Loftus', Jeans and Stressheads
There is an old adage (as well as a very popular Paula Abdul song from the 80’s) that says, “Opposites attract”. I understand the logic behind this claim. But as a Loftus (a group of people who, though highly intelligent and talented, often struggle with control issues and stress) I have accumulated evidence and wisdom in my 28 years that proves otherwise.
Where does this wisdom come from? Where else other than previous boyfriends? We learn so much from them. They are like the jeans we bought when they seemed to fit (and a stylish-taper, fastened with safety pins was totally rad), wore and loved them every day for a short time, then outgrew and discarded them. If we didn’t outgrow them, perhaps we just woke up one day and said, “They’re just not me. I’m not who I want to be when I wear these jeans. These jeans don’t make me a better person”.
I had a “pair of jeans” once. And we were opposites. At the time, when you are in love, you can convince yourself of anything to justify “wearing these jeans” because they make you feel so beautiful and special and you really like yourself when you’re in them.
I will cleverly call this pair of jeans Mij.
I was a straight A student. Although smart, he was not. I was extremely punctual, while he was chronically tardy. He was ambitious and I was play-it-safe. I was an eternal, tightly-wound, stresshead in every possible situation and he was very, very chill. How perfect! I used to think. We are opposites! We will compliment each other. Isn’t that what a perfect union is? People who complete each other?
In some ways, yes. But as I learned, having an opposite has an exponential effect on a Loftus (this one, anyway). For example, let’s say we have to be somewhere at 7pm. I would normally be slightly bothered and tense about being prompt and punctual. Being with Mij (my opposite), would make me even MORE tense because I would KNOW that being on time with him by my side would mean struggling against the natural flow of his character and habit. This fear of being late and having no control over the tardiness would exacerbate my anxiety in fantastic way which perhaps only a Loftus (or someone who has loved a Loftus) can understand.
When considering making a large purchase – say, a car. I am thrifty and look for good value -- you know, good gas-mileage and the like. Being with Mij, a guy who loved power and extravagance, only made me become more thrifty and money-conscience, thinking I constantly would have to be the frugal one for the both of us. My personality became even more polar. And a Loftus is already extreme to begin with! So more polar is actually quite dangerous.
I have since discarded the Mij jeans.
I am much, much happier in my Kram jeans.
And this is what spurred me to write this entry…
Yesterday, our landlord phoned and told us we had to move out of our apartment. When I hear this news, the sound of my muscles contracting with tension is practically audible. I instantly become an emotional mess and a defensive knot of tension. Change is bad! Very very bad. And all the details – changing my address with the bank, the insurance, my magazine subscriptions, my union, etc., getting a moving van, moving around money to pay last and first month’s rent at the same time, sorting, sifting, tossing, packing up my valuables and re-organizing, disconnecting and re-connecting and dealing with the satanic corporation of Bell, figuring a time to move before our vacation or after our vacation and before school begins, losing valuable resources at a time when I will critically need them – it all makes my heart stop! I CANNOT HANDLE THIS! It will be on my mind, at the front or the back or lingering and nagging at me, every moment of every day until the whole ordeal is over. This is how it is with me.
But what happened? Kram phoned me at noon. He had received the phone call from our landlord first thing in the morning, when I had already left for work. And by the time he phoned me at noon, he had already done an in-depth search for new apartments on the internet. He had an idea of the prices – he told me they were less expensive than we were currently paying (something a Loftus like me needs to hear). He told me there were many available. He had already made an appointment to see one in our area. He’d spoken with our landlord and convinced him we needed to move out a month earlier because it was more convenient for us. He told me everything would be alright.
Less than 24 hours later, we had a new place to live.
Kram can be chill, but not when it matters.
I discovered that what a stresshead like me truly needs sometimes is efficiency.
Kram was so efficient.
And Loftus’ LOVE efficiency.
Kram saw the problem. And he dealt with it. He took the intiative and he took charge.
It may seem like a small thing, but as you other Loftus’ know (and those of you who love a Loftus), we can make small things oh so HUGE!
This is just one reason why this Loftus loves her Kram.
So be like Kram. Not like Mij.
And when a situation arises, that a Loftus might perceive with tension and stress, be supportive and efficient. Be helpful and of use. And for the love of god and all that is good and holy in the world, never, ever EVER tell them to "Relax".
Friday, June 30, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The R Word
I can remember a time, not too long ago, when, if I saw a scantily clad jogger pounding the pavement on a cold, rainy, miserable morning, I would smile at the person next to me and wisely say, “poor sucker”. It would be said with that condescending mixture of pity laced with just a hint of admiration. The admiration, obviously, comes from seeing a person who is so visibly dedicated to his physical fitness as to venture out into the nastiest of elements when the rest of us are curled up on the sofa with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate. Determination like that is superhuman, we agree. The touch of pity is a result of the empathy we feel as we imagine what that person’s body must be sensing at that moment: exhaustion, cold and wetness, aching muscles, pounding heart…. It must be awful. It must be excruciating. To be so driven by such a compulsion, to want something that badly, it must surely be beyond his own consciousness and power – poor sucker.
What could possibly drive people to do this to themselves…. repeatedly? That is a question that, even now that I am inarguably enlisted into the cult of running, I still ask myself several times a week (often during the same run). And even though it is incredulous to me still what some, obviously more insane runners, will submit themselves to, I am beginning to understand the addiction. It is an addiction that we wear with pride…. I am embarrassed to say.
I hate running. For a year I claimed this. I would say it repeatedly to non-runners, who are generally very critical and skeptical of my newfound lifestyle. I would deny being part of that sub-group. I like the benefits of running, is how I would excuse my behaviour. I only like the feeling after I’ve run, I would claim. And it is, in fact, a very bittersweet relationship I have with running. I remember being a teenager and deciding, for the first time, that I would jog resolutely every day. That lasted one frigid morning – I could still see my house when I turned around. I used to loathe the annual fitness test in gym class because we had to run for 12 minutes straight. It was the only thing I considered truly beyond my capacity to do (and I was a fairly athletic kid). And so, I paired with that loathing a kind of reverance for running. Anything that painful, must be really good for you. And those who did it must truly be gods.
I grew older and older and bigger and bigger. I began to feel apathetic and powerless to change the course of my own physical condition. Then in May of 2004, I was driving through Mississauga on a beautiful, sunny morning when I saw a few trailing runners from the first annual Mississauga Marathon. They were peaceful and eloquent, if a bit on the tired side. Majestic even. I was 26 and up until that moment, I had decided that 17 was my physical peak and always would be. When suddenly I saw people of all ages and sizes doing things I deemed miraculous. And I wanted to do it too. I told myself, “The longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be to start.”
So I began running. I ran 4 laps of the local high school track – very, very slowly. I bought a book and it said that running too fast was a big mistake (one I’d made before). So I let women pushing baby strollers pass me on the sidewalk. There was no hurry. I just wanted to survive the run of the moment. Going slowly seemed to enhance the chances of that.
Over the course of the past year and a half, I have run four races – a 10 k, three half marathons, and a 5 k. Of all the things I’ve done in my life (and I have accomplished many academic and artistic successes) my very proudest moment is still the September evening in 2004 when I finished my first race – the Little Lake Liftlock 10 k. Running a 10 k race was the first goal I’d set for myself that I truly wasn’t sure I could reach. And then I did. For months, I looked at the pictures of that race to re-live in my mind that feeling…. because it was exhilarating.
Two months ago, I had an epiphany as I sat in my very first Running Room Clinic lecture and the instructor asked, “How many of you have ever lost a toe nail?” and half of the room raised their hands. I’ve got enough awareness of the real world to know how ridiculous a moment it was, but I am officially a member of the running cult now. I can no longer deny it. I can no longer say that I always hate it (nor do I always love it). But it has become an unshakable part of my life.
Ed Whitlock is one of my greatest role models because I want to be able to run when I’m in my seventies, eighties or even nineties. For now, I run because I can. And that is enough.
Written by Melissa Loftus
I can remember a time, not too long ago, when, if I saw a scantily clad jogger pounding the pavement on a cold, rainy, miserable morning, I would smile at the person next to me and wisely say, “poor sucker”. It would be said with that condescending mixture of pity laced with just a hint of admiration. The admiration, obviously, comes from seeing a person who is so visibly dedicated to his physical fitness as to venture out into the nastiest of elements when the rest of us are curled up on the sofa with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate. Determination like that is superhuman, we agree. The touch of pity is a result of the empathy we feel as we imagine what that person’s body must be sensing at that moment: exhaustion, cold and wetness, aching muscles, pounding heart…. It must be awful. It must be excruciating. To be so driven by such a compulsion, to want something that badly, it must surely be beyond his own consciousness and power – poor sucker.
What could possibly drive people to do this to themselves…. repeatedly? That is a question that, even now that I am inarguably enlisted into the cult of running, I still ask myself several times a week (often during the same run). And even though it is incredulous to me still what some, obviously more insane runners, will submit themselves to, I am beginning to understand the addiction. It is an addiction that we wear with pride…. I am embarrassed to say.
I hate running. For a year I claimed this. I would say it repeatedly to non-runners, who are generally very critical and skeptical of my newfound lifestyle. I would deny being part of that sub-group. I like the benefits of running, is how I would excuse my behaviour. I only like the feeling after I’ve run, I would claim. And it is, in fact, a very bittersweet relationship I have with running. I remember being a teenager and deciding, for the first time, that I would jog resolutely every day. That lasted one frigid morning – I could still see my house when I turned around. I used to loathe the annual fitness test in gym class because we had to run for 12 minutes straight. It was the only thing I considered truly beyond my capacity to do (and I was a fairly athletic kid). And so, I paired with that loathing a kind of reverance for running. Anything that painful, must be really good for you. And those who did it must truly be gods.
I grew older and older and bigger and bigger. I began to feel apathetic and powerless to change the course of my own physical condition. Then in May of 2004, I was driving through Mississauga on a beautiful, sunny morning when I saw a few trailing runners from the first annual Mississauga Marathon. They were peaceful and eloquent, if a bit on the tired side. Majestic even. I was 26 and up until that moment, I had decided that 17 was my physical peak and always would be. When suddenly I saw people of all ages and sizes doing things I deemed miraculous. And I wanted to do it too. I told myself, “The longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be to start.”
So I began running. I ran 4 laps of the local high school track – very, very slowly. I bought a book and it said that running too fast was a big mistake (one I’d made before). So I let women pushing baby strollers pass me on the sidewalk. There was no hurry. I just wanted to survive the run of the moment. Going slowly seemed to enhance the chances of that.
Over the course of the past year and a half, I have run four races – a 10 k, three half marathons, and a 5 k. Of all the things I’ve done in my life (and I have accomplished many academic and artistic successes) my very proudest moment is still the September evening in 2004 when I finished my first race – the Little Lake Liftlock 10 k. Running a 10 k race was the first goal I’d set for myself that I truly wasn’t sure I could reach. And then I did. For months, I looked at the pictures of that race to re-live in my mind that feeling…. because it was exhilarating.
Two months ago, I had an epiphany as I sat in my very first Running Room Clinic lecture and the instructor asked, “How many of you have ever lost a toe nail?” and half of the room raised their hands. I’ve got enough awareness of the real world to know how ridiculous a moment it was, but I am officially a member of the running cult now. I can no longer deny it. I can no longer say that I always hate it (nor do I always love it). But it has become an unshakable part of my life.
Ed Whitlock is one of my greatest role models because I want to be able to run when I’m in my seventies, eighties or even nineties. For now, I run because I can. And that is enough.
Written by Melissa Loftus
Bookends
Maryann is my sister.
She is not my twin sister.
We don't even REALLY look alike .... really. But somehow, as we got older, people began mixing us up. People who don't know us very well, or older friends of the family who don't see us too often may say to me, "So Melissa, how's Ottawa?" (which is not where I live -- it is where Mary lives). Or someone at my sister's church will throw their arms around me enthusiastically.... then, upon close examination of my face, back away apologetically. I respond equally to her name as I do my name.
One day, she came to visit the school where I work, just for an afternoon. But in the span of those few hours, we were emphatically reminded how similar we are at least two dozen times. A fellow teacher saw us from afar and yelled BOOK ENDS!
I sometimes correct the confused person. But sometimes I do not.
Always, I am secretly pleased that other people think I am similar to my little sister. She is slimmer and more graceful and has always been my grandmother's favourite grandchild. This begs the question, why do people get us mixed up?
Well, we are alike in our mannerisms.
We tilt our heads to the same side for pictures. We throw our arms about our bodies enthusiastically when we're excited (which is often about something minute like fresh cherries or fireflies or Harry Belafonte). When we smile, our eyes disappear into tiny moon-shaped slits. We squeal when we talk on the phone to each other, as if volume has something to do with depth of sentiment. We have very little concept of world geography or history and we are shamefully terrible at Trivial Pursuit. We become extra "efficient" when there are many things to be done, making exhausting lists of tasks and sub-tasks, bustling around in a near-chaotic frenzy and ploughing down anyone unfortunate enough to be in our way. We sometimes like to do silly things like play squash (which neither of us are really certain how to play) and speak only french. We have ditsty and clumsy moments in which a hint more common sense could have saved us gallons of embarrassment.
All these quirks, my sister and I share. Every time someone calls me Maryann, I am reminded of these cute things she does that I love about her. And the cute things that I like about me too.
Maryann is my sister.
She is not my twin sister.
We don't even REALLY look alike .... really. But somehow, as we got older, people began mixing us up. People who don't know us very well, or older friends of the family who don't see us too often may say to me, "So Melissa, how's Ottawa?" (which is not where I live -- it is where Mary lives). Or someone at my sister's church will throw their arms around me enthusiastically.... then, upon close examination of my face, back away apologetically. I respond equally to her name as I do my name.
One day, she came to visit the school where I work, just for an afternoon. But in the span of those few hours, we were emphatically reminded how similar we are at least two dozen times. A fellow teacher saw us from afar and yelled BOOK ENDS!
I sometimes correct the confused person. But sometimes I do not.
Always, I am secretly pleased that other people think I am similar to my little sister. She is slimmer and more graceful and has always been my grandmother's favourite grandchild. This begs the question, why do people get us mixed up?
Well, we are alike in our mannerisms.
We tilt our heads to the same side for pictures. We throw our arms about our bodies enthusiastically when we're excited (which is often about something minute like fresh cherries or fireflies or Harry Belafonte). When we smile, our eyes disappear into tiny moon-shaped slits. We squeal when we talk on the phone to each other, as if volume has something to do with depth of sentiment. We have very little concept of world geography or history and we are shamefully terrible at Trivial Pursuit. We become extra "efficient" when there are many things to be done, making exhausting lists of tasks and sub-tasks, bustling around in a near-chaotic frenzy and ploughing down anyone unfortunate enough to be in our way. We sometimes like to do silly things like play squash (which neither of us are really certain how to play) and speak only french. We have ditsty and clumsy moments in which a hint more common sense could have saved us gallons of embarrassment.
All these quirks, my sister and I share. Every time someone calls me Maryann, I am reminded of these cute things she does that I love about her. And the cute things that I like about me too.
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