Sasha Is a Monster

I’ve always been an effective goal-setter. I always need a project to work on, some way to measure success. Something I can point at and say “This is what I’m doing right now. And, when I do it, I’ll have made progress in my life.” These goals have, traditionally, been academic in nature; sometimes literally academic — this is how I have way more degrees than any reasonable person could ever expect to utilize — and sometimes more figuratively, like landing a job or growing a website or making a certain amount of money. I reached a point recently where I didn’t have any goals. It was terrifying. I have no capacity to just be comfortably. To simply exist. I don’t do it well. I get antsy and frustrated. I’m a forward progress person. I understand, intellectually, that this is not ideal, that those among us who are the happiest and most peaceful are those who are content with mere existence. But something in me fights it at its core, sneers at those who seem to be content with their status quo, who are not constantly reaching, clawing, fighting for more.

I remember an old episode of Behind the Music. It was about Britney Spears. They were interviewing someone who knew her in her elementary-school years. He talked about how Britney returned to school after Mickey Mouse Club got canned and was so confused as to how everyone else seemed totally content to just sing in the school choir in Louisiana. “That might work for you,” he quoted her as saying, “But it will not work for me.” That line stuck with me. At 26, I still relate strongly to a 12-year-old Britney Spears.

So I set a goal for myself: I decided to train for a half-marathon at the end of January. And as I work toward this goal, I realize that it’s almost more terrifying than not having a goal at all. I’ve always been an athletic person, but I’ve never really set athletic goals for myself. Sports are about teams and getting outside and getting exercise and having fun. I’ve never really had anything emotionally riding on my ability to achieve something physical. And I’ve never been someone to doubt my ability to achieve goals before now. But — seriously? Running 13.1 miles? Are you fucking kidding me? And, yet, people with far fewer physical blessings than I do it all time. Is that what makes this so terrifying? That it is, in my mind, a pedestrian goal? (Heh, no pun intended.) I’m not sure. But I do know I’m scared to death about this, and I have no idea how I’m actually going to do it, but I suppose that’ll make it even more awesome when I succeed, right? Right?

Here’s what dawned on me tonight: When I have a civil discussion with a rational person about a topic and we disagree, all I need to do is make my point reasonably and concisely. I do not have to get angry. I do not have to send follow-up emails and text messages with additional evidence supporting my claim. I do not have to make a huge multi-week production over just how right I am. When I’m right, and I make my point politely and then step back, the other person usually realizes eventually that I’m right, and they come to me to tell me I was right, and then it’s over, and no friendships need end nor sleep be lost. When I’m wrong — very rarely — I also need to be enough of an adult to admit it. When I surround myself with reasonable people who behave like adults — this is most of the people in my life, it turns out — and then I behave like a reasonable adult, this process runs unbelievably smoothly.

It’s a theory I could have explained casually to a five-year-old years ago, but somehow I have trouble internalizing it myself. I’m getting way better, though.

A home in San Francisco’s Noe Valley.

Not the way to do this, guys.

Still: funny.

source

Seattle is definitely the place to do it. Once you do some research, it turns out there are tons of vegan restaurants in the area.

I (warily) purchased my first vegan pizza from an all-vegan pizza place called Pizza Pi today. I was nervous because I’d purchased a vegan BBQ chicken wrap from a different place a few days ago and it was not a happy eating experience. It was spicy and tofu-y and leaky and gross. I was hoping this place would be better.

I went to pick my pizza up. The restaurant smelled good, like a real pizza place would. I brought Leo inside and no one complained or threatened to call the cops — another plus! The pizza was prepared in a timely manner and was actually LESS EXPENSIVE than regular pizza. No joke. I checked. A large pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut in my area is $18.99. My large vegan pepperoni pizza? Was $17.50.

The biggest surprise, perhaps, was that it came in one of those normal pizza boxes. You know, the white ones with red lettering that just say “Hot Fresh Pizza” on them. Like everyone uses. I don’t know why I expected the box to be made out of, like, hemp, and say “I AM A VEGAN PIZZA” all over it. The box just looked normal. I didn’t even dare peek inside until I got it home. When I finally opened the box, it looked pretty much like a normal pizza. The cheese was less melty, I guess, and the pepperonis looked more like little sausages than pepperonis, but, other than that, it didn’t scream “I AM A WEIRD PIZZA!” or anything.

I ate two pieces of it right away. I was starving (because I’d just run three miles, ‘natch), and I was prepared to chow down on this stuff, whatever it might taste like, but you know what? It tasted good. The crust was delicious. The sauce and cheese were a little sweeter than what you’d get at Pizza Hut, but I actually liked that. The pepperonis didn’t really taste like pepperoni, but they didn’t taste bad, either. After eating two slices, I waited an hour, realized I was still hungry, and ate another piece. And you know what? I don’t feel gross at all. This vegan pizza had none of the grease or the heaviness that a regular pizza has. Normally if I’d just eaten three pieces of pepperoni pizza, I would feel disgusting and my stomach would hurt and I would actually be able to feel the pimples forming on my face and I’d want to sit on the couch and watch TV and chain smoke and whine. But after three pieces of this stuff? I feel no different than if I’d eaten a healthy sandwich or something. How freakin’ awesome is that? I gotta be honest, kids, I’m really digging this vegan thing. I have more energy, and I’m just generally feeling better about myself. Plus: my skin looks way better! I haven’t noticed any difference in my exercise routine — I can still run for as long as I could before and I can still lift as much in the gym as I could before. Cool, right?

I quit smoking nearly three and a half months ago. The changes have shown up subtly since. I can run longer without my lungs giving out. My skin’s starting to clear up. I don’t cough myself to sleep at night. But what’s really stood out most for me, day after day, is the smells in the elevator.

My apartment building has an elevator. Everybody uses it, because the stairs in our “secure” building require you to use a key to get in and out of the stairwells, which is as obnoxious as it is a fire hazard, so everybody uses the elevator. Before I quit smoking, the elevator smelled like nothing at all. Now, whenever I step into the elevator, I can tell everything about the person who was in there before me. I can tell if they’d been drinking alcohol — and whether it was hard liquor, wine or beer. I can tell if they had a dog with them. I can usually tell if it was a man or a woman or both by the perfume scents. If they had a pizza with them, I know that, too. If they’re a smoker, I definitely know. The world encases an entire database of olfactory information that I’d previously left unaccessed. So what can people tell about me from my scent? Like, people who have been using their smell sense for years now? I wonder.

I’m still doing the whole vegan thing, too. After reading the books I read — Skinny Bitch and The China Study — it’s really not been that difficult. Sometimes I do crave cheese, but that’s about it. I haven’t craved meat or milk at all. Whenever I think about eating meat or dairy, I just think about how awful those things are for my body, and how they’re going to cause cancer and heart disease and make me die slowly and miserably, or how sad the chickens and cows are before being slaughtered, and I don’t want them anymore.

Honestly, there is a lot of research-based evidence that a strict plant-based diet is good for you. But what really sold me on veganism was a small argument the authors of Skinny Bitch made. They spoke of how terrified the animals are as they’re lead to the slaughter, how devastated and mournful and loud they are as their children are pulled away from them and tortured, how agonizing their entire lives are. “Assuming you started with a healthy animal (highly unlikely),” they say, “you’ve now eaten hormones, pesticides, steroids, antibiotics, fear, grief, and rage.” And that’s what sold me on this diet. When I eat meat or dairy, I am ingesting the fear and grief and rage of another animal. How can I ever be emotionally healthy when I do this daily?

Today, I accidentally ate some milk protein. I made myself a bowl of oatmeal from an old box of instant oatmeal I had in the cupboard. I figured oatmeal is definitely vegan, right? After I ate it, though, I checked the box and I realized that this particular mix did have a good deal of milk proteins in it. And I was like, “Oops! Well, live and learn,” and I didn’t give it a second thought. About ten minutes later, my stomach started to hurt like hell. Not, like, nauseous, really, more like little daggers of horror piercing through my tummy all over. And at first I was like, “Woah, am I having an abortion?” and once I’d established that, no, I was not having an abortion, it occurred to me that this could be the result of my body trying to digest milk proteins after not doing it in so long. The pain subsided about 50 minutes later. Since apparently milk proteins are slow digesting, this timing would be about right. Isn’t that odd? (In fairness, though, I should note that I’m expecting my period soon, so it could have been cramps, although historically I am not one to get bad PMS cramps.)

I know I haven’t been posting much this weekend.

I’m in this weird, healthy space. Less buzzing in my head. I’m running a lot (like, physically moving my legs in a running motion, not, like, escaping the geographic location of my problems in any way possible) and I’m on this vegan diet thing and I’m trying to get out of the house more often and interact with the world and force the world to interact with me. I’m meditating, too. And it’s not that I’m on some crazy high or even, specifically, happy. I’m just in a state of total okay-ness. Things are fine. I can exist in my head just fine right now.

The result: I have neither the time nor the desire to come on my personal blog and channel my sadness and/or frustration.

Don’t worry.

It won’t last.

Oh, and Leo met his first chickens today. It was awesome. I didn’t take any video, tragically. But just imagine Leo and eleven chickens. Meditate on it, even.