I'll Tell You What' Up, Doc.

So I'm in therapy.

Ugh, therapy. I dread it as though it's an hour-long family reunion. All I can think of are the screaming kids, the awkward conversations with elders who couldn't hear your conversation with a bullhorn, the marshmallow and canned fruit "salad," and my uncle putting on a three-hour slide show of his world travels. Once I get there it isn't that bad of course (with the exception of the slideshow), but the anxiety I get leading up to it is enough to put in therapy. 

Actually, it is enough to put me in therapy. Because anxiety is my issue.

I remember my first anxiety attack. I don't remember how old I was, but I think around eight years old. It was the morning after a friend slept over at my house and we were playing before it was time to take her home. I went upstairs to get a toy or something, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I needed her to get out of my house. Now. Right now. Getoutgetoutgetoutgetthefuckout. 

Why? No idea. We hadn't had a fight, I wasn't sick, the house wasn't on fire.... there was no reason I can think of, to this day, why that happened. But after that, it happened over and over again, for several years. This was the eighties and you didn't get help for your kids unless they were burning down buildings. Hiding and denying mental illness was always preferable to getting treatment back then. (In my parents' defense, though, access to child psychology was assuredly lacking in rural South Dakota in the 80's.) 

I was talking to my sister the other day. My niece has started showing the same symptoms I had, and at the same age. We talked about her behavior, and it all sounded very, very familiar. My sister asked me what did I think she should do, since I had gone through this myself. I asked her if she was anti-meds? She said no. I asked if she was afraid of detrimental effects if my niece went into therapy? She said no. 

"Then why aren't you taking advantage of every tool in the toolbox to see if one will help?" I asked. 

A light bulb went off in her head and she said, "You're right! Why am I not doing this? I just hoped it might be a phase...."

phase |fāz|

noun

• a stage in a person's psychological development, especially a period of temporary unhappiness or difficulty during adolescence or a particular stage during childhood.

I dislike the word "phase." It's the word we desperately cling to when a loved one's behavior becomes worrisome in order to buy us time in the land of Denial. It prevents us from taking action and allows us to laugh off troublesome behavior to our friends as we roll our eyes and say knowingly, "I'm sure it's just a phase." 

But it's hard with kids because they do go through phases, sometimes it seems like a dozen in a single afternoon. And you don't want to throw your five-year-old daughter into transgender therapy and hormone treatments if one afternoon she says she'd like to have a penis. It's a delicate dance between staying out of denial and yet not overreacting. 

Anxiety is rarely a phase, though, as I've experienced in my life. I've found many ways to deal with it in my thirty-seven years, both healthy and unhealthy: drinking, exercise, sleeping too much, drinking, procrastinating, eating well, eating terribly, and more drinking. Basically, I led a life wrought with poor decisions and destructive behavior with just enough brief periods of progress and personal growth to get me through to my thirties. 

Once in my thirties, though, I got serious about my health and turned everything around, which has worked out very well. Until recently.

For quite a while, my dissatisfaction with my job had me slowly slipping backward into Anxiety World, but my promotion in March suddenly made my regression go from a gentle slope downward to hanging onto a creaky little branch over the side of a cliff. 

Suddenly it was hard to get to sleep at night. I have no appetite and rarely have a bite of food before 9pm. I pace. I can't make simple decisions. I don't exercise. Getting out of bed in the morning is the worst. I avoid leaving the house. 

And what did I tell myself these last few months? THAT IT WAS A PHASE. That as soon as I got into the swing of things with this new job, I wouldn't be as anxious and I'd once again find my healthy routine and everything would be sunshine and unicorns. 

What can I say? I'm a slow learner. 

A few weeks ago, it was a perfectly sunny, lovely Sunday morning, my favorite time of the week. As we were making plans for the day, my husband and I had a disagreement. It was a little disagreement over something trivial, but it didn't matter - I was a frayed rope that had been pulled taught for so long, it took almost nothing for me to go over the edge and rage over the tiniest little thing. And I did. 

Later, my defeated husband said, "You know, we were having a great morning. It's a beautiful day. Why did you have to make such a big deal out of this and ruin it?"

He was right. And that's when a light bulb went on over my head as I thought back to my conversation with my sister. I wasn't taking my own advice. Sure, the job situation might be a phase, but I've known all my adult life that my anxiety is not. I'd lost my grip on it and it was starting to affect not only me, but my family. I wasn't using the tools in my own toolbox. 

The next day, I stopped making excuses and made an appointment with a therapist. I long ago let go of the social stigma that comes with being treated or medicated for mental illness. Once I got older and realized how fucked up everyone is - and I mean everyone - a little anxiety and alcoholism no longer seemed like such shameful secrets. I once heard someone say they were terrified of having their family find out they were in A.A., but for some reason they weren't terrified of their family seeing them once again falling down drunk on a Tuesday morning. My situation wasn't dissimilar: Having anxiety isn't what should make me ashamed. But ruining a beautiful Sunday morning with my husband because I refuse to take responsibility for my anxiety, though? That's shameful. 

So I'm going to try to dig myself out of this hole. And my first step is to get on the couch. 

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

When I was in my early twenties, either I really did enjoy spontaneity, or I was so insistent that I enjoyed it that I forced it with an enthusiastic smile. I'm not really sure which it was, but at any rate I lived my life with a lot of unpredictability and I don't remember a lot of fear involved. I made changes all the time and to varying degrees; Whether it was a last-minute night on the town or I decided to rent a U-Haul and move to a different city or apartment, I never seemed to sit still long enough to get too comfortable or to reflect on what was really going on.

But there are a lot of elements that usually come with your twenties that nurtures one's tendency to be spontaneous. Most of the jobs you have in your twenties are disposable and friends seem to come easily no matter where you move. Often children and spouses aren't in the picture. Funds are limited, but where there's a will, there's a way. And in my twenties, I willed myself all over the place with little thought, no plans, and that seemed to suit me fine.

My mistake was thinking that because that's how it had always been, that's how it was always going to be. If I like to fly by the seat of my pants at 23, I will like to at 37, right? I was so married to this part of my identity that I held onto it long after it was clear that I wanted more than my impulsive lifestyle was going to yield. But routine and predictability seemed so lame, so boring, so old.

But I wasn't 23 anymore, and my body couldn't keep up with unpredictable me anymore. So I grudgingly began to identify with the woman who wanted routine and the safety and comfort it provides.

But now that I've been my lame, boring, old self for several years now, I've swung too far in the other direction, and not only do I shun spontaneity, but I dread any change, period.

So when, in the last six months, I went from being an special events assistant to being a regional operations manger for twenty-six freakin' sites from coast to coast in my organization, there wasn't just anxiety. There was full-on, nauseous, white-hot panic.

Because of my terror, one would think that I was just offered this leaps-and-bounds promotion out of the blue and that's why I panicked. Oh, no. I did this to myself. I researched the job, I fired up the ol' resume (after asking a bunch of twenty-year-olds what their resumes looked like. Who knows how the kids are doing it these days. Are they still even called resumes?) and drafted a cover letter after making my best friend read and re-read it until her eyes bled. I contacted old references and had a heart-to-heart with my boss, who I love and love to worth with. So you would think with all this effort, this promotion would be something I really wanted, right?

In my years of sobriety, I have learned that I can often control my anxiety by focusing only on the present. So I told my husband, "I'm not going to think about it. I'm going to apply, but I'm not going to think about the what-ifs. No what-if-I-get-an-interview. No what-if-I-don't-get-it-and-this-was-all-for-nothing. No what-if-I-actually-get-the-job. None of it." And I did. I let it go.

The problem with this strategy, though, is that when I did get the call and they offered me the job, I was totally, utterly unprepared. And so my first thought was crystal clear: "WHAT have I DONE."

All the reasons (and there were many) that I wanted the job went out the window. All I could foresee, and all I could feel, was the dread that comes with major change. Everyone around me, including my husband, was ecstatic and saying all the right things. "You are PERFECT for this position!" "You finally get to work from home like you've always wanted!" "You are going to LOVE this role, I know it!" "You are going to be so happy!" And they were right. I knew they were right. But fear penetrates reason and common sense, and it's hard to talk yourself down from that ledge once you're on it.

Of course, I accepted the offer, but with very little eloquence because I was concentrating on not peeing my pants. It's been about a week and a half since then and in that time, the wheels of change have been in motion. I'm training a new person to take over my old position. I've ordered new furniture for my home office. I've signed contracts, ordered new tech gear, and even made my first travel plans to Texas to help manage one of the events there.

So I'm putting one shaky foot in front of the other and trying to embrace it, because I know old routines will give way to new routines. I know that this change is good. I know I have a lot of support and my friends and colleagues are confident in my ability.

And whenever my self-doubt and fears start to creep up, I remind myself that my new office is going to look something like this.

Pretty soon now you're gonna get older
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

--David Bowie

Adulting in a House

Sorry for the long silence. I've been busy. My husband turned 40, we bought a house, I bought my first car, and we moved to the suburbs. 

All in the same week.

I've never lived in a suburb in my life. That isn't to say I've lived in a bustling urban area, either, since I grew up on a working farm. But I did move to the city to experience the city, so I resisted moving to a suburb as long as I possibly could, until I admitted we needed a lot more room for our zoo of animals and there was no way we could afford the space we needed in the city.

So here we are. 

I go back and forth from being amazingly contented with suburban life to longing for the days when I was walking up four flights of stairs to get to my one-bedroom apartment with the subway rumbling and hari krishnas singing outside my apartment. It's not that I wish to be living the single life again - my husband is the best thing in my life - but this house-living thing is SO different from what my life looked like in my twenties. 

I lived a block from Wrigley Field in Chicago for years, which is ironic considering how much I loathe professional sports. People look like they want to hit me when I tell them that despite my close proximity, I never once set foot inside that stadium. Nothing about that place appealed to me. Then why did I live there, you ask? Because it was just steps away from Boys Town (the gay district), and that DID appeal to me. It was always awake, alive, bustling, and happy. And for the most part, so was I. 

The ugly truth that I don't want to admit to anyone, especially to myself, is that I don't have the energy to live that life anymore. Staying out until four in the morning every weekend was the norm back then. Now, just the thought makes me want to take a nap. 

But then there're the changes in financial priorities, too. In my twenties, I spent my money on concerts, and lots of them. I spent my money on drinks, and lots of them. Now, I'm spending that money on things that had zero importance to me back then: car insurance, a dishwasher, a garage, a yard. Part of that is depressing, but so is the thought of sweating balls on a hot summer day while I stoop over a sink of scalding water to scour yet another baked-on lasagna. 

It's all change, and it's all positive since it's all progress toward building the life that I want. It's just....sometimes I can't believe this is the life that I want. It's so different than what I ever wanted. 

But I do. I want it. 

My new key to suburban life. 

She Works Hard for the Money

I'm trying to decide right now if I'm being a spoiled little brat, a rebel, or a hopeless dreamer. 

This picture of the wonderful George Carlin is all too true. Many years ago I did hate my job, for a long time, and I drank to forget how much I hated my job. 

Well, that's not the full truth. The full truth is that I draaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyynk to forget how much I hated my job. In fact, I drank my bitter sad self all the way to rehab. When I got out of rehab and could see more clearly exactly how much I hated my job (oodles), I promised myself I would never work at a job I hated again.

Hating your job is the worst. You dread the morning. You dread the nighttime because you know the morning is next. You love vacations and weekends with a kind of maniacal desperation so that anything that impedes on them is nothing less than devastating. And you're tired all the time because faking happiness for hours every day is exhausting, the bad kind of exhausting. 

See, there are two types of exhausting. There's the good exhausting that comes after a sweaty muscle-shaking workout, or a marathon sex session, or hauling boxes all day into your dream house.  And then there's the bad exhausting, the kind that comes after endless sobbing because your pet died, or staying up all night to care for a dying relative, or screaming until you're hoarse at your computer because you read the comments after the article even though you swore you'd never, ever, ever do that again.

The good exhausting is good because you wake up knowing you're better for what made you exhausted. And the bad exhausting is bad because it comes from something that keeps you stuck, so you when you wake up, you're still stuck.

It's been many years since rehab, but by now you're probably expecting me to to launch into a rampage to say I hate my job again. But I don't. Not exactly.

Okay, sometimes I do. But I can handle sometimes. Everyone hates their job sometimes because we all have bad days, but the hope is that the suckiness is fleeting. 

What I hate, and what's dragging me down and keeping me bad exhausted, is that I feel like my job is evidence that I'm blowing it. 

I never, ever pictured myself sitting at a desk for the majority of my waking hours, pounding away at a keyboard and answering phones and writing emails. As a teenager, it didn't even occur to me that I would allow such a thing to happen. But guess what I did today? And what I'll do tomorrow? tap tap clickity clickity tap hello thank you for calling have a great day tappity click send tappity delete clickity click fucking tappity tap

Back then, I was well aware that as an adult, I was going to be obligated to sell most of my time to someone else. While that was not how I wanted things to go, there was simply no way out of it. So while I accepted this absurd arrangement, I was determined to sell my time on my own terms and at least try to have a good time doing it. And the world was just so goddamn BIG, and there were so many people and so many things, that there just had to be something out there I enjoyed doing that I could sell. So I would find that thing, I would learn that thing, I would practice that thing, and I would do that thing for someone and they would give me money. 

Holy fucking shit, who knew finding that thing was going to be so fucking hard?

I know many people like me who enjoy doing things they cannot sell. Dancers, actors, photographers, writers, singers, painters...most of us are screwed. We're destined to data entry, table serving, temp gigs, and folding the fall's it skirt on the store-front display. We do these bullshit jobs because we don't have to check our emails on weekends or fly to a conference in Arizona on Saturday. Instead, we can use those evenings and weekends dancing, acting, photographing, writing, singing, or painting. Bullshit jobs also pay bullshit, but we don't care because we're happy creating. It's a balance.

Right?

This is what I've always thought, and it's what I've been clinging to for a long time. But I'm losing my grip now, and I am bad exhausted all the time. (caution: the first person to tell me the answer is to quit gluten gets punched in the throat.) I am wildly jealous of friends who have the drive to just do it, all the time. They divide up an eighteen hour day into bullshit job and fulfilling passion/hobby, and then they get up and do it all over again the next day. What the fuck? (Oh, and you parents out there? You scare me. I will never understand how you do bullshit job and chase children all day and then go write an opera. You are crazy.)

I'm starting to panic. A little. I think my age is starting to affect the way I see my bullshit job, not as just a nuisance, but as actual bullshit. But I am so goddamn lucky to have what I have: my health, a fabulous husband, kick-ass friends and family, a couple bucks in the bank. These are not small benefits. 

Every day that I wake up and realize with a flat dread that it's time to go to my bullshit job, I get a little more restless, a little more panicky, and little more bitter. Because every day is another day that I haven't figured out how to do this. I haven't figured out how to find a way to sell my time that doesn't feel like bullshit. This awareness is making me fragile and sullen. This morning I burst into tears - like, sobbing hiccuping tears - because I lost a receipt. My emotions seem to be shooting out of my mouth and my eyes without prior approval. (I am just a peach to live with right now. My poor hubby.)

So am I a spoiled brat because everyone hates their job like George Carlin says, and I should just suck it up and deal with it and be happy that I even have a fucking job, something many people desperately need right now? Or am I rebel because I refuse to settle and instead demand a job that makes me happy and fulfilled?

Or am I a hopeless dreamer because I think this is within my control?

Year Seven. Day One.

It's August 14, 2015. It is about 10:15 in the morning. And I think I'm going to die.

I manage the run team for a non-profit organization and this year, we decided to do Ragnar, a 200+ mile, 36-ish-hour relay race for a team of twelve. I decided I couldn't, in good conscience, manage this event as a bystander. I was going to have to run this bastard. 

Each runner on a team runs three legs of the race, and the total mileage for my legs was 16.9 miles, so I'd have to run roughly a 10K three times. Okay. I can do that. It's more running than I'm used to but I can do it. 

The days leading up to the Ragnar were lovely. I kept texting, "Can we order this 68-degree weather for the Ragnar??" to our run coach, thinking that we may just get that lucky. 

The heat index on the first day of Ragnar made headlines. It was so fucking hot that as I waited to start my first leg, I could feel tears of fear pinging behind my eyeballs. Heat and I do not get along. My husband and I never, ever vacation at beaches. I would be more than happy to retire in the Yukon. As a kid, I remember barfing and fainting because I'd get too hot playing outside in South Dakota. I don't know why. Maybe my mom had affair with Frosty the Snowman and heat is actually deadly for me. All I know is, I dread heat the way most people dread death. And now I had to fucking run in it. 

I was terrified. As the first runner triumphantly finished his first leg and slapped the bracelet on my wrist to signify my turn, I was off. I began running through a little town in Wisconsin that happened to be where my husband and I had vacationed only a few months before. The recent happy memories there were enough to distract me from pending doom. As my playlist blasted in my ears, I started to feel good. Bouncy, even. I reminded myself over and over to pace myself, slow down, and save my energy for the miles ahead. My fear receded and was replaced with a calm confidence. 

After I got through the town, the rural fields were laid out in front of me. Barren. Open. Not a cloud in the sky. "Wow," I thought. "It seems to go on....forever." My phone pinged. I looked at the screen: a message from Ragnar Headquarters. Hmm. "WARNING: EXTREME HEAT INDEX. TAKE PRECAUTIONS AND WATCH YOUR RUNNERS....." Great. I plodded on. The heat was starting to sap my energy a little, but no matter. There was a water station coming up....somewhere.....

About 40 minutes into my run, something shifted. I started to feel really, really warm. And then, all of a sudden, I felt HOT. Like, hotter than I've ever felt in my life. I felt like my core body temperature had matched the 105-degree heat index. And that goddamn SUN. It was unrelenting, and I swear it had focused all its sadistic evil heat rays on me. "Holy shit," I thought. "How am I going to get through this.....uh oh...."

And then I got that same feeling I got as a kid. An unsettling light-headedness, and my body said nope. Nope nope nope.  Nope to sun. Nope to running. Nope to everything that was happening. And then my stomach said nope. Nope to water, nope to protein drinks, and I noped that shit out of my stomach and onto the lovely Wisconsin landscape. 

As I stood up and realized I had just up-chucked whatever water was in my stomach, I got a sudden and overwhelming sense of fear. My body was saying no. And I was all by myself. And it was so blasted hot that I was afraid that if I sat down, I'd still have heat stroke and no one would be around to know. 

I walked for about five minutes, trying to talk myself out of this fear. Do I call my team? Do I tell them I can't do this? The thought was devastating. I had been planning this for a year, and I was going to call it quits within the first HOUR? Would that disqualify our team? Would everyone's training be for naught? How could I disappoint everyone and myself so completely, and right at the beginning of the goddamn race??

My brain nope-nope-noped as much as my body did. There was just no way I could stop. I slogged on. Finally, I saw the water station up ahead and for a brief moment believed in miracles and unicorns. I was so happy to pour as much water over my head as much as I did into my mouth. I asked the volunteers how much farther I had to go. "'Bout a mile and a half," was their answer. Beautiful. I can do a mile and a half. 

But about a third of a mile down the road, I realized a mile and a half in this blasted heat may as well have been Mount Everest. Soon I was just as hot as I was pre-puke, and I was truly frightened that I may be in real trouble. 

Just as the fear was paralyzing my brain, I heard a breathless, "Hi there!" from my right. I looked and couldn't believe it. It was a runner from my other team, catching up with me. She looked like a sweaty angel with a water belt. 

"I threw up!" I blurted out. She looked a little stunned and I blathered, "Will you please please please run with me I'm so hot I don't know if I can do this I'm afraid I'm going to have heat stroke and I feel alone oh my god please please please run with me!"

"Sure!" she said, back to her normal cheerful self. "Do you want me to talk, or do you want to concentrarte on running?" 

I wanted to concentrate on running the same way I'd want to concentrate on a kidney stone. "Talk! Yes! Talk about anything! What did you do yesterday?" And off she went, talking about her day, about anything that came to mind. This distraction was better than ice cubes in my bra (although I would have traded my car for that at the moment). After she ran out of things to say, she said, "Do you want me to sing my husband's old camp songs?" 

"YES! Camp songs! Love it! Anything!" I said. And so it went. I think she may have sung the songs twice, I'm not sure. I loved and needed every second of it.

At one point, I puffed, "You know.... today is my seven year sobriety anniversary. And this is my way of celebrating, but I dunno... I think I should have just stuck with cake." 

"That's a big deal!" she said between breaths. "Drunk you could never have done this."

I thought about that between fantasies of popsicles and ice baths. No, drunk me couldn't have done this, or anything else I'd accomplished over the last seven years. And I immediately realized that this anniversary was another reason I couldn't quit, barf or no barf. 

She ran with me (with some walk breaks) the rest of the way, giving me water, talking about happy things, keeping me going. Eventually, we made it to the next check point and I handed off the wrist band to the next runner. Good luck, sucka!

My other two runs went much better (I discovered I really love running at night) and I was able to cross the finish line with the rest of my team - smelly, triumphant, and full of gratitude. Grateful for my sweaty angel with the water belt. Grateful for such a supportive team. Grateful for another year of sobriety that will pave the way for the next year. 

I hope that I will be able to have that same gratitude for my eighth anniversary. With air conditioning and cake. 

Why Do I Love Murder, She Wrote? It's a Mystery.

I've always felt that my tv watching habits fit outside the norm. When my co-workers sit around at lunchtime and analyze the latest episode of Bachelor/American Idol/Latest Primetime Network Drama/Housewives/Kardashian Barf/Sports Whatever, I have nothing to do but analyze my broccoli. Not only do I not watch these shows, but I have never seen American Idol or Bachelor or Housewives and I often have never heard of Latest Primetime Network Drama, and the day you catch me watching sports you should call the police because it would obviously mean I've been kidnapped and my kidnappers are watching sports. 

To be clear, I am not saying any of this with arrogance because my television habits are not any grander than yours or theirs. My almost constant companion is the Investigation Discovery channel, which is non-stop, twenty-four-hour true crime shows. I discovered this gem when I was unemployed, and I spent a good share of that year writing cover letters and filling out applications at my computer with Investigation Discovery in the background and exclaiming, "No WAY! He did WHAT? With her feet?! What a sicko!" while writing never-ending paragraphs about why I was the best employee ever. 

And as many of my friends know, my one true love is the Golden Girls, which I wake up to every morning and go to sleep with every night. It never gets old, it never feels stale, and it is my comfort blanket that I look forward to at the end of the day. I love my girls. (And I REALLY love my husband, who whole-heartedly supports my GG obsession.)

But there's a new guilty pleasure that has made its way into my living room. When I'm by myself, I close the curtains, I gather my animals and I turn down the lights. I don't watch this when my husband is home. I don't talk about it at work. Because this whole thing started out as a "I'll watch just one episode for funsies!" and turned into a shameful ritual of "I can't wait to get dinner ready so I can watch the next episode of Murder, She Wrote!"

Yup. Angela Lansbury. A silly piano jingle, violins, and lots of tubas for the opening credits. Bad hair. Ridiculous plot lines. Embarrassing fight scenes. 

I'M IN LOVE.

I never watched Murder, She Wrote growing up. My mom thought it was just too far-fetched to believe that wherever Angela Lansbury went, a murder just happened to take place (and it is ridiculous). So I'm not watching this as a trip down memory lane or anything. It's all brand new to me. And I can't get enough.

I can't pinpoint exactly what it is I love so much. I'm terrible at solving mysteries, the writing makes me cringe, and while I adore Angela Lansbury, I don't love her enough to just plop my ass on the couch and watch her for hours if the show is sub-par. And in most ways, MSW is sub-par. 

The acting is terrible (except for Angela Lansbury of course), the writing is lame, and the direction...well, it was the eighties, people. It was awful. 

Of course, there are things that I love about the show (I mean, Angela Lansbury, come ON.). I love that MSW is a Who's Who of all the guest stars from the Golden Girls. I end up yelling, "Hey, that guy was Blanche's gay brother!" or "That's the married dude Dorothy had an affair with!" at least twice every episode. And there are lots of eighties celebrities who made their appearance on MSW (Bruce Jenner, anyone?). I love watching sweet, practical Jessica Fletcher played by Angela Lansbury and knowing that she had a filthy mouth worse than a drunken sailor in real life. But still, this isn't enough to sustain my loyalty. I've been trying to figure out why I find this stupid show so compelling.

But that's the thing, I guess. MSW is so silly, predictable (except for me because, as I mentioned, I'm awful at solving mysteries), and lame that it doesn't require analyzing. I think by the end of the day, I'm tired of asking why, I don't want to think about tomorrow, and I don't want to think about anything that's going to test my emotions. I feel like that's how I spend most of my day, and by the time I sit down to watch MSW, I'm tired of the day.

So I guess it's just nice to sit back and let Jessica Fletcher solve the mystery for me. In shoulder pads.

Minnesota Nice in Norway

I just got back from a 15-day vacation in Norway. Four years ago, my mom married a man, Leif, who is originally from Norway, and still has a lot of family there so he visits often. This year, my husband and I tagged along for the trip. 

While there, we stayed at Leif's childhood house, now occupied by his cousin and her grown daughter. When we arrived, there was also a guy there. I wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He looked like he was in great physical shape, had the sides of his head shaved, about thirty years old, and he kept looking at the floor with his arms crossed. After introductions, he finally piped up, in perfect English, "I'm from Minnesota."

Ooooh, like us! Fabulous. Someone to talk to, yay! 

Now, being from Minnesota, I'm used to all sorts of niceties, both surface and genuine. The general idea is that in Minnesota, there are lots of "pleases" and "thank-yous," lots of smiles, lots of "Oh-no-you-firsts," and always, always, the last bite of dessert will sit there until it grows legs and can walk away on its own because God forbid you take the last piece. 

In Norway, things are a little different. You'll get a little jostled at the airport. People do not introduce you to their friends. Smiles are rarer, and you better snatch that last waffle if you want it.

Not that people weren't friendly. They absolutely were, and I loved them. But it was just different, and it's always refreshing to run into someone from your home when you're far away from it.

Unless you run into this guy.

I don't remember his name, so let's just call him Douchebag.

Douchebag came to Norway to walk - walk -  from Oslo to Trondheim. He apparently is a friend of a friend in the United States, and this friend sent him to stay with Leif's cousin and her daughter, even though they had never met him. No idea why this friend of a friend thought Leif's cousin and her daughter should be punished. 

We settled down in the living room: Leif, Mom, Leif's cousin, her adult daughter, and Douchebag. Now, I don't remember the last time I sat down and had a conversation with a total asshole. It's been quite a while because after you've been an adult for some time, you figure out how to worm your way out of these situations, or just avoid them altogether. Unless, of course, you're staying at a farmhouse in the middle nowhere, in the middle of Norway. Then you're just fucked.

Being Minnesotan, I am forbidden to speak rudely to anyone, especially someone I've just met. My brain, on the other hand, was born in South Dakota, and South Dakotans can say whatever they want, just usually with terrible grammar. 

So Douchebag sits down with a beer and begins to regale us with stories of why he's so awesome. 

*

DB: "I loved shooting guns. Anyone who's not a fan of guns, I dare them to get behind a machine gun and say it's not fun to shoot guns. They're fucking awesome."

My brain: "Oh my God, I'm in Europe and I'm listening to an American say things that make all of Europe think we're idiots. Please in the name of Elizabeth Warren shut up." 

*

DB: "I'm Norwegian. 100% Norwegian."

My Brain: "Actually, your 100% American and no more exotic than me or any other person who's born in America, but go on."

*

DB: "Thank God I don't have any English or French in me. THANK. GOD."

My Brain: "Way to go, you just insulted my husband, who's of English and French descent. Although I doubt he's actually insulted since he probably stopped listening to you ten minutes ago."

*

DB: "I wouldn't be in anything but the Marines. Like the Army? Army's full of losers and drug addicts. All of them. Every single one of them. EVERY SINGLE ONE."

My Brain: "Huh. I guess he doesn't realize Leif was in the Army......?"

*

DB: "I mean, the Marines are picky. They don't take just anybody."

My Brain: "They took you, so yeah. They do."

*

DB: "Since I'm 100% Norwegian [oh my god quit saying that!], I decided to walk from Oslo to Trondheim."

My Brain: "You're walking because you're an unemployed grown-ass man who doesn't have a car."

*

DB: "I guess, technically, I still live with my parents."

My Brain: "You still live with your parents and your mom does your laundry."

* 

Leif's cousin's daughter asks for a Coke. DB brings her one. She takes a sip and gags.

LCD: "This isn't Coke!"

DB: "Huh?"

LCD: "It has rum in it!"

DB: "Oh... I thought that's what you wanted."

My Brain: "You're trying to get her drunk to get in her pants. I assume you learned that in the Marines?"

*

DB: "I don't really have any plans."

My Brain: "Knock me over with a feather."

*

DB: "That's when I was stationed in Afghanistan where everyone is soooooo stupid. Afghanis are the dumbest people I've ever met. Oh my God, you wouldn't believe how dumb those people are."

My Brain: "Pot, meet Kettle. Do you seriously not notice how the room goes into immediate uncomfortable silence after you talk?"

*

I finally pretended to fall asleep on my husband's shoulder so we could make an excuse about being exhausted and go to bed. Which we did.

After that night, I was relieved to be back in the midst of Norway, and I was a little more appreciative of the jostling, the cool reception, and the waffle snatching. 

Because some of those nice Minnesotans can be such douchebags.