Bodily misfortune

More and more often I wonder about human nature. There is something profoundly wrong with us, when we let strangers decide how we feel about ourselves. And how we feel about ourselves, is accepted to be based on a set way of thinking what we should look like, according to a few wise guys with so-called authority and knowhow on the matter. This is not about bad haircuts or torn jeans, chains and nails or too much (or little) make up. We are measured and judged by our BMI, not by our actual looks. I don’t even mention personality here, cause that is, as far as I have understood, not relevant.

I have mentioned my own size here before, but just to remind you, or give you a quick update: I am a rather heavy girl, and I do not mean in the sense of what I am like being around; I am talking kilos.

To change that, I know I have to do something serious about my lifestyle: My dog should get a few extra kilometers’ walk every day, I should eat often and very small portions, I should be more active and perhaps even ride my bicycle to work… Cut to the core weight issues is all about too much in versus too little burned. And if you enjoy too much, well everything we do has consequences. Eating and drinking too.

Now, obesity is a huge burden for those who suffer from it, not to mention how their families are affected. Often frustration, feelings of powerlessness and depression eventually affect the daily lives of people with what is often referred to as "morbid obesity".

Those are the politically correct explanations to what it is like to be fat. The truth is that what really affects a person is not the risk of getting sick. The risk of future serious health problems is not something people really think about. If they do think about it, it is something which could possibly happen others, but not yourself. (Ask any smoker, and they will say that yes, they knew about the risk of getting cancer and other illnesses.  Yes, they chose to start anyway because it will not happen to them.)

The hassle of tying shoelaces, getting in and out of bus seats and cinemas with a trifle bit of dignity left when getting out of there, the constant worry of BO (think for yourself how much effort it takes to move 200 kilos contra 100) or missing a thorough embrace. Not to mention what it feels like to shop for groceries when every other customer in the store pay attention to what you buy and how much.

Fat people are never in commercials or films unless they are there to illustrate a diet of some sort, or they are portrayed as funny, clumsy, often unwashed hair or too much make up, with no true friends and no sexlife.

You know what I find offending about it? There is not one single voice out there who say: “How rude!”  In addition to everything else they have to struggle with, they are suitable for picking on; people are entitled to blame them for their own, bodily misfortune.

Why don’t we ring the doorbell and ask them to join us when we walk our dog? We should give them support and an alternative rather than use them for an excuse to rightfully bully someone.

Maybe it is so that normal size people need fat people to feel good about themselves?

My job....

What teens are best at.

The teens I surround myself with on a daily basis have this perception we are all equal, no matter age, sex and/or position.

I envy them the ability to make life easy on themselves and the way they take advantage of digital medias to make themselves available and to share their life with their friends. I have no idea how often I make comments like: “Sorry, too much information shared in class”, or “Are you listening to what you say out loud now?”

And they have no scruples with making themselves just as comfortable at school as they do at home.

Another fantastic thing about  the youth of today, is the knowledge of the art of negotiation. They come across as fully trained diplomats at the age of 15, and their skill to discuss sometimes hits hard. I feel my authority, on regular basis, being battered, and my pride is dented more often than just now and again.

It may not have been considered a form of art in the past, but believe me: It is!

Everything is up for negotiation:

- Go to bed, it is past your bedtime! (And we have a contract set up and signed by both parties on when bedtime is.)

- But I haven’t eaten yet.

- We had supper just an hour ago, surely you are not hungry?

- I am not hungry, I am just not full! If I am not full, I will wake up feeling hungry in the middle of the night, and then I can’t get back to sleep, even if I get up and eat something.

Of course he will get something to eat before going to bed, even if I know it will take forever for him to eat up.

At work I face much the same challenge:

-       I am sorry, but you are late for class.

-       I refuse to agree that I shall have a black mark for that. I couldn’t find a parking spot.

-       You were not here, were you? If you are not in class you are not present, and if you are not on time you are late.

-       But I was on time! Didn’t you hear me? I was just outside the classroom honking the horn!

-       I heard you, all right. That was you? Thanks a lot!

At this point I know I am getting too close of losing the argument because using irony and sarcasm are never good. Your opponent picks up on it and interpret it as weakness, which is it, and come on even stronger to push you over the edge and agree.

-       I was just trying to make you notice me, I was on the school premises and I was making an effort to get a parking spot and get to class!

-       Listen, a black mark is not a punishment in itself. It is a sign that what you did is not ok. In this case it is a signal to administration that we don’t have enough parking spots for students’ cars. It will not show on your transcript of grades.

-       I know, but it still sucks!

-       I totally agree it is a bummer. But I will write you were not on time because you could not find a spot to park your car. It is not untrue, is it?

-       No, it is not untrue, it is just unfair.

I could have fallen into the trap and insist on having the last word on that one, but experience told me I would fail if I did so. My thought was: Let him win the battle, at least I won the war… this time.

To get into an argument, or negotiations as I prefer to call them (as they are never ill or bad minded) with youngsters who know how to get their way is always a minefield. If it was a subject at school I suspect they would all get straight A’s. I have a lot to learn from them. Can't wait untill I reach their level.

Downfall of men

When I was a kid I learned a nursery rhyme. As far as I know all languages have a version of this riddle:

Humpty Dumpty poem

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses, And all the King's men Couldn't put Humpty together again! Alternative Words... Humpty dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty dumpty had a great fall; Threescore men and threescore more, Could not place Humpty as he was before. These days, to me, this riddle/nursery rhyme/poem has been added another answer. It is not an egg (as we would often say); to me this has become an illustration of what happens to a man in high position or with authority who makes the wrong choices. Because it is men, who now face the downfall caused by their actions. It is men, who think sex is something they are entitled to regardless of other people’s feelings or integrity. This isn’t something new in history; men have at all times failed to resist their wanting, their lust, their desire to satisfy their needs when it comes to women (or men, for that matter; some so young they are underage even). Women have at all times held the power of sex. Samson’s great weakness was a beautiful woman called Delilah. She had been promised a great sum of money if she could discover the secret to his incredible strength. To be seduced by a woman is not new in world history, neither is rape where a man (I know women do too, but this is still not out in the open) takes a woman against her will. It doesn’t cease to amaze me how many men do the same mistake of not acknowledging the meaning of the word “no”. I know some men have the notion of “no” actually means “yes”, but you know what? Out of respect of women in general: if a woman says “no” understand it as if she really means “no” at all times! Even when she really means “yes”. If she feels deprived of something which could have been good, well: Tough! I give my money, time, attention, care and effort to a great deal of people and organizations. What I own and what I am are resources to those I surround myself with and causes I believe in. My sexuality is the one thing I insist on having the right to give to the man I choose at a time I choose. We must always keep in mind the expressions “consenting party” and “consenting adult”. Too many forget these are the two rules we follow when it comes to having a sound and safe sexuality with no risk of wrecking homes, hurting people we care for and love and causing our own downfall. From the errors of others, a wise man corrects his own.  ~Syrus http://www.rhymes.org.uk/humpty_dumpty.htm

Having a "secret" impact

Being famous can’t be easy, and if you in addition are rich, well, you will always suspect people to be around you for the wrong reasons. (Right for them, perhaps, but so very wrong for you, that is.)

And if they are around you for the right reasons you always risk that confidence and trust will be broken in the future.

Anyway, I am not famous, I am not rich and I am very, very far from ever becoming either. I am not sorry about it, though, because I have this notion that it would have deprived me of more privacy than what I hold today.

What I do feel intrude my private sphere is the knowledge people in the local area have of me. Because of my job it seems like as if everybody knows who I am… I hardly know anybody but when I introduce myself I often get the “I know, I have heard about you”:

I hardly ever go out. Not because I do not enjoy being social and to have fun, but going to a public place to me often includes the charm of having a former (or present) student who wants to tell me about his successes and fortune and life in general.

One day I was standing in line at the cash in my local store, and behind me I could hear two women talking. They didn’t lower their voice or anything, so it was not like I was eavesdropping or something like that; it was just, you know, the kind of background noise talking between people often is.

Then I heard my name mentioned and my ears just tuned in, all by themselves. They were referring to something I had said in class. None of them were my student, but I recognized one of them as being the mother to one of them.

In this case it was all innocent and well received, as it was about what consequences it will have if you fail in one or more subjects, but it made me think.

I say and do quite a lot during my teaching every day, and everything is not necessarily all that well thought through, and sometimes I get lured into topics I really should not go into depths with (At least not in a classroom full of teens). Even worse, maybe, if what I say is misunderstood because I choose the wrong or bad wording.

I understood quite a few years ago that my profession has the side effect that I will be talked about by strangers every day. Every day one or more of my students will talk about me among themselves or to members of their families.

I just never thought that what goes on in the classroom would be something that people took notice of and cared to repeat, let alone point me out as the source and tell my name.

Challenging driving conditions

When I woke up this morning and looked out of the window everything was covered in snow. Beautiful, calm, silent snow with promises of joyful play for the kids.

I grew up a bit further north from where I live now, and every winter we knew there would be snow; a lot of it. I learned to drive a car with icy and winter-like driving conditions 4 months of the year.

Here… we are lucky if we get a few centimeters a couple of days each year. We had snow about a week ago, but the freezing wind turned it into hard crust and it was very icy… apart from the roads, which were dry and comfortable to drive on.

I like the snow, and I enjoy driving. But here they tend to salt the roads as soon as they expect we will get some sort of winter-like weather.

The result is a strange, dry slush which sticks to the car, especially under the mud flaps, causing the car to react a tiny bit slower. Or they plow the roads before salting them, and we get a wet salty road splashing up on both the car body and passers-by.

This morning I knew it would be a lot of obstructions on the road on my way to work (previous experiences told me that much), so I started early. I left my house thinking I was so early I would get ahead of the rush hours. Normally it takes me 13 minutes to drive to work. This morning it took me 2 hours!

The road was not slippery; there was snow, but no ice: It was perfect winter driving conditions and yet the traffic stood still.

I am a rather laid back person, it takes a bit to get me angry, but this morning my temperament really was boiling. If you don’t know how to master the driving condition you really should not drive. Get on a bus!

If you chose not to change tyres or you drive on worn out tyres: winter driving conditions is really not for you and/or your car, the rest of us will be late for work you see, and even more to consider: you really, really upset us who are comfortable driving and cause dangerous situations like hazardous overtakings and that does not help one bit when you are stuck in a queue of cars snowing down.

Do I seem a bit annoyed, perhaps even angry? I am! And now that I am writing this I feel bad about it.

I know we are different and have different skills. I know people have their routines of how to get to work or school. I know it is hard to wake up and change plans. Still, when you are good at something it is hard to settle with the fact that others are not, and I should learn how to be more indulgent.
That is my challenge this morning.

I got a horse when I was a kid.

When I was a child my father got sick. His condition resulted in numerous emergency hospitalisations and my mother took an education and worked nightshift as a licensed practical nurse. By the time I was 11 my siblings had moved out, and the work on the small farm we had was, to a large extent, my job.

I didn’t really mind getting up feeding the sheep before I went to school… even if I have to admit I did not always have the time to shower before school. (To my classmates during those years: I apologize!)

I didn’t mind feeding the sheep at night before supper. There is something soothing about listening to animals settle down and eat, and in many ways working with them was to great comfort.

I didn’t even mind the nights of watching the sheep during lambing. To help new life into the world was perhaps scary at times, but when they fed for the first time and their little tails propelled like frantic all was good.

My Border Collie was my loyal friend and companion, never too far away and always willing to join me no matter the weather condition or temperature outside.

I had a good childhood, maybe different, but I never thought I was worse off than others: I learned to cook quite young, I learned to figure things out and make small repairs. I plowed my first potato field at an early age and all in all I think I got to do stuff many kids only dream of doing.

But there is one thing I still have a bit problems coming to terms with. I still wonder what my father was thinking!?

In our village there were several small farms. A few had horses, and the girls (mainly) who did not have a horse themselves were allowed to currycomb and rub down the horses, they would muck out the stables and enjoy it, they fed the horses and talked about it all week. They all wanted a horse of their own.

When I was 13 my dad told me he had decided to give me a nice surprise. I was all exited, maybe he wanted to give me a new bike (the story about my bike is a long and quite funny one, at least to me it is funny… now) or maybe it had something to do with my room?

It was nothing of the sort. My dad was quite pleased with himself when he told me he had bought me an Iceland pony. My heart fell to my stomach, and all I could think about was how much work a horse would add to my already full schedule. I had heard the girls talk about the currycombing and the mucking, the special diet a horse needed, the cleansing of hoofs and everything else they got to do to and for a horse. I knew nothing about horses apart from the fact they require quite a bit of work and dedication.

I never told him this. My worries were less important than the fact he was so pleased with himself and his plan. But I did think a lot about it.

We built a stable in the barn, and the day came when we went to pick up my horse.

Since we didn’t have any kind of animal transportation fit for a horse (transporting sheep only requires a trailer with sides built taller using pallets), we borrowed one from a man who owned many Iceland ponys and we drove off. We took the ferry across the fjord and finally came to the pick up place.

To my surprise it turned out that the herd of horses had just been collected from the mountain where they had been grazing that year. He pointed out a beautiful pony, dark brown with black mane and tail: “That one is yours! She is two years old and no man has ever laid his hand on her!”

She was captured using a lasso, not without a fight though, and we managed to put the halter on her. And at that point she figured she had cooperated enough.

Long story short… 8 men carried the pony into the trailer, secured her and we drove back home. I believe I was pretty pale, I know I was sick to my stomach dreading what may come.

On the ferry I opened the trailer in front and talked to the animal; She looked calm and accepted both my treat and my voice… and I fell in love.

By the time we parked in the courtyard, I was nervous again: Thinking that if she was let loose I would never see the pony again, ever. Since she was a bit nervous and I was not really comfortable with the situation the chemistry between us was probably not the best. I had no hope of us cooperating when getting her into the stable. My best solution was to mount a drawwork in the stable and vinch her in. It worked. Slowly but surely she accepted moving forward and into the stable. It was victory!

Two days later I entered the stable and we were friends after that.

I knew nothing about horses. And no one really told me how to treat a horse, so we found our own way of how to deal with eachother. I treated her more like a dog, and she fully believed (at least she acted as it) she was above the dog and slightly below me in the hierarchy. The dog, of course, did not agree. Nell, my dog, and Frigga, my pony, would play in the field for hours. Nell trying to be as annoying as possible while Frigga ignored her with stoic arrogance. Then suddenly they would run off in an impressive speed, tails high and peculiar jumps and bounces now and again.

I used to put a blanket on Frigga’s back, to let her get used to the feeling of something being there.

By the time she was 3.5 years old I got on her back and went for short rides. (I know it was probably a bit early, but I was light back then and she was a rather big pony.) I had no saddle (I got one from a neighbor, but the woodwork crumbled on the first ride, full trottle and all ) so I rode bare back. We spent 9 lovely years like that. When I checked on the sheep which grazed in the mountain during summer, both my dog and my pony would follow me, jaunt a bit about but never too far. And when the mountainside was not too steep or the scrub too thick I would ride a bit.

I know I never treated her like a horse should be treated and trained, but it worked for us. The film crew which lent her to use her on the set was not very pleased. She was, apparently, a tyrant to the other horses and not easy to ride. How could she be? I whistled to make her come and I told her left and right, like I did with my dog. An experienced horse rider would not know what to do with my horse or how to handle her... I never knew myself.

(From the film Kvite Viking (White Viking), 1991)