4 Adultier Things I’ve Tried Since Moving Out

There is a lot of freedom that comes with living on your own– and with it, a lot of responsibility. I’ve found that both have made me feel eager to try new things and learn how to be an adultier adult. The results had.. well.. varying degrees of success…

Mainly failure.

In any case, please enjoy this list of 4 intended-to-be-adultier things I’ve tried since moving out!

#1 – Dishwasher Mayday Turned Mopping Extraordinaire

The day before I moved into my apartment, I spent a good chunk of time cleaning it up. The hardwood floors were covered in dirt and needed a good mop, the windows were nasty and the stove/fridge/dishwasher needed a good wash,too.

It was because of this that I found myself ankle-deep in suds on that fateful Friday evening.

Here’s what I learned:

  • You cannot, in fact, use regular dish soap in a dishwasher, even if it is much more cost-effective.
  • Er, unless you are trying to coat your floor in suds.
  • In which case, you should because it makes mopping a lot easier.
  • As it should since your floor will be covered in suds.
  • You could even tie towels around your shoes and slide about for an extra pizzazz-y polished look.
  • #LifeHACKed
  • Please do not blame me if you ruin your apartment floors by trying this. Calling this epic fail a win would certainly be my sardonic personality shining through.

#2 – Surviving Thriving at the Laundromat

Not very far into my new life, my washing machine broke down. While the landlord came to the rescue with a new machine two weeks later, my minimalist perspective of life had me in a bind. I was out of clothes, towels and wash cloths.

Now I was not about to be that adult who moves out, only to come home a little while later for the sole purpose of having your mom do your laundry.

So, with the situation dire, I braved the laundromat.

Here’s what I learned:

  • Laundromat owners must be stinking RICH. $3 per wash?? $3.50 per dry?????
  • All kinds of people hang out at the laundromat… I’m pretty sure not all of them are doing laundry.
  • Some people bring their laundry and leave, then come back a couple of hours later to pack it up. I still can’t decide if that’s courageously smart or really, really stupid.
  • You should always bring food with you because you will be bored and it is easily the best boredom cure. Also, everyone will stare longingly at your meal while you just smile in that “I know you wish you were me” kind of way.
  • You’ll have to ignore a creepy, pot-bellied, clothed in riding up ratty t-shirt, old guy who spends the entirety of your stay staring at you.
  • You may feel an insane desire to leave as soon as the wash cycle finishes. If this happens, just dump your sopping wet clothes on the backseat of your car and speeeeeeeeeed outta there.

#3 – Growing a Dying Garden

More recently, I was inspired by the warming season to start an indoor garden. I eat a lot of veggies so this seemed the obvious thing to do!

But, uh, be careful what you choose to grow.

Here’s what I learned:

  • Indoor plants attract bugs just like outdoor plants and indoor veggies left sitting on the counter a couple of days too long.
  • Tomato plants take FOREVER to grow so, like, plant them in 2016.
  • Don’t buy a dying tomato plant.
  • If the plant has a teensy bit of purple-blue hue on its leaves and it doesn’t normally have purple-blue leaves, don’t buy it. The thing is diseased.
  • It is actually possible to feel emotional over a dying tomato plant.
  • Green onion is so extremely incredibly easy to grow!
  • I don’t actually eat that much green onion…………….

#4 – Old Lady-ing in a Dance Cardio Class

I’ve always loved to dance- be it in worship or like a lunatic to that. sick. beat.

The point is- it’s fun and exhilarating and I could do it for hours. So, obviously I figured this would make the perfect exercise routine!

I’ve always been curious about dance cardio classes and this last week my curiosity was permanently satisfied. My sister and I signed up for a class that was within walking distance for the both of us.

Here’s what I learned:

  • I am an older lady than the old lady who was in the class.
  • That old lady had better rhythm than me (of course she already knew the moves…).
  • Apparently I don’t know that many dance moves.
  • Dance is fun, except for when it’s exercise and you don’t know the choreography.
  • My sister, who just birthed a child, can keep up with a group of fit people better than I can.
  • I should probably try a belly-dancing class next, as the slow version of it was the only part I could keep up with.
  • Even though the instructor tells you that nobody is going to laugh at you, people will laugh at you. Instructor included.
  • Custard never tasted so good as it did post-class.
  • Turns out I crave Mexican food when I dance.

What are some new things you tried when moving out on your own to be adultier?

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I Go to Seek

I’m addicted to seeking adventure.

Note how I said that. It’s not the adventure itself (though they’re generally pretty legit), but the journey to that adventure that I’m addicted to.

I love to look, plan, search. I’m built for it.

That seems to be a theme among story tellers and world adventurers, from recent phenomenons like John Green to age-old favorites like A.A. Milne (Winnie the Pooh 😉 ). The idea of planning and working towards an event being greater than the event itself is reflected throughout their art.

 

… and sometimes they literally say it.

I tweeted a while ago that I’ve always been the kind of person who views life like a check list and that I want to complete as much as possible before I die. Though I also mentioned I’ve accepted this about myself (and I have), within this addiction to wanderlust lies a hidden battle for me.

You see, with every setting of the sun, I have less time to scratch out the items on that list. So when things slow down, when change doesn’t happen quickly enough, when the list grows at a rate faster than it can be crossed off.. well I shudder.

The lack of pursuing adventure is, perhaps, the greatest factor that urges me deeper into the dark valley of depression.

Let me pause to say that I’m not trying to be dramatic here. I’m just writing as fast as I can to keep up with whatever is pouring out of my heart in this moment.

Depression.

It’s another topic I don’t mention much for two very frustrating reasons. Reason One: the “just get over it” stigma that everyone associates with it. Reason Two: the “why don’t you just pray that demon away” stigma that Christians associate with it. Yes, some depression is a whimsical call for attention, and some of it is a spiritual attack. BUT. Some of it is unrest, a chemical alteration in your brain’s ability to perceive the world.

And unfortunately, it’s a nasty side effect of life-limiting chronic illnesses like Fibromyalgia.

I don’t take the term “depression” lightly. I was diagnosed by several doctors, so please know that I’m not just calling the ebb and flow of life “depression.” I’m talking about the dark creature that haunts your waking and sleeping hours with whispers of anger, defeat, self-loathing. The heavy, suffocating sadness that sits on your chest and laughs at you while you try, struggle, to breathe. The lying, snaking tongue which convinces you that you don’t know how and aren’t worth trying to learn.

It maliciously wanders into the pathways of my mind on a frequent basis, and it takes special enjoyment in torturing me when life gets too quiet. When change stops coming my way and I’m forced to sit on the same couch, staring out the same windows for days.. weeks.. months.

Thank you, Fibromyalgia.

J-Freaking-K.

After all of my reading, studying and researching, it is with unwavering faith that I can say my favorite quote is “I go to seek a great perhaps.” These words were first spoken on the deathbed of the French monk Francois Rabelais in 1553, and they have since traveled the world and ages in the works of many known and unknown artists. It resonates with us.

I have a poster of this simple phrase-turned-mantra situated above my kitchen sink, surrounded by pictures I’ve taken on some of my journeys. It reminds me that there is always a perhaps. There is always something to seek. There is always a reason for passion.

Or, to paraphrase Jane Austen, there is always the happiness that comes from the expectation of happiness.

All I have to do is plan, then go.

I was sitting at my work desk a couple of weeks back, staring at my too-bright computer screens, reading the flood of requests coming in from coworkers who needed my assistance. The same requests, day in and day out. Paralyzingly dull, mundane tasks.

When did I get stuck in such a rut?

Rise with the sun, go to work, eat dinner, fall asleep before the sun can even set.

Sure, I’ve been battling a nasty, lingering flare up. But is that my only excuse?

And if it is, can I find the will power to overcome it?

Not without plans. Something to reach for. To anticipate. To seek.

So I set aside my work for a short time and started planning. I wanted to cram as much adventure as this weary body could possibly take into my 2017. With each hand scrawled note of places to see, hours to drive, items to pack, the weight of that depression began to lift.

Four trips planned and I’m not through this bout yet, but I’m muddling my way to the other side.

When I wake up in the morning, the sun’s glow slowly filtering into my room, I remind myself of what’s to come before I have the chance to ponder what is. It inspires me, fills my lungs with breath, makes the unbearable in-and-out of the day bearable.

On Saturday, my sister and I road tripped to Lake Erie. The change of scenery gave my legs the strength to stand back up; that muddled crawl turned into a walk.

I live for change.

I believe that’s why God called me to what He has, He knew I could never be content with sitting still. I need Him and the adventure He beckons me to. I need to plan. To seek. To go.

I’ve got an estimated hours 417,421 hours left. I don’t intend to waste them.

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Post Script: This Friday, May 12th, is International Awareness Day for ME, CFS and FMS. Please mark it on your calendar, find someone who battles these illnesses, then show them that you are aware. Do something, anything, to breathe and walk for them on that day. They will appreciate it more than you can possibly know.

May 12th

What time is it?

The angry red font of my clock blinks at me to the rhythm of the invisible army of ants crawling up my legs: 3:43 AM.

I roll over and forcefully slam my legs against the bed, trying to dissuade the nasty creatures. The sudden movement stuns the army, sparing me for a moment, before they angrily begin biting into my skin. I vigorously rub my legs against the sheets, back and forth, trying to knock the little beasts loose. I suppose it only infuriates them further as now they’re stabbing my hip socket with a sword.

Okay, maybe it’s not a little army of ants. Maybe it’s a giant centipede with venomous spiked toes that sink into my skin, dosing me with an early demise, and a pickaxe tugging my femur out of socket.

I can’t take it anymore and knock the blankets back, then scratch like mad at my already bruising skin. Soon the purple rash has turned a dark crimson and I realize I’ve broken skin with the uncontrollable desire to scrape the invisible creatures off.

I quickly move to get out of the bed, before the blood can drip onto my new sheets, but am suddenly winded from the change in position. I sit there, poised at the edge, gasping for air and trying to see around the black splotches consuming most of my vision. The anxiety hits. Tears form, either the result of the pain in my chest or the feeling of my legs slowly pulling out of socket. My feet are anxious to reach the floor that is too far away, pulling slowly away from my ankles as they dangle just inches above the hardwood.

3:57 AM.

The anxiety monster isn’t loosening his clutches on my rib cage, but I am finally able to see and stand. I listen to the sound of fifty-seven joints pop back into place as I rise, the sound resembling a machine gun with a suppressor on its barrel.

“Breathe.” I tell myself between gasps of pain and start to hobble to the bathroom, legs sore and creaking from the strain, arms outstretched to hold my elusive balance. The room is dark and my head is spinning, am I even upright anymore?

After what feels like an hour, I reach the restroom and proceed to purge my body of everything I’ve eaten in the last 24 hours. It’s not a purge by choice, but the maddening pain has made me nauseas. I’ve forgotten why I’ve come to the restroom in the first place, but apparently it was needed.

4:52 AM.

I’ve been tossing and turning in bed for half an hour now, and still I can’t catch that ever elusive sleep. When I finally feel as though I may slip off into the land of dreams, I’m caught in the in between where the my body confuses the blood in my veins for battery acid. Everything burns. Everything itches. Everything aches. Everything hurts. Everything.

I can’t breathe. I’m scared. Is this real? How? How can it be real?

Someone help me!

God. Please. Help me.


I don’t like to talk about it, mainly because being around someone who only wants to discuss their pain in life can be quite a drag. When friends and family ask me how I’m doing, I silence the urge to tell them that I feel like I’m dying without the relief of death. Instead, I say: “I’m doing.”

This is hopefully enough to convey that I’m not well, but I’m not unwell either. I’m normal. Well, normal for a FMS warrior.

Fibromyalgia does so much more than give you intolerable pain. Actually, I’d venture to say that if it was only pain, it’d be tolerable.

It’s a monster that steals your breath in the night so that you wake up suffocating. It steals your ability to go on a casual stroll with a boyfriend. It steals your stamina allowance for normal work hours and normal sleep routines.

It tells you that you’re starving, then makes you vomit foods that you dared to swallow. It tells you that you’re dying of thirst while it gives your bladder the workout of its life. It yanks your joints out of socket and pops them back in before you can blink, leaving you with wind-knocked-out-of-you pain and no proof of why. It covers your skin in rashes and your face in acne, it sags your eyes and makes your smile all but gone.

It makes you forget to breathe, forget where you are, forget the names of your closest friends and family. It leaves your mouth dry and your skin slowly cracking, even as it makes you sweat buckets by the hour. It leaves you in a wicked cycle of exhaustion that gives you pain that keeps you awake that makes you more exhausted that gives you more pain that keeps you awake.

It takes away your ability to pursue passions, dreams, joys. It convinces you that you’re crazy, that everything you feel is in your head. It takes the parts of you that used to thrive and strangles, buries them. It makes you want to question everything, every choice, every person, every action, every thought.

It’s an invisible monster, though a hideous beast if ever seen.

And it affects so. many. people.

3-6% of the world’s population, 200-400 million people.

I’m one of them.

Next Friday, May 12th, is awareness day for the chronic illnesses of FMS (Fibromyalgia), CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome) and ME (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis). This day is special because it’s the birthday of Florence Nightingale. She is a woman known by many for her valiant efforts as a nurse on the battlefield, and known by few for her own valiant battle against CFS/ME.

I want to challenge you to use this upcoming awareness day to prove your awareness.

Go above and beyond for that person who suffers silently day in and day out. Give them flowers, a card, a note scribbled on a receipt. Let them know you see them. In all their misery. In all their pain. They are real and loved and cherished and you are aware of the battle they’re fighting.

Be careful if you hug them, because what is comfort to you is pain to them, but be sure to offer one nonetheless. Sometimes we need a hug in spite of the pain it will inflict, and if we don’t, the offer means just as much as the hug itself.

Bring a meal to someone who doesn’t have the strength to get out of bed and cook, something they used to passionately do for others. Weed the garden of someone who once took pleasure in their green art but can no longer do anything aside from look out the window. Drive them around with the windows down so they can sit peacefully and see new sites for their weary eyes.

Don’t just say you’re aware of their chronic illness, show them.

If you’re the one who is ill, take the day to care for yourself. If you can, push through whatever ails you to do something the old you would have loved. If you can’t, paint the image in your mind and smile at the memories. Don’t let the day be sad, but powerful. Show the world your pain, your weakness- your triumph.

Grin at yourself in the mirror, appreciate that you’re still here, still fighting. You’re a warrior. You may have wounds and scars, you may bleed and cry in the still of the night, but people see you. They see a champion.

So chin up, Darling. You’re doing great.

Please share this post. Spread the word. Let others know of the battles the chronically ill face. Inspire others to inspire us. We are strong, but we are also weak. We need you. We’re only a million in a sea of billions. But with you, we can make a difference.

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