Moving Mountains

I don’t set New Year’s resolutions for the same reason I don’t diet. If I don’t reach my goals, I feel guilty, like I’ve failed. It doesn’t matter if I’ve achieved small victories along the way.

So when I set out to live my life not dictated by excuses, I refused to call it any sort of resolution. It was less about the year 2011 and more about setting forth to achieve one thing at a time. I wanted to feel proud of my achievements – I didn’t want to minimize them because I didn’t accomplish all of them within the year.
And now here we are, with the end of the year approaching. I’ve learned a lot about myself.

I’ve learned, for instance, that risk is necessary for return. Sure, it’s a simple fact. But it’s a simple fact I had to feel to know. Saying goodbye to safety can feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach, the air knocked right out of you. But if you cling to what is safe, you never can experience what is good and new and right.

I’ve learned that some things can be fun even if you’re not good at them. I have never misjudged myself as a coordinated athlete. But knowing I was uncoordinated provided me an excuse to avoid fun activities. Skiing, running, playing basketball and going for bike rides were dismissed as activities that weren’t for me, because I figured I wouldn’t be good at them.

Well, sure, skiing down a mountain holding onto my friend’s ski poles while he held them horizontally and skied backward in front of me wasn’t the most exhilarating experience. In fact, there were moments of fear and moments of butt-bruising involved. But you know what? I had fun. We laughed the whole way down, and we gave everyone we passed a good laugh as well.

I’ve learned that things change, and I change right along with them. And that I need to pay closer attention to the changes, so I can learn to enjoy them or, well, brace for them. Exhibit A: Who woulda thunk someone could become susceptible to sea sickness with age? Rocking boats never used to bother me. But boy, do they now. But then again, I never would’ve guessed I’d enjoy riding my bike as much as I do. Sure, riding on the city streets still scares the bejeezus out of me, but I’m doing it anyway.

Behold, some of my 2011 accomplishments:

Went skiing
Started running
Went sailing
Played basketball with the big boys
Returned to yoga (sort of)
Broke old patterns
Wore shorts, psoriasis or not

So I had a good year. I'm learning to love myself. Really love myself. Without judgment, expectations or success. Just to love and accept myself the way I am.
Because some people are meant to ski down mountains.

And some people are meant to move them.

Run Away With Me

One foot in front of the other. It's how we make it through a day. Every day we somehow find the motivation, strength and drive to pick up one foot, move it through the air, and place it in front of the other foot. Sometimes we take baby steps, and sometimes we run in full strides.

After a particularly rough day earlier this week, I decided I wasn't going to beat myself up for my silly shortcomings. On this day, I decided just to give myself a pat on the back for surviving as an adult. After all, I wake up every morning, climb out of bed (albeit usually late), and I go to work or to my volunteer program. I pay my bills, I take good care of my belongings, even better care of my dog, and I continuously put one foot in front of the other. And just for this, I need to give myself credit.

Because I can't always succeed at everything else, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't try. I can't always succeed at being an amazing friend or sibling or daughter. I can't always be perfect at my job. I can't always be pulled together with a nice outfit and a clean apartment. All I can do is give myself credit for making it through the hard times, the mundane times and enjoying the happy ones.

Lately I feel like I've been running at full speed without ever reaching a destination. I'm busy all day long every day without ever really accomplishing anything.

But I have accomplished one big thing these past few months. I've taken my one-foot-in-front-of-the-other approach to the treadmill. While I feel like I've been running full speed in life, I've been pacing at more of a jog on the treadmill. A jog of 4.3 mph at a 3 percent incline. But to me, this is an achievement.

As dumb as it sounds, running is one of those things I've always told myself I couldn't do. I'd given myself so many excuses that I'd come to believe them.

And over Thanksgiving, when I was away from a gym for a whole week, I got restless. I decided I had to learn to run.

I made the decision for many reasons, but mostly it was that I was tired of telling myself I couldn't do it. So when I got back to my gym, I hopped on the treadmill with the intention to walk for two minutes and then run for two minutes, alternating between the two.

And then I hit minute 11 of running straight, and I realized I really could do this. When I felt like I couldn't go on, I just told myself to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

I'm running a 5k in February, and then maybe I'll spring for a 10k after that. I'm doing it. I feel good. I feel accomplished. And I feel like so many of the other little failures in life fade away after I've pushed myself through a good run at the end of a shitty day.

Either way, all it takes is putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes it's baby steps, sometimes it's a full-speed run. All that really matters is that I continue to give myself credit just for sticking with it.

Because really, it's just about not quitting.

Why Kim Kardashian's Response Was Wrong

Sometimes, I feel like a sham.

But when my friend emailed me the other day with the news that Kim Kardashian had been diagnosed with psoriasis, I felt a little more like a whole person.

You see, at the age of 11, I too was diagnosed with psoriasis, the chronic auto-immune skin disorder that affects more than 7 million people in the U.S. By the time I was 12, the disease covered every part of my body except my face. Around the same time, my friends had all started to discover makeup and short dresses, tank tops and boyfriends.

Yet I was busy discovering things like salicylic acid and coal tar and UV light treatment and therapy. It was a trying experience, to say the least.

But years later, I’ve learned to maintain my psoriasis to the point where it’s only on my legs. On the other hand, the clear, often-luminescent skin on my face is the source of many a random compliment; by most societal standards, I am an attractive, stylish 26-year-old. I’ve simply learned to build my wardrobe around pants, leggings and opaque tights.

Still, underneath all that, I feel like a sham, as though I am misleading people into believing I’m more attractive than I actually am. I’m constantly concerned that, if people were to get a glimpse of the red, scabby marks on my legs, they would think of me with pity instead of admiration. And so I just hardly let anyone in on the secret. This has often meant turning down invitations to the beach, pool parties and even sporting events.

This summer, however, I decided to make a change. I bought shorts. And I’ve been wearing them.

And so when I heard Kim was diagnosed with psoriasis on her legs, it made me feel a sense of solidarity. It made me hope that, hey, if someone as beautiful as Kim Kardashian can go public with her psoriasis, maybe I can, too. Maybe if people know she has it, it won’t garner so much of a disgusted, uneducated, fearful response when people discover I do.

But then, I watched the episode, and my heart sank. The previews sensationalized the “mystery rash” as though it were a flesh-eating disease. And then, upon being told that she’d joined the group of 7 million-plus psoriasis sufferers, Kim seemed to think she was above such a thing. “Psoriasis? I cannot have psoriasis!” she said. “People don’t understand the pressure on me to look perfect.”

Actually, Kim,I understand perfectly. I know what it feels like when people look at your beautiful face and don’t expect to glance down and see sores. I know what it feels like to have people assume, as your sister did, that you caught ringworm and are contagious. I know what it feels like to have an immune system that should be protecting you but instead betrays your outermost self. I know what it feels like to itch and bleed and worry about developing psoriatic arthritis before 30. I know what it feels like to try every diet and treatment known to mankind, from injections to steroids to ointments to homeopathy.

I know what it feels like, and so do about 7 million other people.

We aren’t alone, and neither are we special.

Just the other day, I confided in my ex that I was scared that I’d eventually have to reveal my disease to a future partner. And his response was wise.
“I think about half of people have something that makes them feel that same way,” he said.

And I suppose he’s right.

Little Fish Reaching for Stars

One of my dad’s favorite sayings is “Hire a teenager while they still know everything.” Because at 18, you do think you know everything, and you think you can do anything, too. There is a sense of promise. Promise of high-powered careers and budding romances, white-picket fences and a full and happy heart. Promise that you – yes, YOU – have what it takes to make it big out in the world.

It’s interesting how quickly we go from a know-it-all teen to a wide-eyed 20-something. Suddenly, we’ve gone from seeing the world as our oyster to feeling like a little fish in a big pond.

Most of us have experienced those moments. The ones where we stop and ponder just exactly how little we know and how much we used to think we did. Those who were the smart kids in high school begin to realize there’s always someone smarter. The popular kids figure out there’s always someone cooler. And hopefully, they also realize that instead of comparing themselves, they should learn from one another. And figure out where they fit best among themselves.

Because surrounding oneself with friends who spur one another on really is the best way to learn as much as you can. Having friends who are smarter than you or funnier than you, but who also give off a sense of inclusivity can bridge the gap between naive teenager and functioning adult. And to eventually help you find that balance between clueless ignorance and mindful curiosity.

It's these voices that follow us as we make life decisions. We consult our trusted loved ones. We trust that, collectively, their knowledge and insight is often more than our own. We build ourselves pillars in the form of the funny strong, smart, funny, cool, athletic or big-dreaming humans we choose as friends.

The catch is they're humans.

It’s because I don’t know everything that I look to my friends around me. Friends who bring something to the table I do not. We look to each other for knowledge, advice, perspective. Yet, as I learn and explore and try new things in an effort to broaden my horizons, face my fears and live a full life, I’ve found that most people respond with either encouragement or warnings. Where is the line between unwavering support and cautionary concern?

For example, when I told one friend I was getting a bike, he responded with concern. “Whoa, you sure that’s a good idea? You’re not exactly the most coordinated human being.” He had basically given a voice to the concerns in my head (and in my blog post). It wasn’t discouraging, but it might have been had he not been the friend who had rescued me after I’d hit another car on a one-way street only to have my battery die after we’d filed the police report. His concerns were fair.

And then I told another friend about the bike, and the response was, “Awesome! Let’s go on a ride together!”

I’m not sure which was the best response, but I’m pretty sure I needed both, the balance of it all. I needed someone to express concern, and I needed someone else to tell me I should go for it, to tell me to put my pedal to the metal, if you will.

So as I climbed atop my new bike for the first time, I carried both attitudes with me. I had one friend’s voice in my head saying “Be very, very careful.” And I had the other friend’s voice saying “Go for it! Fly like the wind!”

I did both. I was careful. I flew like the wind, and I made it back to my apartment sans injury. My hope is when I tell them I want to do something a little more bold than riding a bike, I'll get the same balance of support.

Because I don’t know everything, which is why I have friends. Because they know me. And collectively, we all know a lot more. And though we’re not teens any longer, perhaps with all our collective knowledge, we can successfully reach for the stars.

Bikes and Driving

I’ve never been in a biking accident. I know, I know, with all the stories I have to tell about crazy (but pathetic) injuries, you’d think I’d have fallen down a hill only to have my bike land on top of me, right?

No, I’ve not had any real problems with bikes except that I couldn’t keep up with everyone because I was too chubby. A few months ago, I was driving around my neighborhood and I saw a group of young boys biking about. About a block behind them was their chubby friend. They’d stop and wait for him occasionally, but his face sure was bright red. I’m not sure whether it was from exhaustion or embarrassment, but I’m willing to bet both. I could relate.

I’ve actually come to love biking. But only in calm, quiet areas where there aren’t cars or any other real danger, for that matter. Recently when I went to my quiet hometown to spend some time with my family, I arrived just in time for a group bike ride. Because I’d just pulled into the drive about 3 minutes earlier, I decided I’d take my little dog along for the ride. He’d been cooped up in the car for hours, and I didn’t want to just shove him into the house.

I took him on a test run first. I plopped him into the front basket and biked past about three houses. And I decided I didn’t quite feel comfortable with him in there, because he could jump out.

Turned out, he couldn’t have possibly jumped out.

His poor nails were jammed so tightly into the mesh basket that he couldn’t move at all. I couldn’t move him either, and the more I tried to gently pull him out, the more he bled. ALL over the place. Finally, my dad helped shove his nails out of the holes one by one, while I held his shaking little body up to take the weight off his paws. I think I was more panicked than he was.

He was fine, but I decided taking him on biking adventures probably wasn’t the best idea. Which was fine, because I haven’t owned a bike since 2006 anyway.

My theory is that I’m a horrible driver. Horrible. I get in accidents about once a year, and surely there will eventually be a whole blog post just about that.

But I figure since I’m SO INCREDIBLY BAD at driving that I can’t possibly be much better at biking – spatial perception and all that. And at least in driving you have a bunch of steel and airbags to protect the other vehicles (or walls, as it may be) from crashing into your vital organs.

And with biking, well, I suppose if you’re OK with looking super dorky you have a helmet. Possibly. And otherwise, you’ve got nothing. Nothing! You’re out on the streets with your whole body exposed and dumb L.A. drivers and you’ve got nothing but one lousy helmet to protect you from sudden death.

Still, I keep going back to one thing: I really do like to bike. It’s fun. It’s nice to have the wind in your hair. It’s good exercise. It’s good for the environment. It’s just, well, good. What is not so good is that I don’t actually own a bike.
And tonight all that’s changing. Because, as of tonight, I own a bike.

I’m not actually sure if I can ride it. I don’t have any idea where I’ll even keep it. I don’t have a bike lock or a helmet or a bike rack. I don’t know bike signals, either.

Most people in my neighborhood have fancy street or cross-road bikes (is that even the right term?) but this is a beach cruiser because a friend is basically giving it to me for a song.

And I’m going to ride that beach cruiser, damn it. I might ride it only in calm, residential streets. But I’m gonna ride it. Maybe eventually I’ll even coax my poor little pup back into the (heavily padded) basket.

Is it really that big of a deal to have a big ol' bike in the middle of my living room anyway? I'm hoping it's not.

Beautiful Skin

I just stood there laughing.

Day one of family vacation and I’m wearing shorts in public for possibly the third time in as many years. Baby steps. As I’m standing at the book section in Costco, I see a 50-something woman openly staring at me. She finally says “You have the most beautiful skin!” When I just smile in response, she repeats herself. “You have the most beautiful skin. You are just so attractive!” And I said thank you, and then I started to laugh. And I just stood there laughing.

“Why are you laughing?” the poor woman asked me, clearly confused.

“I never wear shorts,” I explained as I walked to her side of the display table. As I gestured toward my legs, covered in psoriasis, you could see the understanding dawn on her face. But she wasn’t fazed. “But you’re so pretty,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to worry about that!”

And she’s right. I shouldn’t have to worry about that. I shouldn’t worry about it. And I’m going to try not to.

Namaste, Bitches

A week before I began my first job out of college, my boss emailed me to let me know that a group of co-workers took a yoga class every week, and I was welcome to join.

So I went to Ross and bought myself my first yoga mat.

When the day arrived, I donned my sweatpants, because at the time I had not a clue that such a thing as “yoga pants” even existed. I was clueless. Well, to be fair, I was fresh out of college so I was clueless about a lot more than yoga apparel, but this is neither here nor there.

I loved yoga.

It was a private group class, so I never felt embarrassed if I couldn’t master a tough pose or if I needed to take a break.

But then, I got a new job in Santa Monica. Now, Santa Monica may have more yoga than nearly any other city in California, and so you’d almost think I’d have no excuses.

But if that's what you thought, surely you don't know me well enough. My first issue was that there were so many choices. Within a block of my new office, there were about eight different yoga studios. EIGHT! But I overcame that hurdle – after doing some reading, I picked one.

And it turned me to jelly. I got through each pose by convincing myself I’d stop before the next one. I’d just roll up my mat and leave. But then I’d somehow find myself in the next pose, and the next. And eventually, mercifully, the class was over. And I felt more stressed. Sure, there were a couple ounces of “accomplishment” mixed into my stress, but I couldn’t help but think, No, no, that was not fun. Not fun at all. So I walked my jellied ass to Pinkberry to wash away the memories of the crowded, incense-scented, sweaty, clammy yoga.

And then I never went back.

Still, tonight, almost two years later, I am heading to yoga. A friend of mine is teaching her first class tonight, and it just so happens to be at my gym. So I’m going. And I don’t know why I am not excited instead of mostly nerves mixed with a bit of excitement. After all, I know a lot more about yoga than I did right out of college – not only do I now know about the proper attire, but I actually OWN $100 yoga pants from LuluLemon. (I bought them with all the money I saved by not taking yoga classes in the past two years.)

I’m nervous I won’t be able to keep up and I’ll look dumb. So, in keeping with my lesson from basketball, I need to give myself a little pep talk.

Self, you can do this. You’ve been working out. You are stronger than you used to be. And if the other yogis judge you for collapsing during cobra pose, who really cares? You're the one wearing $100 yoga pants after all!)

**Editor's note: After having now lived on the West Side of L.A. for several years, I know I am surely not the only one wearing LuLuLemons. But hey, whatever it takes to make me feel good, amiright?!

Growing Balls

I got knocked on my ass before anyone even made a basket.

It’s OK – the boys were being so competitive that no one even noticed I was down.

Except the girls, and they just helped me get up quickly. God bless female solidarity.

But it took being knocked on my ass to realize a couple things that would help get me through the next couple hours. I realized I’d have to toughen up in order to not be knocked on my ass (or my face) again. So I followed some rules.

My Rules for Co-Ed Basketball (also, “Basketball for Kindergartners”)

One: Hustle. This means “move fast.” Very fast.

Two: When a wall of a man comes barreling toward you on his way to the basket, get out the way! (Usually when a wall of a man comes barreling toward me, I stand my ground and smile flirtatiously. Unfortunately, I quickly learned this approach doesn’t work in co-ed basketball.)

Three: Keep your knees bent and your hands out, no matter how lame you look.

But really, you can throw the first three rules out the window in exchange for this last, important one.

Have confidence.

After about 10 minutes of the first game, I put myself on the bench. My confidence was shot, and I decided it had all been a mistake. I can’t hardly run on the treadmill without hurting myself, much less actually be a contributor to this game. What made me think I could do this without ending up in the E.R.?

And then I thought, You know what?! I put my workout clothes on, I drove all the way to the court, and goddamn it if I’m not going to do all I can to have a good time or at least get a good workout!

My legs are just as good as everyone else’s. I know how to shoot a basketball, even if I’m not Michael Jordan. Goddamn it, I can do this and I will not allow myself to care whether I look dumb trying.

So I “boxed out” and I covered my opponent so well she never touched the ball. I even got a couple passes and took a few shots. Though I didn’t actually make any baskets (details, details) I only got one airball, so I considered that a small victory.

Three hours later, I was proud of myself just for staying in the game. Thanks to my newly acquired gym membership (no excuses, remember?) I was able to keep up the whole time. Sure, sure, I got a little winded at the end, but you should have seen my defense!

And I left the court remembering what it felt like to be a kid, when I knew I could do almost anything if I put my mind to it.

So, I’m playing basketball again this week. And volleyball is up next.

Oh yeah, and I also wasn’t the only one wearing yoga pants.

Basketball Shorts

I’m playing basketball tonight.

But I’m not wearing shorts.

I’m very anxious, although anxiety is not really a new thing for me. But this is different. The closest I’ve been to playing basketball in about 10 years is shooting hoops with the five-year-olds I work with in Compton. And those kids might be better than me. They've really got some, er, ... "hops."

And now, here I am, voluntarily participating in an activity at which I am no good. I am going to pull on some tennis shoes (nope, not basketball shoes. Do people really just own those?), tie my hair back in a ponytail and hope to God that I don’t injure myself or someone else. But really, who knows if I’m all that bad? And why am I judging myself so harshly before I’ve even changed out of my work clothes?

After making a multitude of excuses, tonight I’m playing basketball.

My List of Excuses

I was out of shape. Well, now I work out regularly so I shouldn’t be huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.

I wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing shorts in front of everyone. Shorts reveal my psoriasis, and then I get to deal with the ensuing pity party. “Oooh, you poor thing! Doesn’t that hurt?” Yes, thank you, it does. And you asking me that doesn’t make it feel better, asshole. And then I realized, yeah, sure, my legs look like I was attacked by a porcupine, but you know what? They work. They bend and brace and jump just fine.

I don't know the right terms for basketball. Or really much else about actually playing the sport. But since when do I have to be an expert to participate in what's supposed to be a fun activity?

Anyway, who cares if I wear yoga pants to play basketball? They are way more flattering anyway.

Someday, I’ll wear basketball shorts to play basketball. I know, novel concept.

But tonight, I’m playing basketball, and I’m not wearing shorts.

What I Want to Do

When I was about three, I picked up what would become the trademark phrase of my childhood.

“But I want to do what I want do!” I’d proclaim when a parent gave me an instruction or a scolding. And by god I usually did it.

But over the years, there was a shift. I became aware of expectations – both from society and even more so from myself. I became my own worst critic. Long gone are the days of uninhibited pleasure seeking, when I’d carelessly pairing pink plaid with pink and purple tie-dye and a square-dancing party was all I wanted for my birthday, regardless of my dancing – ahem – “abilities.”

As I’ve grown, I’ve limited myself based on my fears, insecurities and weaknesses. My childhood full of klutzy mistakes, heartache and what I’ll mercifully call “awkward” stages has ruled my thinking well into my mid-20s. And it stops now.

It stops because I am no longer that awkward somber child who is blind to social cues. It stops because my body and its flaws don’t rule my life. It stops because, well, I’m not the fat kid who got dropped during a trust exercise and had to ride an ambulance home from camp.

This isn’t me anymore. And it hasn’t been me for a long, long time. But for years I’ve said no to opportunities that come my way based on my insecurities. I’ve declined numerous offers to play beach volleyball because when I was 14, I dove for a volleyball and broke my wrist before the season even began. I’ve hated the idea of joining a gym because when I used to work out, I felt so judged by the thin, athletic bodies with which mine couldn’t keep up. I don’t like camping because who the hell scars her legs by running into a four-foot-tall tree trunk?! I’ve even refused to try on fun clothing styles because who wants to see a chubby girl wearing that? Okay, okay. So you get the idea.

But you know what I’ve realized lately? Who cares? Really, now!

Because these are things I want to do:
• I want to play volleyball on the beach, whether I’m good or bad.
• I want to wear a jumpsuit, or to see how it looks on at the very least.
• I want to invite friends over to my place even when it’s not uber clean.
• I want to go backpacking.
• I want to take risks.

And most of all, I don’t want to worry about what anyone thinks, including myself.

So here it is – the beginning. I am doing what I want to do, for better or for worse. And you’re invited along for the journey.

Oceans of love,

Jessyca