Filed under Refining Fayza …

Feb 13 2011
2 Comments
Refining Fayza

Oh, stupid Cupid, you got me good.

I used to be the kind of girl that ran her life according to a predetermined set of instructions. And by “predetermined,” I mean, something I thought sounded good on Career Day in 1990, so I went with it.

This life plan that I concocted in 6th grade prompted me to go away to college, stick with my (useless, in hindsight) major of international relations (when journalism or interior design would’ve been a much better fit — again, in hindsight), move to California, go to law school, and become a woman that lived life sitting atop the bull, jabbing it with her heel when it didn’t move fast enough.

Never in that equation did I ever plan to become a wife or a mother. In fact, it never crossed my mind to fall in love at all. Why? For what? With what time? I had SO MUCH TO ACCOMPLISH. And women like me — inconsistent, impulsive, highly opinionated, unyielding, fickle women like me — don’t have serious relationships. “It’ll just hold me back,” I convinced myself. “I’m selfish, I’ve got my own agenda, I’m an independent woman.”

Oh sure, I had relationships. If that’s what you’d call a few months of childish games. I’ll make it brief: They all failed. Miserably. Fiery vehicles squarely hitting a concrete wall and then bursting into flames have nothing on my past paramours. Sure, I cried, because of course, it sucked to get my hopes up. But if I’d ever truly believed I was meant to be someone’s girlfriend, it would’ve hurt a lot worse.

But we know what happens to the best laid plans, don’t we?

So when I met Him, I was already with someone else (albeit an ill-suited situation that was about to get worse after I caught him cheating). I’ve never been one to look around while I’m in a relationship, as pathetic as the circumstances might be.

But I couldn’t deny it. As soon as we were introduced, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

My whole life, I had convinced myself that I wasn’t meant to be in love. But that day, I realized how wrong I had been. I was meant to be in love. With Him.

I spent a month or so trying to patch my deceit-ravaged relationship, although I didn’t quite know why. It wasn’t going to work, for many reasons, and we both knew that. But I told myself that I didn’t need it, or deserve it, that love thing. And you know, it’s pretty hard to reverse years and years of self-inflicted brainwashing.

When Fate is talking, you’d better be listening, because she’s telling you what’s up.

Rest assured that over a year later, Fate has done her job well.

Love has gotten me good. I am smitten. I am unabashed. I’ve been knocked so hard upside the head that I don’t even remember life before Him. I love Him something fierce and something deep and something so profound, I never knew I was capable of feeling this way. Never in a million years would I have imagined feeling so passionately about someone other than, well, myself.

And now it’s coming up on Valentine’s Day #2 with Him, and I couldn’t be happier. Or more in love with Him. My whole life has changed — my way of thinking, my outlook on the future, my hopes and dreams for what I want — in the very best way.

I’m so lucky. I know this. I recognize it every day. Because the love I have is the love I need and the love I never knew existed in this world for me.

Happy Love Day to you and the one you cherish and adore. And if you don’t have one of those, keep that heart of yours buoyed. There’s no telling what’s around the corner that’ll suck the air out of your atmosphere and replace it with a cheesiness that knows no bounds.

I wish it on all of you.

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Feb 08 2011
4 Comments
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza

I think I was supposed to be asking these questions when I was, like, 17.

I know it seems like I talk about my age a lot, but as I get older, I become acutely aware of it. I remember turning 25, for instance, and thinking I’d be in my twenties forever. Of course I thought I would be. There was plenty of time for my thirties and beyond at a later date, with which I was unconcerned and probably wasn’t going to come, for that matter.

But now that I’m 31, panic has set in. Not that I’m in a rush to do anything. I’m unmarried, childless, have very little assets to my name (unless you can slap shiny price tags with plenty of digits on two naughty cats and an eight-year-old vehicle), and that’s just fine with me. I realize we’re not getting any younger, but settling down, buying a house, having a family — those things just aren’t priorities to me right now. (I know you don’t believe me about the kids thing, but trust me, my biological clock ain’t tickin’.) Maybe they will be, maybe they won’t be, but I’m not in a hurry to check off any of those boxes.

But like I said, there’s still that nagging whirr of panic. I’m 31. And I don’t have anything to show for it. I’m not talking about progeny or material things. Nah. It’s more existential than that. It’s meaning. Being useful. Having purpose. It’s just not there.

Perhaps I’m in the minority. Perhaps everyone else with 2.5 kids, a picket fence, and a mid-life crisis looming just ahead of the erectile dysfunction diagnosis on the horizon could care less about their places in this world.

Despite it not being presumptively popular, I’m certainly not the only one in her early thirties feeling this inability to fulfill a higher calling. I actually had this text message exchange just this evening:

“You know how older people look back at their lives and regret what they did/didn’t do with it? I feel like that now.”

“We’re not old enough for that yet! What do you still want to do?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know but I don’t want to look back and regret anything.”

“You can still do those things.”

“I feel like there has to be something more to it than the everyday grind of the 9-5.”

But is there something more?

As Americans, we work. We work all the time. We work hard, we work hard, and we work hard some more. We squeeze in play wherever we can fit it, and make excuses when we don’t, justified by clucking tongues and pitying nods. Sometimes even play becomes work. We don’t mean it that way, but it does. And then sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between work and life.

Is that how it’s meant to be?

I’m not sure. I do know that I lead a generally privileged life. Not as a result of my upbringing, but because of sacrifices and hard work and smart moves and tears, lots of those. Does everyone have the same opportunity to make the same pivotal decisions that I could? Of course they don’t. Am I lucky? Absolutely am. Should I hoard that luck? I should think not.

Therein lies the problem. The purpose that’s so required to make charmed, spoiled grown-ups like me feel whole and maybe even a little bit special. It’s a First World dilemma to the highest degree, but there it is — the intense need to make your fortunate days on earth count for something. Or else, your horribly wonderful life seems so, well, gloriously vapid, doesn’t it?

Cue the violin. This one’s a real weeper.

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Apr 02 2010
4 Comments
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza

Now look what you did.

Mistakes. They’re a fact of life. Unavoidable, sometimes excusable, always inevitable.  Whether they’re grand or dismissible, whether they’re rectifiable or complete, they happen.  We’re not born perfect, with perfect brains or perfect thought processes or perfect reasoning skills or perfect processes of deduction.  And so we make them.

What we do following a mistake is really where all the difference in the world rests.  Do we beat ourselves up over it, damning our actions and berating our choices, dwelling on what we did, refusing to move forward? Do we wonder in bewilderment how it happened, yet continue doing the same thing we were doing before we made the mistake, sure to repeat it again because we are unable to see? Do we evaluate what we’ve done, take away the tough lessons, and correct our methods for the future, secure in the fact that what occurred had meaning for occurring?

For as flighty and impulsive as I am (or may seem), I am generally decent at learning from my mistakes.  It might take a little while – I tend to be stubborn or bullheaded, at times – but I come around.  Sometimes in my own time, sometimes in good time, but more or less, in time.  I am a firm supporter of the mantra, “Everything happens for a reason,” and as long as I can find a reason, I believe it.  The desperate brain will concoct the strangest of things when it wants to see the light.  But mostly, humans thrive off of having the answer.  I’m no exception.

Some mistakes, however, plague me. Even if I logically understand why I did what I did, and why it needed to happen the way it did, I still have trouble letting a few particularly notable mistakes go. I ask myself how I could’ve been so stupid, why I simply didn’t listen to myself, how I could’ve been so numb to the reality.  I don’t come up with excuses. I knew better. I continued anyway.

Because, as you can see, although I’m fully capable of processing why something happened and I’m also quite adept at making sure I will avoid said circumstances or situations again, I kick myself over and over for some mistakes.

No, it’s not healthy.  And no, it’s not fair.  And even though it’s a fact of life that mistakes will come and mistakes will go, sometimes, regret lingers far longer than any ol’ lesson ever does.

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Oct 19 2009
9 Comments
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza

If Barbie can do it, so can I.

Go shorty. It's yo birfday.

Photo by one of my favorite Schipulites, QCait.

A week ago, I turned 30.  No, not tricks or vinyl records or seasons, mind you.  Years of age, that is.  I am 30 years old.

30 is a particularly perplexing and unique milestone, but not for the reasons you may think.  No, turning 30 is much, much more than a single, solitary day of the year or the number of candles on a cake that will sit in your fridge until you’re 40.  I knew that 30 – the build-up and the associated mental mayhem, not the actual date, you see – had been hurtling toward me for quite some time now.  I thought I could navigate my way through the accompanying storm a-brewin’ with ease.  After all, like Aaliyah said (and famously adhered to), “age ain’t nothin’ but a number.”  Right?

But I was wrong.  I couldn’t bushwhack my way through the impending dread, uncertainty, and discontent that would accompany the gale-force winds, and, even if I did, try as I might, I couldn’t locate the checkpoints.  And to be perfectly honest, you are simply unable to enjoy much of anything about 29 with the monster of 30 looming on the horizon.

As soon as I conquered the salmonella that dominated the arrival (and departure) of my 29th birthday, I was already three million cognitive steps beyond the last year of my 20s.  Indeed, there’s a great process of self-stock that you undertake when the end of anything is nigh, and the steep cliff of an era in my life was no exception.

I’d begun my 20s as an incurable, indecisive student, then passed the middle of the decade praying that Oprah would pluck me out of obscurity and near-poverty to magically erase my debt, with the end of my 20s spent wishing that higher education didn’t have a price tag or a recommended cessation point.  The 29th year of my life was like a giant magnifying glass for all the missteps, disappointments, and shortcomings that manifested themselves in my 20s.  It was safer underneath that lens – stagnating, rotting, and becoming entirely too comfortable – but the damaging glare was unbearable.

In between 19 and 30, there were countless weddings, mortgages, births, promotions, and relocations, wherein I mostly watched curiously and in a state of complete vexation from the outside (except for the relocations part, that is; I’m pretty adept at that).  And even though I knew that we’re technically supposed to be capable of growing up and being adults, I still felt like everyone was playing dress up with their parents’ clothes and roles in this giant game of life.

Could we really be old enough to commit eternity to one another in holy matrimony?  I was still tossing out last year’s model of my beloved camera as soon as the newest one was released, and zigzagging across the country every two months (or so it seemed) to set up an entirely new existence.  Were we really mature enough to be responsible for the upbringing, health, and happiness of another human being that was 100% dependent upon us?  I could barely keep my cat flea-free and without matted feces on his rear.

When I used to play Barbies with my sister, all of my Barbies would always die off by their 30th birthdays.  It wasn’t because I was necessarily a macabre youngster or anything fatalistic like that.  But to me, life ended when you turned 30.  The age of 30 was simply the absolute stop to everything good that could possibly happen to an individual in his or her lifetime.

And now I’m 30.

And, for that matter, Barbie’s 50.

I feel that this number – 30, I mean – should somehow suddenly make sense of everything now.  Either that, or I should lay down next to Loving You, Dream Date, and Day-To-Night Barbies in the graveyard of 30 year-olds.  I realize I’m probably putting too much pressure on a mere turning of the calendar page, and yet, I feel that if any age deserved pressure, this would be the one.

I feel like I’m the only one left that still doesn’t get it.  For example, there’s a man animatedly dreaming next to me, and he calls me his girlfriend.  I call him my boyfriend.  Apparently this is normal for a woman of my age (I’d posit a guess that women even younger than me have boyfriends, too), and yet, I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing with any of that.  I really don’t.  But I am trying.

And there’s more.  My company recently hosted a conference, and I had the opportunity (and privilege) to speak to attendees on large and small scales.  Some of these attendees stopped me in the halls to thank me for the information I provided in my presentation and to praise a job well done. But still, I don’t see myself as the purveyor of any great knowledge, nor the deserved recipient of any such commendation.  I’m just a chick who does what she does.

To me, I’m still 19.  I don’t know why 19, but I haven’t gotten any older in my own head than that.  And a girl of 19, such as I am, is certainly not equipped to be a wife, a mother, a homeowner, or an expert.  That’s poppycock.

Strangely, I am not actually 19.  I am 30.  I’m not sure how, but my birth certificate doesn’t lie.

It goes without saying that I have a lot of expectations for the onset of this thing, this 30.  Supposing my 30s will thank me for all of the confusion and tomfoolery that characterized my 20s, that is.  Experience is a great teacher.  Now I simply have to take it all and learn from it.

But I really just hope that it all starts to make sense sometime soon. And that it clicks.  And that I “get it.”  And that I am at least able – in some small part – to figure things out. ‘Cause now that I’m 30, I intend to make it to the ripe ol’ age of Barbie.  And then some.  But I’ll never survive if I keep at it the way I did in my 20s.

Barbie, look out for me.  I’m going to follow your line.

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Nov 30 2008
6 Comments
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza, Social Media/Social Networking, Web 2.0 Bubble

How much is too much?

fayza-old-blogpostAbout four years ago (i.e., “way back in the day,” in the chronology of the interwebs), before the advent – or perhaps just the mainstream acceptance – of the term “social media,” I was a blogger.  Sure, I blog now, as you can plainly see (albeit woefully infrequently, I know), but I wouldn’t call myself a “blogger” at this point any longer. A “writer,” yes.  A “blogger”?  Hardly.

What did being a “blogger” entail then?  Well, it was a special, personal role that I embraced, and one that I relished.  I defined myself by this luminous and ambiguous “blogger” status.  I wielded my power to persuade, entertain, enrage, and educate mercifully.  I created a community around my blog.  I nurtured this community by participating and reaching out to the members of it via commenting on their blogs, including them in my blogroll and blogposts, corresponding with them in the comments, and taking an interest in the blogged and unblogged parts of their lives.  You see, they were all personal bloggers as well (as opposed to professional bloggers), and the trials and tribulations they faced became intertwined in my online presence and persona.  I tailored my writing style and content to this community so that they would remain engaged and invested, and so they’d encourage others to do the same.  I made new friendships (both online and offline), and I revived dormant ones via blogging.  Some of my closest and dearest friends originated from the days that I flourished as a blogger.

I wrote under a pseudonym, and it allowed me to write with unadulterated abandon.  It was PG-13 at best, and at worst, it was…well, it was never pornography, let’s put it that way.  It was both freeing and cumbersome to be so upfront and honest.  I allowed every minutiae of my existence to be examined by those that wanted to relate to me, those that wanted to understand human interactions through me, those that wanted to be amused by my debacles, and those that wanted to scrutinize and judge me.

After awhile, I made the executive decision that this approach was unsustainable, and besides, it way too close for comfort.  Perhaps I had not formally attached my given name to that wealth of documented failed dating escapades, for example, but did I really want to cement my reputation in the online world as the quintessential bachelorette, faltering and wobbling and second-guessing her every step in all things life and love?

In a word: no.  While my former blog depicted (and might still be) who I was at the time, it certainly wasn’t the way I wanted to go down in Google-cached history.  I’ve got too much brain, too much heart, and too much soul to make a voluntary and unpaid livelihood out of exploiting and poking fun at my own shortcomings.  As intimately enriching and soul-searching as it might’ve been for me.

And so I began using my real name in all forms of online communication.  My Flickr profile disrobed first (where I was always “Fayza,” but I strictly separated it from my existing online persona). Twitter followed suit shortly thereafter.  Eventually, the protective blog wall collapsed as well.  Without the veil to hide behind, Ifayza-old-blogpost2 was forced to take more responsibility for my words.  Not that I was an irresponsible author of online content in the past, but blogging under my real name made it clear that admitting to various singleton trysts and tribulations would be infinitely attached to both my personal and professional reputation.  In essence, it was time to grow up a little, and the statements I made public for all to see on the interwebs would have to reflect that.  The highly self-analytical, introspective, sacrificial lamb in me had to be gated and penned for the preservation of the Fayzablogging species.  Despite the fact that there were things I wanted to say – generally still being an older version of that haphazard, uncertain, frivolous singleton – there was a better home for those thoughts and observations; namely, not my blog.

But I struggle with this realization every time I explore possible blog topics now.  I wonder who I am based upon the drivel that eventually makes it to your computer screens.  And then I inevitably think, “What do I even write about anymore?”  If sharing the experiences most innate to me are invariably off-limits, what is there for me to say with any sort of authority or know-how or, most importantly, conviction?

I’ve had these conversations with Maggie in the past, and it helps to understand that I am not alone in the sentiment.  They’ve begun like, “There’s something I want to say about my personal life, and I want to blog about it.  But I don’t want to blog about it.  But I do want to say it.  How do you go about doing that?”  I echo those sentiments and that inquiry, because I have yet to figure out how to answer that question for myself.  There’s content that I want to publish – perhaps because I want your opinion, or perhaps because I want to tell you my story – but, as it seems is a no-brainer, I can’t.  I just can’t.  Using my real name requires a prudent exercise of restraint when it comes to what I do and do not post on my blog.  It comes with the territory; my dirty laundry doesn’t need to hang on a public clothesline.  But that sort of self-moderation has been incredibly difficult for me, in the end.  Almost stifling.

I mean, do I publicly string up series after series of text messages like a banner of disappointment from failed suitorships, which I did with glee in the past?  Not advisable.  Do I mourn the details of the professional mistakes I’ve made? Not judicious.  Do I selfishly expound upon what I still desire from this existence?  Not relevant.  Do I want to be defined by my personal life in a realm where I want to be viewed as a professional?  Not wise.  Do I hold back because the subjects with which I’m the most acutely familiar aren’t fair fodder for this blog’s purpose or function?  Absolutely.

Okay, so what I don’t say is generally clear.  But then, what do I say?

Note: Screenshots are actual posts from my former blog.  The PG-rated ones, that is.

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Oct 08 2008
10 Comments
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza

A woman on the verge.

I’ve been attempting to create this post for over an hour. I logged in, I clicked “New Post,” and then…I did everything but write this post. I relocated a few stray containers from ill-fitting locations in my apartment to the tiny closet in my bedroom. I meticulously washed each and every soiled dish, glass, and utensil. I straightened the pillows on the couch. Then I re-straightened them a few more times for good measure.

After all that, I decided to make myself a piping hot pot of soup. At 12:30 a.m. I ate it watching Malcolm in the Middle. You should know, first and foremost, that I detest watching television. Secondly, you should be advised that even opening a can of Campbell’s and dumping it into a saucepan over a protected flame constitutes way too much cooking for me. Especially after midnight. Yet I’d rather do any and all of that instead of writing this post. Go figure.

I don’t even want to write it now. And I’m writing it.

It’s not as if there’s anything to fear here. In fact, Sunday marks the anniversary of the most incredible, most momentous occasion a human can experience while inhabiting the flesh: my birthday. No disrespect to those suffering bloody nightmares climaxing in slitted throats about the aging process, but after age 25, I cannot quite dread earning a few more notches on the life experience belt any longer.

So, my aversion to Sunday derives from an aspect a bit more acute. You see, moving onward in years puts a heavy hand squarely upon our backs and forces us to contemplate the past – whether we desire it or not – before hurtling full throttle toward the future. After all, there are lessons to be learned from the mistakes we’ve made, the decisions we’ve settled upon, and how we managed the hand we’ve been dealt.

In truth, I’m not such a hotshot when it comes to retrospect. It makes my insides cramp and causes me to become swaddled uncomfortably in the past. Why? Because let’s face it – Year 28 of Fayza’s Time on Earth was, oh, um, a composition of about 42.9% frustration and disappointment, 37.2% self-doubt, and 9.65% dizzying nausea (the other 10.25% contains miscellaneous sentiments best thorougly researched within the confines of a thesaurus).

But folks, I’m not copping the role of your garden variety pessimist here! Oh, no, no, no! I’ve got the facts to prove it! However, you don’t need those; generalizations will suffice. So trust me when I say that my 28th year was so full of gnarled tribulations, potholed roadways, and serrated edges that I even found it difficult to put the pen to paper (or the keys to the keyboard) more often than not throughout the course of the last 365 days. And that, my friends, is highly uncharacteristic of yours truly.

But I’m a reasonable girl, and in my waning days of 28, my truths are all unceremoniously splayed about my feet. And the importance of such a lingering backward glance never fails to successfully nudge me toward skipping in pursuit of my greener pasture. No matter how begrudgingly I go.

In celebration of this impending milestone, I present to myself (and you, while we’re at it) this compilation:

Monthly Lessons Fayza Learned
While at the Ripe Old Age of 28
by Fayza

October 2007
Hearts get broken. But if they’re never permitted to be utilized in such a manner that allows them to be broken, they might as well be non-existent. So using the heart? Never regrettable, no matter the outcome.

November 2007
When there’s a risk to take, by golly, it’s irresistible. You might as well take it. You’re going to take it. Or forever hold your timid self silent.

December 2007
Attempts to quash the travel bug only serve to make matters exponentially worse. Andale, andale!

January 2008
Doing that which we believe we cannot do only proves that we are so, so much stronger than we ever, ever realized. Forward motion only.

February 2008
Those whom you trust with your future, your truths, and your happiness in life can and will tell you lies, and betray you heartlessly, ruthlessly, and deceptively. They will derive joy in gleefully taking it all away.

March 2008
When you gut tells you to run, you are allowed a free pass to run. It’s okay.

April 2008
Not all questions have answers.

May 2008
Some decisions, although retrospectively imprudent, are ones you’ll never regret.

June 2008
It is unwise to turn down a second chance at happiness.

July 2008
Mind over matter, body, space, reality, and time. Mind above all else.

August 2008
Once you turn the feeling off, it’s simply not going back on again. No matter how hard you try. It’s futile.

September 2008
Certain friendships demand more than you can provide. It’s okay to want to be able to provide it, and it’s okay to try, but it’s not okay to permit said friendships to cloud your better judgment. You can’t and don’t have to overextend yourself in attempting to make provisions.

October 2008
I am worthy.

Here’s to Year 29.

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Jul 25 2008
1 Comment
Refining Fayza

Post-Haste Post-Race Wrap-Up

It’s been over a month since the race, and I haven’t provided any sort of wrap-up commentary for the arguably climactic end to this journey. Not intentionally, mind you, but…well, it’s hard to explain.

13.1 miles! It’s a fantastic thought, and a pretty big deal, all things considered. The rush of accomplishment after your first endurance event whips through you so fast, and then…it leaves you barren. I’d say that since June 21st, I’ve been suffering from what I’ve deemed “post-race depression.” I can’t recreate the high I felt at the finish line, although I still seek it. And I haven’t been able to lace up my shoes and go for a run nor go to the gym since. I don’t even have the desire to do it. Something in me has been deflated, exhausted, depleted. I’m not sure what, but the days following the race have been ones that I never could’ve predicted, and never would’ve anticipated.

One day after the event, I wrote this in my journal:

June 22, 2008

Thank goodness my first half-marathon is behind me. I, at this point, have no desire to do that or anything similar ever again. I ran non-stop for two hours and forty minutes [note: my official time said something closer to 2:50, though]. I was terrified that if I stopped, my IT band wouldn’t let me start again. So every aid station was a drive-thru, and every urge to walk was something I had to fight. Especially on hills, when every single person seemed to be walking. I simply could not do a marathon with such a persistent, unpredictable injury. But truly, without that injury, maybe I could.

The half was more or less a miserable experience, though. After running for two hours straight, I was really losing my willpower. Really really. I couldn’t seem to put my mind anywhere that made it comfortable to keep running. But I knew that stopping might kill my chances of a successful finish, so I ran uncomfortably.

What a test. Considering how much I’ve gone through since I started training in February ([being let go], moving to San Francisco, IT band injury, [redacted], being unemployed, [redacted], getting a kidney stone, for starters), I don’t think it was particularly what I needed. My will is and has been tested in so many ways ever since 2008 started. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time for me and an endurance event. So, while I suppose I am indeed proud, I’ve got a lot more on my plate than self-aggrandizement right now.

Not the victorious attitude you expected, eh?

I have a different perspective on things now. But that was my most immediately documented reaction.

It’s hard to provide a truer post-race wrap-up than that. Especially when my memory of the event itself is quite piecemeal. I guess bullet points serve the purpose best, in these circumstances:

  • The excitement and build-up to the firing of the starter gun was amazing. Simply amazing. Such a huge mass of people, singing and jumping, then splashing through the puddles in the streets of Anchorage. It was an indescribable feeling.
  • Around Mile 4 or 5, I caught up to a former TNT teammate from Houston. I told her what mile we were on, and she said, “Really? I’m running really slow then!” and took off. I saw her intermittently throughout the race. She finished less than a second before me. We actually have photos where we’re both in the same frame.
  • Running through the woods after Mile 6 was gorgeous and frustrating, all at once. I felt like a magical forest creature bounding through the lush trees, hippity, hippity hopping, I’m free, I’m free! But not having any sort of proper trail to speak of was killer on the positioning of my body. With every step, I landed differently. It was hard to get a rhythm going at that point.
  • I wasn’t going to wear my water belt, but what a foolish move that would’ve been. Sometimes, those water stations can’t come soon enough. And having water on you is an absolute godsend.
  • Especially for all the Advil I took during the race. To prevent the IT band from rearing its ugly, painful head, of course. I took four throughout the course of the journey – two at the very beginning, and two about halfway through. I didn’t have enough room in the little pocket on my water belt (I carried my camera there), so I stuck the tube of Advil in my sports bra. Thank goodness for large breasts.
  • And then, curse those large breasts! I had no idea that the underside of my breast (the right one, in particular) would rub against my body so severely that it’d create a raw open wound! What a surprise to get in the shower after the race, soap up, and then squeal in agony!
  • One of the foods handed to us at the refreshment stations was oranges. I ate the orange and scraped the white rind with my teeth, just like my mom does. That kept me strangely calm and centered; a bit of normalcy in a chaotic situation.
  • People are incredibly friendly along the race trail. I met a lawyer, a woman who used to live in San Francisco but moved to Dallas “for love,” and someone from Detroit. It helps pass the time (and ease the strain) to be able to have panted conversations in the forest.
  • I didn’t listen to my iPod the entire time. Isn’t that amazing? Not even once. It stayed anchored to my jersey with the headphones nearly wrapping themselves around my neck for the entire race.
  • Around Mile 11, I thought I had had it. I felt like I was running in a haze, and I had to physically pull myself forward. And that was when both the sun and the beautiful view of the bay began. I couldn’t enjoy any of it. All I wanted was to finish.
  • At this point, I promised that if I could just make it through this race, I would go back to practicing Islam. Looks like I’ve got a promise to Allah to keep!
  • After the race, I took my first official ice bath. Sure, I’d used bags of ice to bring down the swelling before (while eating bagels and watching TV in the living room), but this was immersion. Wow. It actually felt wonderful.
  • I never want to experience the days after the race ever again. Whatever I can do in the future to avoid it, I will. Oh, the pain, the PAIN! The complete inability to walk normally. For at least a week! Oh, I don’t want to relive that. Ever.

Quite the emotional rollercoaster indeed. I didn’t want to sugar coat any of it, because there’s no reason to do that. And although it may sound like it, it wasn’t a negative overall experience, by any means. It was simply the running of an entire gamut of emotions – fear, gratitude, exhaustion, excitement, elation, depression – all in the course of one day and the weeks immediately following. For certain, I had a lot going on during the past few months – personally and professionally – and I think the half-marathon fell smack dab in the middle of the eye of the storm. But that’s what we call “living,” no?

I’m glad I did it, I’m glad my first endurance event is behind me, and I’m glad I am healthy enough to plan for future excursions. Such as the San Antonio Rock ‘n Roll Half-Marathon in November!

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Jul 23 2008
7 Comments
And the Kitchen Sink, I Left My Heart in Houston, Refining Fayza

Rumors. Substantiated.

A few days ago, there was a monumental Twitter declaration in Houston. Okay, okay, so it only held that magnitude for me, I’ll concede. It consisted of admirable amounts of wooooing and hooooing, claiming I’d been brainwashed into joining the Schipul team in Houston. To that I say, “Joining the Schipul team in Houston? Yes, yes, yes! Brainwashed? Hardly!”

I am incredibly excited and proud to stamp my virtual approval on the rumor that I am relocating – nay, returning – to Houston to become a Schipulite at Schipul – The Web Marketing Company. I formally accepted the offer on Monday, and ever since, my days have been a flurry of making sure all the parts of the puzzle fit together. Living accommodations, exit strategies, goodbyes, and packing up my worldly goods, for starters (including cursing myself for inexplicably growing my book collection in these few short months).

If you would’ve told me a year ago that, even after summarily abandoning it for San Francisco, my heart would still be lodged in the Bayou City, I might’ve poured a beer over your head. If I’d already had enough booze to make me feel that feisty, of course. Because at that point, such an accusation would’ve actually offended me (trust me, I wouldn’t let a good beer go to waste for nothing). But somehow, some way, in some sneaky little manner, Houston got a firm grip on me, from the inside out, and never quite released me from its loving hold. No matter how I kicked or thrashed.

So, in the prime of hurricane season, I’m fixin’ to head straight into the eye of the storm, and embark on what I expect and hope will be the best decision I have made to date.

Y’all, I’m a-comin’ home.

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Jul 18 2008
5 Comments
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza

With an S on my chest.

There’s something inherently confusing to me about America’s favorite pastime. Ahem, not baseball, my friends. I get baseball. I’m referring to dating. Yes, dating. Why? Because. It’s baffling. Annoying. Irritating. Stupid. Moronic. Idiotic. Okay, scratch those. Honestly, dating’s best described as “utterly bewildering,” or “throw-my-brain-against-the-wall frustrating.” Yeah, now that’s more like it!

The proverbial “they” always say, “You gotta play the game.” I mean, c’mon. “Playing the game”? Why do I have to do that? Can’t you just like me and can’t I just like you, and can’t that be that? No, I might get baseball, but that sort of game-playing I don’t get. If we’re going to “play a game,” aren’t we supposed to have protective equipment and some ground rules for governance of the activities, anyway? Hell if I’ve ever seen any of those. In fact, the entire concept is one I’ve never quite grasped, and as a result, I’ve yet to figure out how to do it “correctly.” Needless to say, my foibles and fumbles have been epic in nature, and well, I could tell you stories that would make your head spin right off your neck in disbelief. However, I will not, because that was documented in a blog from days of yore. I’d like to covet a few shards of dignity here.

But sometimes, it’s just hard. Hard to keep sight of what you’re worth in attenuated, sticky situations of enamor. You try to roll like Timex, and your attempts are sometimes unsuccessful – you take a licking and you do your best to keep on ticking. But instead of “ticking,” you may only find yourself buzzing.

I mean, what’s “the game” and what’s just plain intolerable? I might assume I know the answer to that inquiry, but in practice, I may opt for the wrong answer. And don’t tell me to “go with your gut,” because we all know that guts have a tendency to lie right to your face when he’s “so cute” and “was really nice to me” and “kisses like butter.” Um, yeah. It can become incredibly easy to doubt and question what you will and won’t stomach. And what you do and don’t deserve, for that matter.

Gwen’s recent post gently nudged me on a fact I claim to know – that I’m a superwoman, of course. But do I only assert that I know that, or do I really know that? Moreover, do I live that? My friend Michelle always tells us that we’re “at the top of the food chain,” and that we “f*cking walk on water,” and we should be treated as such – and nothing less. Two points I agree with wholeheartedly, for certain. But do I understand that? Do I breathe that?

I’m not sure.

When I’m staring at a call log on my cell that doesn’t include his name (no matter how far down I scroll), or when I am refreshing the browser with my Gmail open and only CNN Breaking News tops the list, my self-image falters. It wobbles. I’ll admit it; it does. Because while I’m certainly not the type to let a relationship (or lack thereof) with a male suitor define me, I want to be treasured and admired by someone who appreciates me. Just like anyone else does. It’s a good feeling, or so I think, and there’s nothing wrong with desiring it. It’s an entirely new interest to me, as I’ve spent a lot of time believing it’s a weakness that I could avoid.  But now I think it’s only human to seek it. And while I believe that I’m intelligent, phenomenal, and (really, really) awesome, I waver a little when the opportunity I have given him to evaluate me on such an intimate level is exploited.

It cuts. It stings. It bites, and maybe it bleeds. Maybe. But it’s not the end of the world. It never is. Of this I’m well aware. I suppose that’s why even when I’m a mess, I still put on a vest, with an S on my chest. ‘Cause no matter what happens, and no matter what he decides, I’m still – very much – a superwoman. Yes, I am.

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Jul 05 2008
1 Comment
Navel-Gazing, Refining Fayza

When’d I get so white?

In an effort to avoid annoying all of my followers on Twitter to no end with my incessant quoting of Salon.com’s interview with “Stuff White People Like” author Christian Lander, I thought I’d post a screen capture of the passage from the article that hit home the closest. It directly addresses white people, their obsession with advanced degrees, the panic that ensues before settling upon the decision to attend law school, and the desire to take that law degree and work for non-profits in order to “be very helpful” so we lawyers can “hold it over other people.”

The fact that any of this banter applies to me, even in a loose sense – I have never wanted to work for a non-profit just so I could lord it over anyone else, but you get the idea – really shocks me. Lander claims the website is particularly written about “left-wing, upper-middle-class white people.” If that’s his succinct description, then I find that interesting, intriguing, and infuriating, all at once. That’s because I never, ever would’ve classified myself in that category – not now, not previously, and likely not ever.

It’s hard to shun the imprints of an upbringing, let’s be honest. I mean, neither of my parents went to college (although they both took college courses, neither finished the degree). For the majority of my life, I grew up in a single-parent household, without the buoy of child support to cling to from the abandoning parent. Which inevitably leads to a vivid recollection of my first experience (which wouldn’t be my last) using food stamps at The Pharm to buy groceries. And that’s just the beginning. But even still, I pinch pennies no matter what salary I’m raking. My clothes are decidedly cheap and acquired cheaply. I suffer from bouts of a tumultuous tummy when spending more than $50, or spending money on things other than food or “useful,” non-aesthetic items, like electronics or furniture. I have always foregone most niceties that characterize a comfortable, middle-class existence because, for the most part, those aspects have never characterized my life.

But in reading the article and digging through the site, I realized that I am an integral part of Lander’s target audience. I mean, as clearly documented, I see no harm in an impromptu pickup league of kickball. I packed up (and sold off) a happy life in Houston so that I could live in and worship the storied San Francisco first-hand. I studied abroad and wouldn’t take it back for the world (no pun intended!). I’m obsessed with vintage wares, I’m a vegetarian, I am working up to running a full marathon, I listen almost exclusively to indie music, and I’d marry Stephen Colbert if I could! The list goes on and on and on! Like my snarktastic friend Leslie says, Lander has us pegged!

Lions and tigers and bears, I’m an upper-middle-class white!

(cue bloodcurdling scream)

Holy cow. When (and how) did this happen?

While I – of course – have justifications different from Lander’s generalized explanations for liking what I like and enjoying what I enjoy, almost anything he says on the matter could admittedly be applied to me in some way, shape, or form. I understand that, I suppose. I more or less accept it, because “denial” is a river in Egypt, you know. But what I can’t grasp is how this makes me feel. Do I feel proud of my apparent ascension, or do I feel embarrassed to be such a sell-out to who I really am? It seems that I’ve “risen in the ranks,” so to speak, in terms of that arbitrary social ladder by which we are still allowing ourselves to be archaically classified. Right?

Maybe. But however accurately the case may be made, I want to make sure that my roots always keep me squarely grounded in reality. I might have a law degree, I might have infinite professional and social opportunities, but I never want to forget from where I came. After all, you might be able to take the girl out of the poorhouse, but I wouldn’t want to truly take the poorhouse out of the girl.

Now please excuse me while I ready myself for a early afternoon round of yoga. Namaste.

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