it: Chinese medicine diet

Ever since my doctor diagnosed me with arthritis and suggested that I deal with the pain indefinitely using "aspirin and rest," I've been researching alternative treatments. I decided to start out with acupuncture. 

I've been impressed with the results so far, and plan to write a formal "don't knock it" about acupuncture in the near future. But first I want to write about the dietary suggestions that my acupuncturist gave me. 

After a few sessions, my aching, supposedly arthritic neck was feeling much better. However, it seemed that as my spine improved, other problems were emerging. For one thing, I was suddenly acutely aware of the way I clench my jaw almost 100% of the time, and the constant headache this habit promotes. 

Also, my ability to eat tons of really spicy or unhealthy food was diminishing. One day when Megan asked about how things were going, I told her about how after eating a bowl of super hot lentil soup I started to feel weak and dizzy about half an hour later, and had to go lay down in the "quiet room" at my corporate job until I felt halfway normal. "But I always eat tons of hot food!" I protested, embarrassed about my weakness. 

Megan didn't seem surprised at all by this turn of events. She explained that the whole acupuncture process is like peeling an onion--layer by layer, you get past one issue, but then discover something new. As my body was coming into balance, it was suddenly also unable to tolerate some of things it was previously accustomed to--in this case, super hot foods. 

"Have we talked about diet stuff?" she asked me. We hadn't, and she printed me a list of dietary recommendations that were meant to help treat my general condition, which translates to "damp heat." (I won't go into the diagnosis right now. You can google it, but don't expect to get a precise definition.)  Megan made it clear that these were only suggestions, and that she wasn't suggesting that I implement them all right away "or else." Basically, I think she was just suggesting that I be more mindful about what I was eating, while keeping the suggestions in mind. 

Although I am opposed to diets, I'm in favor of eating stuff that might make me feel better, so I decided I would try to implement at least some of the suggestions. Here are the things that were on the "avoid" list:

• Dairy products
• Fruit and fruit juices
• Ice water
• Cold or raw foods
• Coffee
• Deep fried, greasy foods
• Sugars and sweets 
• Rich foods 

I could tell this was going to be a challenge. I drink coffee with cream and honey every morning, and eat lots of raw vegetables--it's "healthy," right? And I would have to stop getting smoothies with my friends from dance class. I suspected this eating plan was going to destroy my friendships, since they all seem to revolve around consuming things--things that I can no longer consume, so long as I want to avoid excruciating pain. 

But I tried to stay positive, and turned to the "good" list. Good stuff included soup (broth, not cream), lightly cooked vegetables (especially sweet potatoes, squash, carrots, asparagus, celery and bean spouts), aduki beans, white fish, green tea and rice. This was okay, but not great. 

Nevertheless, I decided to make some changes. I dutifully made green tea every morning instead of the sweet, milky coffee beverage I was used to. I made some bland soup out of beans, carrots and sweet potatoes and took it to work three days in row for lunch. I ate brown rice and vegetables for dinner. It was totally boring, but I have to admit, physically, I felt pretty good. 

I fell of the wagon a few times, and tried to notice if I felt any different. One Saturday morning I was running late to dance class and had some coffee instead of brewing up my green tea. I felt nauseated right after I finished it, although I was loathe to admit it. I like to drink coffee; green tea is so wan. 

Still, I couldn't deny that the changes were making me feel better. But as I became more accustomed to my bland new diet, I noticed something else--my usually massive appetite was diminishing. It was a revelation--of course, I realized, who wants to gorge on totally boring food?

Soon I found myself eating only half of my lunch of brown rice, carrots, black beans and spinach. It just wasn't interesting to eat a ton of that stuff. I was starting to feel like a chick with an eating disorder. "Oh, I couldn't possibly eat another bite!" Dainty eaters have always disgusted me--I didn't want to become one of them.  

Earlier tonight I went to a Vietnamese restaurant with my parents. I ordered a Vietnamese salad with shrimp, and it was just terrible. A bunch of the stuff that's usually in those salads was missing (cucumbers, herbs, bean sprouts), so it basically amounted to a limp pile of noodles on top of some shredded lettuce, all topped with shrimp that was doused in a sweet, gloopy sauce. I did my best to eat a polite amount (I didn't want my parents to think I some Asian restaurant snob, which is what was actually going on), but I just couldn't bring myself to make a significant dent in the meal. 

My dad asked me twice if liked my salad. I lied and said yes. I could tell he had noticed that I had barely eaten anything. I probably should have just told the truth--that the food grossed me out because it tasted like it had been marinated in maple syrup. But I didn't, so my mom will probably decide that I have an eating disorder again, and start inviting me out for ice cream sundaes all the time. 

don't knock it till you try it: doing laundry for a man

Last night while folding laundry, I had a mundane yet alarming revelation. It was as if I could suddenly see myself from the perspective of the outside world. "Oh my god," I thought. "I am doing Nick's laundry!" 

This struck me as funny and absurd for a few reasons. For one thing, I recently wrote a bile-filled article called "Women's Work: On the Female Habit of Scrubbing a Noncommittal Dude's Toilet in a Desperate Attempt to Secure a Commitment." In this article, I came down harshly on women who bustle around doing housework for their lazy, one-foot-out-the-door boyfriends. 

I guess maybe my situation is different--after all, I managed to trap Nick into marriage, so it's probably appropriate for me to do my fair share of the housework at this point. It's not as if Nick doesn't do anything, either. 

Maybe what it comes down to is that it just doesn't feel cool to do housework. Think about someone you find insanely attractive. Now think about them hunched over their bed, matching their socks and folding them into little shapes and putting them away in a drawer. Pretty much kills the romance before it started, right? 

Conclusion: I really don't mind doing the laundry. However, if I'd been born male, I probably would've stayed "single" my entire life and taken advantage of that handy female cleaning compulsion.  

don't knock it till you try it: arthritis

My spine has been aching for the past 20 years. Although painful and annoying, this has never seemed unusual for me. Since it started when I was kid, I guess I just always assumed that it was something inevitable that I had to live with, like chronic feelings of self-loathing. 

So I was unfazed when, a couple weeks ago during dance class, I "threw out" my back while fake swing dancing with my friend Amy. It was the usual--shooting pain from the middle of my spine up into my neck, an inability to turn my head to the right without getting dizzy and nauseated, etc. 

Normally I would immediately make an appointment with my chiropractor, but this time I decided to wait to see what would happen. A couple days passed, and the pain stuck around, but got less severe. I could sort of turn my head to the right, at least enough to drive my car. But it was still hurting. 

This time around I made the bold decision to see my primary care doctor. I normally wouldn't even consider consulting a "normal" doctor about my chronic back pain, but I figured, why not? My chiropractor usually makes me feel better, but my head usually starts to hurt again within a day or two. Plus, I figured a western doctor might ignore the cause and simply treat the symptoms with a prescription for some muscle relaxants. Sometimes the easy way out is really tempting. 

My doctor entered the office and started quizzing me about my neck pain. I told her about the chronic headaches, the grinding of the teeth, the limited range of motion, et al. "How long has this been going on?" she asked me. I thought for a moment. "I guess about 20 years," I answered. 

She looked at me as if I was a little slow. "20 years?" she said, possibly trying to downplay her disbelief. "Have you ever had this checked out? Have you ever had x-rays of your spine?" I admitted the idea had never occurred to me.  

She sent me off to be x-rayed. When she came back to the room, she announced, "Well, someone definitely dropped you on your head when you were a baby. You have an incredible amount of arthritis in your neck for someone your age." 

I was dismayed. Arthritis? I figured I might get arthritis in 30 or 40 years, not now. Or, you know, not since childhood. She explained that it appeared to be the result of an injury, and asked me if I'd ever "fallen on [my] head during a cheerleading stunt." I said no, and began to brood about the question. "Do I look like a former cheerleader? I am not!" I thought huffily, even though I should probably be glad that she thought I have former-cheerleader potential, instead of imagining the real awkward, unpopular adolescent me. 

So I asked her what I can do about my newly discovered arthritis of the neck. She told me that physical therapy "might help," but that her immediate suggestion was to take lots of ibuprofen and "rest." And that was it. 

Somewhat depressed, and also skeptical, I decided to follow her advice for a day. I took handfuls of ibuprofen and it really didn't seem to make a dent in my constant headache. I refrained from running, but I felt stiffer and more uncomfortable than I do when I actually get some exercise.

I was not impressed with the treatment plan, and therefore abandoned it after a day in favor of my normal living routine. But the arthritis is hear to stay, and so, it seems, is the pain. Therefore, in future columns I will write about the other stuff I plan to try, including acupuncture and reading some book about back pain that supposed can "cure" whoever reads it.