Comfort Level

For Valentine’s Day B. and I did something special.  I got my very first massage.  This was a huge step for me, personally.  I had resigned myself to living a life devoid of strangers touching me.  I always felt awkward about it.  Paying someone for pleasurable physical contact has always been a little too akin to prostitution for me.  Maybe it’s my warped sensitivity about gender roles; maybe I’m just an inherently awkward person.  But B. loves them, so with her in the room for moral support and assurance that I wasn’t embodying that pale creep with thinning hair and a pencil thin blonde mustache who haunts the nightmares of all women everywhere, we went in together.

 As we entered out dimly lit room with ambient noise wafting from a small stereo in the corner, our masseuses (B. gave me some playful ribbing that they were both women) discussed where we wanted them to focus, our tension spots, etc.  Then as they left the room they asked us to undress to our comfort level.  I momentarily regretted not bringing a parka or at least a turtleneck, but B. and I stripped down and quickly hopped into our beds.

The next hour is sort of a blur.  They quietly came in once we were decent and ready and began to work.  She worked out numerous knots I didn’t know I had.  My shoulders melted.  My spine liquefied.  I was a blob.  A semi-conscious, heavy-lidded, relaxed blob.  I didn’t know the massage extended past there, but as she dug her elbow into my legs, I melted even more. (I had run over 10k the day before)

The hour ended too soon, and we got dressed and limply noodled our way back to the car and headed home.  It was a strange sensation to feel so loose.  Zero tension in my back, my shoulders or legs.  B. felt it, too.  That night, however, I found it difficult to relax.  The mattress felt foreign under me.  The lumps and knots in my back no longer matched the topography of the springs underneath.  I tossed and turned and lay awake late into the night.  I was too relaxed to be comfortable.

This is my first semester in a long while where I haven’t maxed out my credit hours or tried balancing 6 classes with part-time work.  I’ve been told I’m a glutton for punishment.  This semester I really only have one class with a severe workload – a workload I set.  A new, experimental class was created this year, combining the talents of English, Graphic Design, Editing, Computer Science, Animation and of course Illustration majors.  Our goal: to create and publish children’s books.  At the beginning of the school year we all pitched story ideas, then voted on the most promising.  We hope to write and illustrate around ten books by April.

I’m illustrating three.  I also wrote one, though, so this truly is a labor of love.  People have given me a lot of incredulous looks when I tell them what I’m up to.  I must be insane, how do I ever relax?  Where do I find the time?  It’s a lot of late nights and early mornings, caffeine jolts and hours upon hours apart working or doing homework. 

But I’m comfortable doing it. 

B.'s no different.  She's up late along with me, trying to pass stats, genetics, insanely difficult chemistry, all while working full time in a less than desirable work environment.  But she loves school to a terrifying, borderline unhealthy level.  She's comfortable being an overworked student, as am I.

B. and I can’t seem to relax.  We’re incurable workaholics and if we’re not busy we’re not happy.  That’s where our comfort level is.  Some people can sit at home and do nothing all day; I don’t think that’s in us.

I guess my point is, some of us don't know how to relax and for some of us relaxation isn't relaxing.  If you like to be busy, be busy!  If you love relaxing all the time... well, I guess I'll just tell you now I will have fries with that, thank you.  Everyone has their comfort level.

Where's yours?


S

Spent

This story begins with something called a fan brush.

I'm in a portrait class this semester, and over the past few weeks I've systematically bought paints and brushes using daily coupons at Michael's and Hobby Lobby, gradually accruing the tools and supplies I need, all for 40% off.  This weekend I needed a fan brush.

I returned home with my goods, packed them in my backpack and didn't think about it again.  until I came home from a run to my phone going off.  B. was on the other line.  She told me that there had been a security breach at a few retail stores (much like the recent Target hack) including Michaels, where I had gotten my brush just hours ago.  She, knowing my tendency for extreme frugality and my long-term plans to shop at Michael's, urged me to change as much information as I could on my debit account so as to protect our money.

As a side note, I had recently received a loan for an upcoming field trip with my department so there was considerably more in my account than usual.  More cash at stake = more stress for B.  My bank's hotline had closed, their customer service down for the day, so I did the most I could and sent them an email asking for a hold on the current card and to send me a new one asap.

I checked my account later that night, first thing the next morning and again mid-day. Still secure.

Nothing spent.


That afternoon, in the midst of a grocery run I splurged on some fancy shampoo B. had requested for Valentine's Day. (romance often gives way to practicality for us - especially when it's 50% off)  I handed the cashier my early present and my debit card.  My heart sank as the screen flashed red and told us that the card had been rejected.

I quickly bought the shampoo with a credit card and we raced home.  B. was furious with me for not calling the emergency number and reporting the card stolen, just to be safe.  What would we do if I was suddenly bankrupt?  How would we pay our bills?  Would they max out our credit cards, too?  How much could they hack from us?  Would it all be spent?  I was a little concerned about losing my loan in addition to my own money on the card, but knew I wouldn't know anything for sure until we got home and checked.

It was one of the more silent drives of my life as B. raced home, (to her credit) resisting the urge to berate my incompetence.

We made quite a pair during those ten minutes or so.  She was a nervous, frantic, panicky wreck.  I - well, I wouldn't characterize myself as the picture of stoic calm, but I was significantly more relaxed than my poor B.

Funny thing is, I was a lot like her not long ago.  I used up a lot of my early years worrying and fretting about forces beyond my control and often, quite frankly not my concern.  I stressed about my dad finding a great career, about my mother's pregnancies, about how my siblings were treated by their friends, etc.  I was a worrier.

But I think a lot of that stress got all spent early on, so I save my anxiety for when the occasion truly calls for it.  My worry is a precious resource now.  So, in a situation like this one, where I know my hands are tied and there's nothing I can do until I have more information, I'm pretty calm.  One disaster at a time.

Well, we got home and I logged on to see all my funds present and accounted for with a small message from the bank informing me that all funds were frozen and that a new card would reach me in 2-5 business days.

Poor B. sighed with relief, hands still tremoring as she wilted onto the couch.  She quickly apologized for being short with me, I responded with my own apology for not putting two and two together earlier and making her worry so much.

I don't take those apologies lightly either.  I rarely get them from B.  True, she's usually right when we disagree (most wives are) so its a rare occasion itself, but I also know while I was using up all of my worry, she was using up a lot of something much more precious: her forgiveness.

In the years I've known her, my B. has really been dragged through the mud by a lot of people who should have had her back.  Years of false friends and betrayals add up quick, and the well of her forgiveness goes much deeper than mine, I can tell you.  So when she apologizes to me or forgives me, I know its a big deal.


At one point or another, everyone gets close to being spent.


What have you spent?

What are you holding in reserve?



S

My Name in Print!

You may recall my self-congratulatory post earlier last year about my first paid illustration gig.  Well after weeks of sketches, color studies, full-bleed page spreads, corrupted files, late nights, long hours and maddening revisions, I finished my first book.  All 28 pages.  The client was a communications major who wanted a private commission for a portfolio diversifier.

Here are some of the highlights:

 

This was the first page I finished.  

It helped set the tone for the whole book as far as the level of detail,

 

design simplicity (it is a kids book after all),

 

and stylization of the main character.   

 

I had to keep in mind that there would be text on these pages, 

not just my images.  It took some getting used to,

 leaving large empty spaces in the pictures.

 As I find is often the case, the research for this job was the most fun.

Who doesn't love getting paid to study Star Wars?  

There is such a rich tapestry of characters,

 exotic planets,

 and futuristic tech, I had a great time 

recapturing the galaxy far, far away.

I don't expect to get famous over this, more than anything else, this was an extremely valuable learning opportunity for me.  I had no clue just how much time and effort goes into a book (those pages pile up quick on a deadline!)

I might put some samples up on my website (there I go again, shamelessly plugging my portfolio), but many of these pages will end up on tumblr for everyone's viewing pleasure.

If anyone was wondering, this is what swallowed up most of my holiday, which sheds some light on why I haven't posted anything in a while.  

Let me know what you think!  Comment, share, help me get the word out.

S

My Dad and Martin

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, everyone.  I have looked up to Dr. King ever since I was little.  The first non-fiction I ever read was his biography (a treasured find from a school book fair).  I've had a photograph of him holding his Nobel Peace Prize as long as I can remember, framed on my wall over the years.  But I remember one instance when my faith in his Dream was first tested.  I was too young to remember much of the details surrounding the incident, but fortunately my father had the courage and wisdom to speak up and ask, "Why?"

Today, in honor of one of my heroes, I thought I'd abstain from preaching my own feigned wisdom and instead quote another hero of mine.  The following was taken from his Letter to the Editor for the Tucson Citizen Jan. 21, 2004.  Thanks Dad.

 

King’s Message Ignored

Another Martin Luther King Day has come, and Tucsonans have taken notice along with the rest of the country. But have we really honored King’s legacy?

When I moved my family to Tucson three years ago, I was pleased to see that the Tucson Unified School District had “magnet” schools – schools that supposedly specialized in certain curricular areas.

It was an opportunity, I thought, to let my children focus on their individual talents. Yet, when I contacted the district, I was told quite bluntly that my son would not be welcome at the school we were interested in. Why? Because he’s the wrong color.

The magnet schools aren’t and never were about specialized curriculum. They’re about a government-enforced system of racial discrimination. If your skin is one shade, you’re welcome here; if it’s another, you’ll just have to go somewhere else.

My son keeps a picture of Martin Luther King on his wall, and we’ve read his biography together more than once. I had to tell this boy, who holds Dr. King as one of his greatest heroes, that right now, in America, our local government refuses to judge him by the content of his character, and will consider only the color of his skin.

Some will say there’s nothing the district can do, since this system is the result of a judicial edict. Can’t go against the judge, can we? But wait. Weren’t there judges, and police, and even governors enforcing racial discrimination when Dr. King stood against it? What did he teach us? When the law is that wrong, we have a responsibility to resist.

Where are the school administrators, the parents, the local government officials, and the ordinary citizens, who are willing to stand, nonviolently but firmly, as Dr. King did, against this government-sponsored system of racial discrimination?

Where are those who are willing to pay a price to make a change? Where are those who are willing to truly honor Martin Luther King?

DONALD BUGG

Part Two: the march to March

I mentioned earlier a rough review I got for a draft of a novel I'm trying to write.  The prologue was decimated as categorical proof of my shortcomings as a writer.  Then there was the first chapter.  I still haven't gotten feedback on that yet.  I've written and rewritten over 20 drafts of that first chapter.  They say the most difficult parts of a story to write are the endings and the beginnings.

Last month before I became enslaved by the indoor lethargy of finals and freelance I got back into running.  A year ago I used to regularly jog anywhere between 5  to 10 kilometers but have since opted for shorter interval sprints to build up my cardio endurance and ease up on my joints.  Yet always, without fail, the hardest part of any run regardless of the distance is that first part.  That transition from a sedentary state to runner-mode.  This usually only lasts about half a mile, never longer than a full mile.

Why is it so hard to get to Part Two?

You start with such vigorous optimism, your hope bright and new.  This time you'll do it!  You'll lose those extra pounds, make more time for family, shoot for that promotion, start that small business, run that marathon, finish that book, discontinue that netflix account, learn that recipe.  You are finally going to sweep out those cobwebs of complacence and start your life with a clean start.

January's frosty chill can't deter your willpower.  You wake up early and get out there training, breaking old habits, establishing new patterns of living and hitting the refresh button on your day to day. You are the picture of dedication.  Days soon build into a week, then two.  By week three the novelty of your new life begins wearing away, revealing that remaining discomfort of missing out on the "good ol' days," patiently waiting for you to succumb to its embrace.  You make excuses, a day missed here, a little slip there, and before February ends, those gym passes you got as a new year's present to yourself sit gathering dust, you're back to the sleeping in, fat, lazy, uncultured, illiterate netflix-binger that disgusted you in last year's mirror.

The February mark is a tough reality to face.  Fact is, very few New Year's Resolutions last beyond two months.

What makes Part Two so seemingly unattainable?

Honestly, I think it's because as much as we like to think we know our heart's desires,

we don't know what we want. 

I don't mean that our desires are necessarily changeable, although that can often be the case.  I mean we don't know how badly we want what we want.  How much are you willing to put into your goals?  What desires take top priority?  What is still worth the effort when your new habit is no longer new, just uncomfortable?

Often these priorities reveal themselves organically.  Is the misery of that first try, first lap, first draft worth trudging through?

Absolutely.

Kara's Flowers' debut album flopped before they reformed as Maroon 5.  Coldplay once went by Starfish in the bumpy first lap of their career.  Even the founding fathers had to go through a first draft flop of legislation (those darn Articles of Confederation) before they drafted the Constitution.  Very rarely will you succeed on your first go.  2013 was filled with lessons on what not to do in my life.  Next year will have plenty of those, too.  I'm just trying not to repeat them.  Don't give up on your first lap.  Don't put down the pen halfway through the prologue.

Let's get to March one step, one page, one lap, one brilliantly dazzling mistake at a time.  Join me in my march to March 2014. 



S