Back In The Saddle

So...it certainly has been a while...

This post is the start of an exercise in accountability--accountability on multiple fronts. I am going to set the bar at a reasonable height by, as my place of employment is so keen on, setting attainable, measurable goals; goals that can be scored, met, and/or exceeded. So here they are:

1) Exercise 4 days a week (but also do 50 push ups and 100 crunches every day)
2) Post a weekly blog entry
3) Weigh at most 199 pounds by August 16, 2014

Those seem reasonable enough, right? Well, let's just say follow through is not my greatest strength--but this is worth a shot. And I want to expand upon each goal right quick.

1) Exercise 4 days a week (but also do 50 push ups and 100 crunches every day)

I currently only exercise about once a week in the form of playing in a weekly soccer game. And I have been a bit hesitant to get back into my old running routine after a weird injury that happened about three months ago. However, in the effort of, you guessed it, getting back in the saddle, I've decided to step it up and exercise a little bit every day. Now, push ups and crunches may seem rudimentary, but they are simple and don't require a routine of any kind (plus they are nice round numbers--easy to remember when I perform them half-asleep every morning).

For the four sessions of exercise, I've decided to keep playing soccer once a week (duh), run outdoors once every weekend (Saturday or Sunday) and do some kind of gym workout for the other two. I've collected quite a few workout routines from magazines and have decided on two that I can stick with.

2) Post a weekly blog entry

This is the proposed accountability portion. My intentions are to post consistently every week, a status report. Yes, I am going to post the number of weekly push ups (~350), crunches (~700), and exercise sessions (4) I do as well as my weight. I haven't decided if I will post my actual weight or just the pounds lost or gained. I figure, if I put this information out into the abyss that is the internet, it is a way to track my progress in a somewhat permanent manner. And who knows, maybe if I grow confident enough, I will start sharing my posts on Facebook, the ultimate way to gather support, suggestions, encouragement, etc.

I will also attempt to document my emotional well being on top of the physical. This will not only serve to help my underwhelming attempt at writing but will hopefully serve to document my journey toward better overall health.

3) Weigh at most 199 pounds by August 16, 2014

Now this is the long-term goal; the "stretch goal" as it were. One of my best friends from my childhood is getting married on this date and she has hinted that I will be in the wedding. So, if staving off the risk of serious health problems isn't a good enough reason, why not go for the I-want-to-look-good-in-a-bridesmaid's-dress reason? Go big or go home, right? Right.

Okay, well, the month of May begins this coming week which means we are smack dab in the middle of springtime, the time of rebirth. So let's get this thing going.

"The Stoning of Soraya M."

Please note that this blog entry, by definition, consists of my own thoughts and opinions. It is not meant to offend anyone (although I realize that may happen anyway). It is simply meant to express my feelings toward this movie and the practices portrayed therein.

I just got home from my winter vacation two days ago. I went to work yesterday so today, I gloriously followed through on my intent to stay in my room and vegetate all day long. Well, being alone all day can take it's toll. One starts thinking self-pitying thoughts way too often--especially on yet another lonely Saturday night. So all I can say is: thank God for Netflix!

After a few episodes of different television shows, I decided to go through the movies in my Instant Queue from beginning to end. I watched "White Irish Drinkers" directed by John Gray, "Being John Malkovich" directed by Spike Jonze, and "Howl" directed by Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman. The fourth movie of the day was "The Stoning of Soraya M."

For those of you who do not know, "The Stoning of Soraya M." is a drama based on a book written by a French-Iranian journalist that tells the story of Soraya--a mother, wife, daughter, and niece--who lives in a small village in Iran. This particular part of Soraya's life takes place in 1986 when her abusive husband falsely accuses her of adultery. According to the movie, Islamic law states that if a husband accuses his wife of adultery and she cannot prove her innocence, she can be sentenced to be stoned to death.

Now, I kind of figured that this is where the movie was going before I hit the play button. What I didn't expect (although the R rating should have given me the first hint) was just how graphic the stoning scene would be and how fierce of a visceral, stomach-wrenching, hate-inducing reaction I would experience.

Talk to my friends and they will all say how taken I can get by movies. I cry at movies quite easily and I get that churning sensation in the pit of my stomach at the hero's fall moments before he stands back up again.

But this was different.

I went in to the movie trying to be aware of my personal spiritual and cultural differences but I was so negatively affected by this movie and the actions of the different characters that I surprised even myself. In the movie, Soraya has two sons and two daughters. She is accused of adultery by her husband, Ali, with the village mechanic, Hashem. Not only was there a massive injustice that took place, but the manner in which the injustice was carried out was just as heinous.

To me, trying to justify the act of stoning someone to death is simply unfathomable. However, it was explained in the movie as follows. The adulteress has brought shame not only upon her and her family, but upon the entire village and every stone that is thrown helps to regain a bit of that honor that was stolen. The actual ritual seemed to have four different components to it: the convicted criminal is buried upright in the ground up to their waist, a line is drawn in the sand behind which the stone-throwers must stand, the dishonored family members and parties of the trial get the first throws, then the rest of the willing villagers throw stones as hard as they can at the exposed part of the living person until that person is no longer living.

Each component left me seething even more than the last and I still cannot decide which (or if it was all of them together) that made me actually scream at the TV, hot tears of hate and frustration coursing down my cheeks.

Was it that Soraya was literally halfway buried alive before her punishment even began? Was it how the line in the sand made the whole thing seem like a sport? (I'll never look at a set piece in soccer the same way again.) Was it how hard and accurate Soraya's husband and 12- and 14-year-old sons threw their stones at her? Or was it how the villagers cheered at every direct hit then took their own self-righteous turns at trying to regain the honor that Soraya had so viciously stolen from them?

I honestly don't know.

What I do know is that I haven't felt this enraged in a very long time. That rage doesn't spring from simply being aware of this barbaric practice. Because, let's face it, we've all heard of stoning before and how it is still happening today. It also springs from my continual (and apparently naive) surprise at what atrocities human beings commit against one another.

So please help me pray for those souls who have justly and unjustly lost their lives to this horrific practice. Now here's the doozy and something I will personally be wrestling with: please also help me pray for those souls who are committing this atrocity. Pray that we all will stop stoning our neighbors to death.

I was taken by an Italian at the mall today.

I was taken by an Italian at a mall kiosk today. It's not what you're thinking...he caressed my hair, asked me if I loved him, and sold me not one, but TWO hair straighteners. Yes, folks, you heard it hear first. I had a weak moment and negated the credit card payment I made today.

DAMN ITALIAN MEN!

Boy did he lay it on thick, too. He introduced himself as Giovanni (I know, right?). I was getting off the escalator and practically ran into a group of people crossing the bottom of the escalator. My path was forced directly into the expectant eyes of the tall, dark Giovanni. It was kind of like when you merge onto the freeway into an exit only lane and the car next to you is going exactly the same speed as you and you can't speed up or slow down enough so you just exit the freeway and try again.

Well, I've cautiously diverted my path and eye contact away from this particular kiosk on several occasions. The people sell hair straighteners and they can sense a head of curly frizzy hair from a mile away. And if this head of hair happens to be having a relatively low self esteem day, well...let's just say Giovanni hit the jackpot.

So I was forced directly into Giovanni's path and because of his thick Italian accent, his obvious flattery, and the way we locked eyes, he got me to set down my bags and sit down in his chair. He undid my messy bun and smiled at me in the mirror and my half-assed attempt at a hairstyle which I threw together that morning after my shower. Oh yes, and my hair was still wet from this morning. "It is not problem, my love. This straightener works also on wet hair!"

Oh, thank goodness! I thought for a second that I'd have an excuse to get out of that chair! I can just imagine Giovanni getting home tonight after his shift. Walking through the door and sitting down for dinner with his mother. "Mamma, I took an American girl at the mall today."

As a salesperson myself, I should know better than to engage with a sales pitch like that. Here's an insider's tip: if you don't want to be sold, don't answer their questions; don't engage. Once you start answering the questions, you'll be taken on a logical journey that will lead to you inexplicably taking out your credit card and believe me, there isn't an objection in the world that we haven't dealt with.

On the bright side, I can get rid of my old dumpy straightener and I'm done shopping for my mom's Christmas gift!

Autographs From Famous People

I moved into my new apartment almost two months ago and I'm still unpacking boxes in my room. (yep) While I was unpacking one particular box, I came across my collection of recently acquired autographs from famous people. I have four but I want to tell you about two in particular because I just got home from my soccer game tonight and I'm in that type of mood.

So, there was this little thing that happened the summer I turned twelve years old. The US Women's national soccer team won the World Cup. At the time, women did not have a professional league in which to play so this was quite the platform for young girls to see their role models. And boy did I ever give into the hype! It was that summer that I decided that soccer was going to be a BIG part of my life forever. Two players in particular stood out more than the others. The first, you probably know better with her shirt off. Brandi Chastain. What a fire cracker! For those who don't know or don't remember, the World Cup final against China came down to a penalty kick shoot out in front of over 90,000 fans at the Rose Bowl on July 10, 1999. Chastain was the fifth player to shoot and needed to score to win the game. And win the game she did with a celebration that would change the way the sports world looked at women. That iconic photo of Brandi bearing her sports bra is known the world over for showing both power and femininity or as I like to call it: Girl Power! I got Brandi's autograph at a soccer game. I met her at a soccer game where she was promoting a charitable tribute match honoring her career and her retirement from professional soccer. I was so floored and star-struck so what did I do? I called my mom and dad, of course! I was on cloud nine just for having met her and the following soccer game, she was there again and my mom, being the awesome person that she is, asked Brandi to autograph that famous picture of her for me. It reads: "Alyssa, Dreams do come true! - Brandi Chastain" This sits within eyesight while I fall asleep.


The second autograph is the kicker! No pun intended. I can't even stand the suspense...it was Mia Hamm! I have Mia Hamm's autograph!!! I was at that tribute match where celebrities all came out to play. Hamm came to the bottom of the stands to sign autographs at halftime and I was right in there with all the other 9-14 year old girls jostling around, trying to wait patiently for my hero to sign her name in this book that happened to be in my backpack. Coincidentally, it was a book about that World Cup win in 1999. The advantage to acting like a 10 year old but being 23 years old? Height. I was able to reach over all the little girls with my arm outstretched. Honestly, I didn't even see her sign the book. But I felt her pen and it was glorious!

See that soccer ball in the middle? Mia Hamm's head is just below that. You can see her pony tail.

You see for me and my generation, the name Mia Hamm literally defines women's soccer in the United States. She was fast. She was physical. She was hungry for victory. But she was also shy and considerate and mild mannered. She was like me and I was like her. And her autograph I will cherish forever and ever because I can honestly say that Mia Hamm truly is the reason I am where I am today.

My Bad and...Who I am as Friend

So this whole writing a blog thing is new to me, okay? I was never one to write in a journal or diary growing up plus I got busy at work? 14-hour days? blah blah blah. excuses excuses excuses. Aaaaaaand we're done with that. On to the post!


Who I am as Friend is quite the topic. I have had many different friends throughout my life. And by the way, this goes for this entire post: I'm not bragging. It's easy for me to get along with just about anybody and I love getting to know about other people. Interestingly enough, the number of friends whom I consider close or best are very few; but more on that later...

I'd like to paint a picture for you of the kind of kid I was growing up...

Over the Summer-Of-Big-Change between fifth and sixth grade, something happened between two of my very good friends and they decided they weren't going to be friends with each other in middle school--kind of run-of-the-mill stuff for pre-teen girls. Well, that bit the dust for me because I always refused to choose sides. So for the first few weeks of sixth grade, I split my lunches up between my two groups of friends. I would go out of my way (who in sixth grade needs a schedule for lunchtime???) to spend time with both groups. Monday, Wednesday, Friday of this week with this group...Tuesday Thursday with that group and next week we switch. I took on this responsibility on my own. I never tried to get the two girls to make up, (I expected them to do that themselves) and I always thought they would see how ridiculous it was what I was doing.

Then one day in late September...it was the second anniversary of my grandpa's death. His death was my first remembered experience I had with death and, being the dramatic 11-year-old that I was, I brought a picture of him to school with me. I was feeling sad all day and I was over trying to play nice between my two groups of friends. So I got up and sat with a completely different group of girls in the lunch room. They welcomed me with open arms, balked at my other friends for sharing me like a child in a divorce and, most important to me, asked me why I was looking so sad. Empathy, sympathy. Those things go a long way with a person...

You see, I get along with different kinds of people because I am good at empathizing with them. I am good at adapting to their styles--their styles of talking, personality, humor, etc. It's not like I change who I am so I can be friends with everyone and make everyone happy. I just like figuring people out and a way to do that is to try to empathize with them. And when I do this, it introduces me to a whole new world of experiences (music, movies, points of view) and I appreciate those experiences because I see them through the eyes my friends. Is this making any sense? Let's go to an example...

I made a new friend about a year ago. He is from the South-ish. The state in which he grew up is not technically considered to be in "The South" but he has a nice southern accent and an easy-going way about him. I had never met anyone like him before and eventually, I learned about his favorite band. So I told him I had heard a song by that band that I really liked and asked him which album he would suggest I listen to first. He proceeded to give me a musical history of this band that he was so passionate about. He was so passionate about this band that I bought two of their albums (the two he suggested) and now I am hooked. I learned what he is passionate about and because I listened and tried to see it from his perspective, I now have an appreciation for this awesome band!

If you talk to most of my friends, they will say that I am easy to get along with. They will say I am a good listener and that I am an easy going, go-with-the-flow kind of girl. But those friends I consider my best and closest friends, know who I am underneath. It's not like I'm not any of those things. It's just that they know me on my base level, before any adaptation occurs. When I juxtapose my close and not-so-close friendships, who I am shows through in sharp relief.

Well, this turned out to be more of a journal entry/therapy session than a blog post, but hey, it's my blog and I just want you all to get to know me. Although, I'm pretty sure I only have one reader anyway and she already knows what's up... :) Until next time...

The Beautiful Game

I can't breathe...I can feel my wind pipe closing...Good Lord I think I'm going to die...

This is what I felt tonight when I played a full 90-minute soccer game for the first time in three weeks...And, oddly enough, this is what makes me feel most alive! It's the bruises and scratches, the sweat and the blood, the little black bits of rubber that get stuck freakin' everywhere! I mean, come on! It's the beautiful game and I love it!

The adrenaline kicks in. Our forwards chase the ball into the corner and I make a run up the right wing. I break left on the diagonal toward the goal. Everyone on the back line yells, "Alyssa! See Alyssa! Top of the box!!!" The ball is falling toward me from a defender's weak clearance. I tee up and position my body. It floats toward me in slow motion and I can feel the blood pumping in my head. I know exactly what to do; I've seen Steven Gerrard do it a million times. It's like cocking a gun. You plant your left foot, step back with your right, twist your body shoulder first to get the most power and follow through with your hips and leg. I've seen it a million times...doesn't mean I can do it...I get a bit over anxious and connect but I get too much under the ball and it sails over the cross bar. I turn in disgust before the ball even reaches the goal box.

But hey, as my teammates say to me as I jog back into position, "You can't score unless you shoot!" and also, "You looked like Charlie Adam back there!" To which I respond a bit out of breath, "Nah, I don't have nearly enough gaps in my teeth."

A few high fives and pats on the back see me back to my position at right back. (By the way, for those who don't know, Charlie Adam plays attacking center midfield. I liken myself more to a true right back such as Martin Kelly or Glen Johnson both of whom are teammates of Charlie Adam on the greatest English football team: Liverpool Football Club.) But I digress...The game goes on with my team controlling the match and after the few obligatory missed calls by the referee, the game comes to a close.

As I sit on the sideline gingerly kicking off my cleats and peeling off my socks and shin guards, I can't help but smile between the grimaces from sore muscles and bruised knees. One of my favorite things about soccer (I'm American, that's how my people say it!) is that every kid who learns to play the beautiful game is taught the same fundamental etiquette no matter if you grew up in San Francisco, Sao Paolo, Liverpool, Tehran, Frankfurt or Beijing. You shake hands with the opposing team and the referees (unless you are a prima donna pretty boy like some soccer superstars who have multiple sticks up their butts), you use the referees as scapegoats, and you all enjoy post-match snacks: orange slices, peanut butter chocolate chip cookies or otherwise.

The reason why the world recognizes soccer as the beautiful game is because each country makes it its own. German "Fußball" embodies military precision and tactics. English "football" is characterized by merciless force and power. American "soccer" demonstrates athleticism and physicality. And Brazilian "futbol" is like a dance so easily do they maneuver with the ball at their feet.

I know that soccer hasn't quite caught on in America (despite my greatest efforts to spread "the word"). But to those Americans who do not follow Major League Soccer, greatness doesn't come overnight. And to those who dismiss soccer from any country, greatness isn't recognized overnight, either. Even David Beckham had to practice bending those free kicks...

Who I am as Daughter

I am Daughter to two totally awesome people. My parents have been married for 29 years! 29 years! I'm trying to convince them to go on a European cruise for their 30th anniversary next year. But I digress...

As the years have gone by, I've had the pleasure of experiencing my parents in different lights. Growing up I saw them as Mom and Dad. After college, I was jobless for a while so I lived at home and experienced Mom and Dad as Husband and Wife. This was actually pretty entertaining because I got to see what they love most about each other and what makes them want to strangle each other. And best of all, we became more than Parents and Daughter, we became friends. (I would say we became friends with benefits citing the parental aspect as the benefit, but the phrase just seems wrong in this context.)

One of the many many reasons my mom and I share such an awesome relationship is because we are so similar. And one of the many many ways my mom and I are so similar is in the way we express our emotions. Let's just say we both have a hard time concealing our emotions (read: we don't.). Don't get me wrong, my mom is the strongest, bravest, most loving and caring woman I know, but because of her emotional openness, I always saw her as being human. Whereas my dad was always the goofball super-human. I mean, c'mon! He's my Daddy and I was/am his little girl! Although I remember when that image shattered in a big way for me (which will be written about in a later post; don't worry, it's on the list).

To be honest, my mom and I had been cultivating the mother/daughter/friend relationship while I was away at college which was a bit rough as I was about 800 miles away. But we managed quite nicely. We saw each other through rough times and awesome times via cell phone and weekend visits. Through homesickness and surgeries, through weekends alone and favorite new books, we saw each other and we grew in our new expanded relationship boundaries. To this day, I find myself talking to my mom about things I only talk about to one other person in the world, my best friend. And Mom and I are both better for it.

My dad and I also have a unique relationship. You see, growing up I was neither tom boy nor princess. Although I will not deny that I was somewhat spoiled being the only daughter with three sons (I always had my own bedroom while two of my brothers always shared a room). While my mom was always my Girl Scout troop leader, my dad was always my soccer coach. And this is no small thing. As referred to in the title of this blog, I got my first pair of soccer cleats when I was five years old. Soccer is a huge part of my life (read: fine line between passion and obsession). And my dad was a big part in bringing that passion to life. He also brought me up listening to the classic musical tuneage of Journey, the Eagles, Kansas, Boston, and Pink Floyd while I schooled him on the harmonic boy bands like N'Sync, Backstreet Boys, and 98 Degrees. Nowadays we talk about everything from soccer, work and co-workers to music, backpacking and Michael Buble.

When I lived at home during my unemployed period (also for the months that I commuted to my jobs), I came to love the evolving relationship with my mom and dad. From Parents and Daughter to Friends, my relationship with Those-Who-Gave-Me-Life is freaking awesome!