The Right Direction

I think I'll be able to get walking and/or running again this week; that will help immensely. I've decided that instead of walking every day I'm going to walk on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and then do a ballet barre and some tap-dancing on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (Weekends are nutty around here, so I don't really have any solid plans for Saturdays and Sundays.) The ballet will be great for strengthening and toning, and the tap will toughen up my lower legs and help out with the shin splints, I think. That's the current exercise plan.

As for the food part, I've been following Weight Watchers because I've done it before with good results. But my sister-in-law has started on South Beach and lost 2.5 lbs. in the first two days! Very tempting! I'm going to look it up at the library, but I don't know if I'm tough enough to restrict myself from all carbs for two weeks—I'm also not sure I think that's the most wonderful idea. I'll have to learn more about it.

The good news is that today I've actually gone down .6 this week. A baby step in the right direction!

Perspective

"I couldn't love anybody as I love you."
"Oh, Diana," cried Anne, clasping her hands, "do you love me?"
"Why, of course I do. Didn't you know that?"
"No." Anne drew a long breath. "I thought you liked me of course, but I never hoped you loved me. Why, Diana, I didn't think anybody could love me."

—from Anne of Green Gables

When I was growing up, and particularly as a teenager, I never felt like I had friends. Not that I was bereft, or unhappy. I could talk to people; they seemed to like me well enough. But I didn't really have anyone who would come hang out at my house or who I thought would go shopping with me. I knew people thought I was talented, but I didn't know if they really liked me. I felt like I could join in their conversations sometimes, but I was never sure how much I really added. And, unfortunately, before my senior year I was never involved in any school groups or clubs that would have automatically given me a common ground with other kids. I had a few friends in each class that I chatted with, casually—while we were at school, but none that I was really close to.

A couple weeks ago, as I was looking for pictures of Kim and me, I came across some letters and notes that I'd gotten from different people during my teenager-hood. It was kind of an eye-opener. First of all I found a couple of pathetic letters from a boy who had a major crush on me—but that's a story for another time. I also found a note from a guy we'll call "Cliff." Cliff had come to my surprise 17th birthday party [which is also a story for another time]. In his letter he mentioned that maybe he and I could go on a date that summer (I was really surprised when I read that a couple weeks ago—I didn't remember it at all); he also signed my yearbook and gave me his phone number. I also found a letter from a girl named Lori who was a year older than me, and had moved into my ward when I was about 14. I smiled at her and said, "Hi." the first time I met her—I always do that. When we saw each other in church or at school I'd chat with her. I didn't feel like I'd done anything exceptional. But she really liked me. In her letter she told me how much it meant to her that I'd been so friendly and how comfortable I'd made her feel when she moved in. I remember receiving that letter and feeling surprised at the time; I really hadn't done much.

Looking back, I see now that I probably could have had a lot of friends. I think maybe people really liked me. I could have dated a few different guys, and maybe even had another best friend for a couple years (Lori moved away after about two years). It surprises me because those letters and notes I just read don't match my memories at all. Perspective.

But now there's this funny thing going on in my mind, because I kind of feel the same way as an adult as I did then. I can get in on conversations with people; we are pleasant together. I see ladies in my ward who really seem to be best of friends and sometimes I feel kind of wistful—like I wish I had a good girl-friend close by. I don't feel like I could just drop in on someone or ask them to go out and play with me—as if I would be imposing on them. I still know that people think I can do anything—it surprises them when I admit to something I can't do well. This is probably just my own insecurity speaking, but sometimes I feel like people admire me from a distance, but that I'm not really someone you'd get close to. Does that make any sense?

Last night we had a Relief Society friendship dinner. I chatted with everyone in the group and I fit in well enough; I believe I contributed intelligent and sometimes even witty conversation. After the dinner my former visiting teaching partner came and said how good it was to visit with me and how much she'd missed talking with me. I feel the same way about her as I did with Lori—we got along well, but I didn't think I'd done anything exceptional; certainly didn't think I'd been missed. I had another person last night tell me how glad they were to talk to me. Maybe I'm kind of slow; but I am beginning to be surprised by the realization that people truly would be my friends. They seem to really, actually like me.

Confession

Yes, I admit it. I read Breaking Dawn, the fourth book in the Twilight series. I couldn't help myself; I had to read it because it was the only book in the house that I hadn't read yet. I do love reading! I did not bother to read the second or third books—it wasn't really necessary; I did not get lost for having missed the events in those books. Once again, the book was so fraught with angst (trouble; anguish; torment) that I had to wonder, "How can these characters take everything so seriously, all the time, without a break?" Everything—and I mean every event, thought, feeling, you name it—is High Drama. Somber; crucial; anguished; grave.

Oh, all right. Michael says it's not that the characters were never happy. He says they just didn't dwell on their happiness. Well, maybe we should all dwell on our happiness a little more, instead of always fighting it and trying to prove that we actually shouldn't be happy—like Bella, and particulary Edward do. Heck, they even fought on their honeymoon—give it a break, please!

The bigger wonder is this: "How can the author bear to be so heavy?" I think maybe she tried to include a little humor, but it was hard to detect, and short-lived. Maybe Ms. Meyer is a depressed person, and this is her outlet. Yeah, we're talking about vampires and werewolves, but still . . .

Friends Forever

When I was growing up, my very, very, absolute best friend of all time and in the whole world, was Kim Shakeri.











[That's Kim in about 6th grade, I think. I think that's me in about 6th grade too. I hate that picture of me, but I guess that's what I looked like.]
I didn't have many friends when I was little. That seems strange when I grew up in a house with eight children, but that's how it was. Melanie was five years older and had no use for a little pesty girl like me. And besides that, it took a long time for her to forgive me for usurping her position not only as baby of the family but also as the only girl in the family. When Melanie and her best friend played Barbies, I'd ask to play with them; they'd say OK—but they made sure that my Barbie's house was as far from theirs as it could physically be. And their Barbies were never home when mine came to visit! It was usually like that when I wanted to play with them. They even made up a song about me once: "Contamination! Contamination! When Loralee comes around, you better run away. Contamination! Contamination!" (I didn't know what contamination meant, but I could tell it wasn't good. And I could still sing it for you, but I won't.) I got over it, and so did Melanie. As she got older we liked each other better and better. Now she's my best friend—after Bruce, of course.

I was popular enough in elementary school; kids liked me. But I have never been one to have a whole group of close-knit friends that I would hang out with all the time; I did best one-on-one. Hilda (not her real name), my best friend through most of elementary school, was difficult. Sometimes we got along great; but lots of times we were not speaking to each other. One time—when we actually were speaking and, I thought, getting along—she made a point to tell me that I wasn't her best friend, some other girl (whom I'd only met once or twice) was her best friend. That hurt! But when we were getting along we had fun; and she was still the best friend I had around.

In sixth grade this new girl, Kim, moved in. I thought I might like to get to know her, but "Hilda" said, "Let's not be friends with that new girl." And she said that she wouldn't be my friend any more if I befriended Kim. Well, that's not a dilemma; it's a no-brainer—for an adult. But that ultimatum was a big deal to an eleven-year-old kid who needed a friend.

It was hard for me to avoid Kim since she and I were in the advanced reading group together—a group of only six kids (and she and I the only girls). We went for a few weeks trying to ignore each other (Kim thought I was a snot—Hmmm. Wonder why?). But I still thought I'd like to get to know her. I finally told our teacher my problem, and she advised me to just try playing with Kim—even suggesting that "Hilda" might not be such a good friend if she behaved that way. So I invited Kim to come play with my dollhouse; we really hit it off and after that we were inseparable. We would walk to school together—which meant one of us walked all the way past the school to pick the other up. Every day after school we were together for hours, either at her house or mine.


Kim and I played lots of silly games together; most often it was Barbies, sitting behind my dollhouse. My Barbie, named Karen, was a wizard and hers was a Nina Ballerina doll; obviously she was a world-famous ballerina. Oh yeah!—and they had a pet tiger (named Kitty—how original!). We played Robin Hood together. Since Kim was a lot taller than I was, she played Little John and I played Robin. We made up our own country; we even had a national anthem (I remember the melody, but not the lyrics; and, no, I won't sing it for you). Kim and I both had little sisters who were three years younger than we were; our country was constantly at war with them. We often had tea with my toy china tea set. We were very proper, and gossiped with "English" accents; her name was Adeline and I was Elizabeth. We had sleep-overs as often as our parents would permit. We liked the same kind of music and books; we could talk about anything, real or invented, and completely understand each other. And we had fun!

Kim's parents were divorced, a novelty in my world then. It was very sad for me when summer came and she spent the entire vacation in California with her dad. But we wrote each other every week; I haunted the mailbox that summer. It was a happy, happy day when she came back to Utah for the school year.

Kim was more social than I ever was and easily made new friends in seventh grade. Again, I was popular enough; I could talk to just about anyone, but I wasn't tight friends with anyone else. Kim and I didn't have any classes together that year, but we did have lunch together and walked to and from school together. Things were pretty much the same between us, The Inseparables.

But at the end of seventh grade, tragedy struck: Kim was going to live with her dad permanently. I was heartbroken. We still wrote to each other pretty much every week, but there would be no reunion at the end of the summer. I remember the first day of eighth grade, when my Health teacher called roll; Kim's name was on the list (the teacher couldn't pronounce "Shakeri"). It was all I could do to keep from crying. No one knew a Kim Shakeri—except me. [That's Kim in her 8th grade year. This is how she looked about the time she moved away. Funny; for as much time as we spent together I couldn't find any pictures of the two of us together.]

My time after school quickly got filled up with dance lessons and piano lessons (I'd done both all along, but now I was advancing and spending more time at them). Soon I got my job at the dance studio; my after-school days were completely packed. Kim and I still wrote each other frequently. I don't know if she truly realizes how important she was to me, but I never had another friend like Kim until I met Bruce. (Except he and I didn't play Barbies, and we never had sleep-overs until we got married.)

Over the years Kim and I have kept in touch. Sometimes we've lost track of each other for a few years at a time, but then we find each other again. Now we email each other kind of sporadically (actually she's very prompt at writing; I'm the sporadic one). She's married and has two darling girls; she still has a wide circle of friends. I'm glad that I'm still part of that circle.

[Senior highschool pictures. Doesn't Kim look beautiful?]

It's NOT My Fault!

Well, maybe it is. But it hardly seems fair. First of all, I got shin splints during my morning walks and had to go off of my walking routine for two weeks. Then I spent last Monday night puking my guts out, and was slightly nauseated for three days after that. But then, I must admit, that even when I felt all better I was not very careful. (Like my eating about a half-dozen applesauce cookies yesterday.) So maybe going up by only .4 lbs. is actually a great triumph! ;-)