Feeling...uh...I dunno

Sometimes it takes a little while for my feelings to settle in.  When I found out on Tuesday that I have carpal tunnel syndrome (CTS), I immediately had a mish-mash of feelings, really.  They ranged from aha-I-knew-it to shit-what-am-I-gonna-do-now to why-am-I-falling-apart-physically-at-37 to thank-the-sweet-lord-I-don't-have-to-practice-anymore.  Three days later, as reality kicks in and I now have to rethink my future career options, I simply don't know how to feel.  I guess I just feel a little lost now. 

I had been training for the past year to become a stenographer.  I even went part-time at my job so I could train more consistently, much to the chagrin of my husband.  (No, he was NOT a happy husband when I told him I wanted to cut my hours, therefore my salary, in half and spend over $5,000 to train myself for a new career.)  There was always something I could be doing to improve my skills (not that I did much other than put my time in practicing), and I was always preoccupied with keying the steno in my head of what people were saying on TV.  Movies were always easier than the news because at least people paused between sentences so I could catch up!  Now, the couple of hours almost every day that I spent practicing are mine to do, hmm, uh, what, anything, right?  Do what I wanted to do but couldn't because I had speed to build and difficult polysyllabic words to conquer!  Instead, I find myself not knowing what to do.  And all this freaking snow doesn't help--I can't even go for a walk!  I get bored with the television.  There's only so much Dr. Phil I can watch, and "Last Chance Harvey" or "You Don't Mess with the Zohan" are the only movies that seem to be on Starz anymore.  So, I log onto Facebook obsessively.  No, Okim, not much has changed since you logged on five minutes ago.  I open the fridge and peer in at least five or six times a day.  Note to self: go grocery shopping.  Hell, I'm even considering doing a little [GASP!] work on my day off.  WHAT???  Have I lost my mind?  Well, I am hourly after all, and I'll get paid for it, so what difference does it make?  Still, it's WORK!  Okay, so maybe that option is out.  I guess I could always exercise.  Ugh.  I am so out of shape.  Excuses, excuses.  Sigh.

I hate to sound like a complete dork, but steno really was a big part of me.  That little machine with 24 keys sitting in front of me, that receipt-sized paper spitting out purple, non-descript words as I hit the keys to: "How fast were you going when you hit the other automobile?"  That's: HOU/FA*S/PRU/GO/-G/WHU/HEUT/-T/OER/AUBL/STPH in steno.  (Yes, I know, I'm a total nerd.)  And now that I can't do it anymore, there is definitely a void, like something is missing from my life.  I am lamenting my loss.  I guess I DO know how I'm feeling now.  SAD.  Steno, I will miss you dearly and you will always be in my blood.

Disappointed but partly relieved

I had been having a lot of tingling and numbness in my right hand for the last few months, along with stabbing pains shooting up my palm, through the tips of my first three fingers whenever I stretched out my arm or bent back my hand.  It became particulary noticeable and bothersome in the last few weeks, so I made an appointment to see an orthopaedist.  He confrimed today what I had suspected for a while: carpal tunnel syndrome. 

It's been a big fear of mine for years, but especially this past year, because I have been training myself to become a court reporter.  Sore wrists and numb fingers to a court reporter is like a cracked rib to a quarterback; you can still do the job, maybe not as proficiently, but is the potential for permanent physical damage really worth the risk?  I'll have to think about that some more.  I'm disappointed, yes, indeed I am.  I was almost up to 140 wpm!  A far cry from 225, which is where I needed to be to become certified, but I was getting there slowly but surely.  It took hours and hours of practice over the last eight months (first four months was learning the theory) to get there, so of COURSE I'm disappointed.  But, part of me is a little relieved, I must admit, because the hours and hours of practice was, well, to put it lightly, a drag.  It reminded me of when I was a kid and I had to practice my bassoon.  I hated it.  I loved playing my bassoon, but I hated practicing, just like I love steno and hate practicing today.  My bassoon was just replaced with the stenograph; my disdian for practice, however, will never diminish.

Food is Love

Food has always been a big part of my life.  No, I'm not a compulsive eater or a closet junk-food-junkie, but I LOVE to eat.  I eat throughout the day and constantly have something in my mouth, whether it's an apple, Cheez-its, almonds, yogurt, popcorn, oatmeal, whatever.  Food makes me happy.  When my friends come over, I always put something in front of them, even if they're not hungry, and they end up eating anyway (side note: if you're on a diet, you may not want to visit me).  I remember living in this one apartment that had a pantry in the dining room, and it was stacked from top to bottom with every snack you could imagine: cookies, potato chips, pretzels, crackers, nuts, candy, you name it, it was probably on the shelves.  My best friend at the time would come over and we'd plow through a good chunk of them.  "I love coming over here," I remember her saying, "because there's always so much to eat!"  I definitely get this from my mom: I feed you because I love you; I love you because I feed you.  Food is love.  Love is food.



Meals were always a big to-do in my family, ever since I can remember.  When it was just the family, it was nothing too fancy, but the food was always delicious, and there was so much of it; we never longed for a full stomach.  And if guests were coming, my mom was a madwoman.  She'd prepare for days, and her three daughters had no choice, of course, but to be her begrudging assistants.  My mother ruled with an iron spatula.  WHACK!  It was her kitchen, so you'd better follow the General's commands, 
or you'd ache from the severe tongue-lashings.  Or, you'd just get stuck peeling mounds and mounds of garlic in the corner while the other assistants were busy deep frying this or decorating that.  Weird punishment, I know.  My mother ran a tight kitchen, albeit a touch Hitler-esque, but it paid off.  Dishes magically bloomed into the most extraordinary masterpieces; the presentation was truly breath-taking sometimes.  And it didn't just look pretty.  When you took that first bite, your eyes would roll back into your head, your taste buds would dance on your tongue, your throat would open up wide, begging you not to stop (my mouth is watering right now just thinking about all that deliciousness!), while your stomach eagerly awaited the delectable delights.  Those were some lucky guests, because they never left empty-handed.

My mom will be 70 this year, so she doesn't cook as much or as often as she used to, tapering off quite noticeably over the last five or six years.  She's blind in one eye, and arthritis has overtaken her deformed and obviously-painful fingers.  Not being able to see well and having your hands hurt while you're trying to julienne carrots, well, that would put a damper in anyone's ability to create a visual and palatable feast, no?  Even so, every time I stop over to see my parents, my mom insists on feeding me, and most times, I don't argue.  My mom's talent for making something scrumptious from nothing particularly exciting in the fridge is still very much alive and well.  And when I tell my parents it's time for me to leave, my mom scurries to the kitchen and comes back with a bag (it could be apples, a jar of kimchee, homemade dumplings, homegrown tomatoes, anything really) and says, "Here, take this home with you."  After all, food IS love.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

My dad turned 74 today!  He is exactly twice as old as I am, but not for long, since I'll be adding another notch to the life-belt this year.  It's hard to believe that my father already had FOUR kids by the time he was my age (and I still have a big-fat-zero kids...sore subject), and planning a whole new life for all of us, too.  I think when he was my age he came to live in America, a year ahead of the rest of the family; we came after he was settled into a house and had a job.  I don't know how my father did it.  He left a beautiful, custom-built house in Korea, a high-paying job, his family, and his extended family, too.  Granted, my mom and the kids came a year later, but still, to leave so much behind to start a new life in a country that didn't really want him took some serious brass kahunas!  Could YOU ever imagine moving to a new country, where you knew like one other person, didn't speak the language, and looked completely different?  Let's be real here.  It's not like an American dude moving to Canada.  It's more like a Senegalese dude moving to Hong Kong.  Dad, I salute you, and thanks for having brass ones!

Today is the first day of the rest of your life...

...PUBLIC life, that is.  Welcome to my very first blog!  I was inspired (um, copycat?) by a friend who just started blogging.  My plan is to write about life's little irritations and try to sort through my daily brain fuzz.  I know I could do it privately, but what fun is that?  I hope you enjoy the ride.

Anyway, that phrase in the title is very meaningful to me.  I used to think it was something people just said at roasts, or what my husband likes to say to me every now and again to get under my skin.  When I sat down and really thought about it, though, it opened my eyes.  Yesterday is yesterday.  Last week is last week.  Last year is last year.  There's no going back.  Ever.  And there's nothing I or anyone else can do about that (unless, of course, there's a time machine lurking somewhere in the shadows of Area 51).  So, stop obsessing about the past.  Move on and forge ahead because, well, today really IS the first day of the rest of your life.