I'm a social worker by trade - specifially, I have my MSW from Saint Louis University. I spent two jam-packed years taking a deep look at policy analysis, social action, social change, nonprofits...if it was macro-level social work, you name it, and I probably dabbled in it. I especially cultivated a love of policy analysis and community action. What this means is, between the filibuster in the Texas senate on Tuesday and SCOTUS' decisions on Wednesday, my little heart has been full to the brim of passion, curiosity, worry, and hope. On Tuesday, I was so jittery about the impending SCOTUS decisions and the impact they would have on so many of my friends and loved ones on all sides of the issue that I couldn't focus until I put my thoughts on paper. So I did. And then I tried something new. True to the nature of this "try it" experiment, it was something brand new and something that pushed me out of my comfort zone. It wasn't as blatantly stupid as a dehydrated attempt at hot yoga or as silly as a romp through Skyrim. This was a bit more serious, a bit more personal, and a bit more like something I've wanted to "try" for a very, very long time. I let go of the end product and sent it out to others. Rather than keeping my thoughts private, fearing the consequences or conversation that could follow, I got brave. I'm sure it seems like a really small step to others, but for me, this was monumental. For me, this was big and scary and deeply nerve-wracking. It was nothing short of putting my heart on the line, and it felt vulnerable. Which, I think we can all agree, is a decidedly gross feeling to have.My open letter to the Supreme Court of the United States was shared on the Reconciling Ministries Network blog. Aside from this silly little self-publication, this is the first time I've made a formal effort to contribute anything to anywhere. Because I am horribly vain, I can tell you that it got over 70 likes and 25 shares on their facebook page. Because I am attempting to be honest, I can tell you that I hate that I know and hoard little external indicators of approval like this. What can I say? I'm a recovering grade-grubber. Most of all, though, I can tell you this: I learned, and I grew. I put myself out there in a way that felt too big, too scary, too ambitious, and way too honest. I shared something that came from a part of me that was deeply held and very raw - knowing that it's usually the raw parts of us that will get us into the most trouble.But the sky didn't fall.The opposite happened.My mind cleared. My shoulders unpinned from my ears, at least temporarily. And I made connections with new folks and deeper connections with known folks. I had some really great, productive, and interesting conversations, and it all felt really good.There isn't really a conclusion to this "try it" list accomplishment. This will be an ongoing wrestling match - to share or to keep silent, to invite difficult, scary conversations or avoid them, to be open and vulnerable or, y'know, stay sane.
This was a first step. True to all first steps, it was wobbly and uncertain. Here's hoping for more steps without speculating on where they're headed.
 As far as my "try-it" list has been concerned, my Skyrim challenge has been finished since Wednesday.
So why have I still been playing?
Well, as it seems, this game is actually very fun. I'm sure my continuance was helped along by the fact that any amount of upright or outdoor activity has left me gasping for breath for several days - thanks, sinus infection - but I must say, on its merits, the game is interesting and, as I shared in the first review, I picked it up a little better than I imagined.
When Dan got home Saturday night, we finally had a fun conversation about a video game. Seeing his face light up, I began to hear the "level up" music cue up in my brain. "Achievement unlocked: Dream Wife Status."
Today I had the first chance to play the game while Dan was around to observe. He shared a few tips and tricks, which at first I resented before realizing how INCREDIBLY USEFUL those shortcuts were.
And then he sent me on a quest line that ended in a nest with half a dozen vampires.
I'm proud to say that our marriage survived even that scariest of betrayals. My character? Not so much.
Finally, after dying very quickly six times over and then barely defeating all of the vampires, Dan looked at me with a stunned face.
"No way. Give me the controller."
"No! You sent me on this stupid questline and I hate it but I'm not going to let you finish it for me. That's lame."
"I'm not going to. I just need to check something. Seriously, give me the controller."
He opened up the game settings and scrolled through the list. His controller stopped, highlighting the following:
"Difficulty Level: Adept"
Dan looked at me, slackjawed in amazement. "Do you know what this means?"
"HAVE I BEEN PLAYING ON THE HIGHEST DIFFICULTY SETTING THIS WHOLE TIME?!"
He nodded. "I seriously cannot believe you made it this far! You don't even play games! You are amazing!"
So, armed with the fact that I've actually been kicking major ass this whole time in spite of my complete inability to succeed at any game ever, it is safe to conclude:
I continue to play Skyrim because obviously, I am the true Dragonborn.
FUS-ROH-DAH!
 "This is probably the sexiest conversation we've ever had."
"That's totally gross."
So went the (mostly sarcastic) conversation between Dan and I as I explained the manner in which I survived combat with a Frost Troll.
That's right. For the past two days, I've been playing Skyrim. My husband couldn't be happier.
To put it mildly, Dan is a game enthusiast, particularly epic/hero type games. I, on the other hand, tend to stick to tabletop - and I don't mean DnD. Settlers, Scrabble, Mad Gab, Munchkin...you know. A little bit of strategy, a whole lot of fun, and most importantly, no nightmare-inducing monsters.
But that doesn't mean I've been immune to absorbing LOTS of Skyrim-related facts. Dan bonds over gameplay, which often means that I have the opportunity to show my affection for him by taking an interest in whatever has captured his attention.
Sadly, it's not an opportunity I take very often. But maybe, after these couple of days, I'll be able to engage in that conversation a little more.
I wound up coming home early yesterday courtesy of a fever and other nasty cold symptoms. After dosing with ibuprofen and my slouchiest "look how sick and pitiful I am" pj's, I turned on the Xbox and decided to further my miser...I mean, get to work on this week's "try-it" list.
The game loaded the familiar black screen with a pseudo-nordic dragon, and then the music started. The music that, prior to this moment, had signaled that whatever conversation I'd hoped to have with my husband was on hold until further notice. The sound that had, for the past many months, meant that I needed to head upstairs if I wanted to hear anything other than bloodspatter and clashing metal.
The grunting began. "hoo, huuh, haahh, HYEH! hoo, huuh, haahh, HYEH! AHH! AHH! AHH! AHH! Dovahkiin, blah blah blah..."
Oh my. I hadn't even left the load screen and my comfort level was already maxed.
The game began in a movie format. A plot played out wherein I gathered that I was some sort of prisoner who had been collected as a mistaken rebel. After a few moments of rolling through (albeit stunning) scenery, I and my fellow prisoners were dumped into a small town and lined up for execution.
And see? This is the thing. I really don't care for violent games. I just don't need to kill things in my spare time.
The prisoner in front of me was beheaded. The blood flew and the head rolled and I wasn't even in control of my screen to look away, so I had to shut my eyes. And before you call me a wimp, keep in mind I haven't even made it through more than 25 minutes of the movie Braveheart and I had to physically leave the room during the Sweeney Todd scenes where the bodies keep dropping through the chute. I don't do gore sounds.
Anyway.
My name was called, and everything stopped. Finally! I reached the character creation phase.
I spent a solid 10-15 minutes on character creation alone.
Suddenly, despite wincing all through the opening sequence, I was determined to avoid falling into any stereotyped "girly" choices. I second-guessed myself through the gender selection, overall look, and the 57 other character specific options the game allows you to customize. (Remember when I mentioned I struggle with perfectionism? No? Well, here's some solid evidence.)
Finally, I called myself out on this ridiculousness and just picked the skills and looks I liked.
And then the transformation took place. No longer my sickly, snuggie-wrapped self, I stepped into Skyrim as Talitha*, a Wood Elf (best archers, apparently?) with some pretty sick braids and war paint. Haah, HYEH! indeed.
Once finished, my execution was back on line. Again, no longer in control of my view screen, I step forward, am slammed to the chopping block by an Imperial guard and face down my death.
But then...
"DRAGON!!"
I spend the next 25 minutes running through an incinerated courtyard. When I try to do anything, a small message appeared at the top of my screen. Your hands are bound.
After about 15 minutes of entirely fruitless gameplay, I yelled aloud "THIS IS RIDICULOUS!"
But then I found the Keep, got my hands unbound, and was able to get into some actual gameplay.
For those unfamiliar with Skyrim, there are dragons. They're bad, because they like to desolate and stuff. They haven't been seen in ages, but they're all back for some reason.
It's single-player gameplay and you, no matter what character you create (white person, other white person, elf, other elf, dark skinned person, lizard-person, or cat-person) you eventually learn that you are "Dovahkiin," Dragon-born.
Much to my sadness, "Dragon-born" doesn't mean that you get to fly. Nope. You get to shout. That's all.
You yell at things, but you do it super hard. Game-playing friends, forgive the oversimplification - but as far as I can tell, that's really about it!
In my roughly 6 hours of gameplay thus far, I've learned a few valuable things:
- My halfway decent sense of direction in real life does not translate in-game. I spent 20 minutes being entirely lost trying to find a town that I was practically on top of.
- You can kill pretty much anyone for any reason, and that fact is entirely mutual.
- Frost trolls: Not even once.
- Being the Dovahkiin is kind of like being a celebrity - everyone is talking about you, but you know there are a select few crazies who really want to kill you for unknown reasons.
- All the horses look drunk when you ride them.
- Skyrim mountain goats have a deathwish. Seriously, they will walk right into your battle axe.
- And finally, if it is moving toward you with purpose, it totally wants to kill you.
I may have accidentally massacred a couple of menacing flags thanks to that last lesson.
All in all, my adventures in Skyrim weren't as miserable as I thought they'd be. Sure, there were plenty of moments where I was gutting it out solely due to my aforementioned fascination with misery endurance contests, but there were some other moments that were actually interesting - making potions and fleeing for my little pixelated life, to name a couple.
Will I continue to play? I don't rightly know. So far, it's proved a halfway fun distraction from sneezing and moaning on the couch. Once I'm back to limited recreation time in the evening? We'll see.
*For my geek/church friends: yes, my name is a nod to my inner church/scripture nerd. At least I'm not playing some sort of self-righteous paladin, though, right?
I'm going to be home alone this week.
My husband, Dan, is going away. So my normal evening activities of watching our favorite shows on Netflix and annoying the ever-living daylights out of him with my cuteness and intellect will be put on hold.
It's not that Dan prevents me from trying new things - it's actually exactly the opposite - or that I can't be alone comfortably. In fact, I'm looking forward to 5 days of uninterrupted sleep since he sleep talks to an unbelievable degree.
But there are a few things on my list that may be best accomplished when left to my own devices. So, here's what you can expect from me this week.
Hannah's "to try this week" list:
-Skyrim (suggested by Trevor Stinson) Better to be left alone to figure it out. Dan is a Skyrim expert, and my game-stupidity combined with my stubornness means that a Skyrim attempt might give birth to a nothing fight if he were around to comment. Also, I can't depend on him to help me figure out the controls. -Make-it-yourself cleaning productsIf I accidentally concoct something that smells terrible or winds up being poisonous, there will be less collateral damage.-GeochachingThis is one I've always been interested in and will help get me outside instead of making cereal for dinner and watching 5 episodes of Fringe in a row.*Any tips, suggestions, or challenges for me to consider as I undertake these not-so death-defying activities?
Other things I ought to try while I've got the house to myself and need not worry about fumes, odors, noise levels, messes, or other side effects that might prove harmful to husbands?
Tell me! P.S. I'm going back for a second attempt at hot yoga, so all of these activities are contingent upon me surviving a second turn in the hot box.
*Actually this will probably end up happening anyway, who am I kidding.
 About a week ago, I was on a walk with friends when I noticed a new Hot Yoga studio had opened just 3/4 a mile from my house. I thought it sounded interesting and miserable and was immediately seized with the inexplicable urge to try it out at least once.
This is usually the beginning of the end for me; the slow percolation of "let's try it just to try" combined with a morbid fascination with things that sound miserable, awful, or like some sort of endurance contest. This is the impulse that has sent me on ill-fated half marathon runs,a marathon solo wine drinking session, swimming too far out into the open sea.
Ten days later, cue an open evening that would otherwise be spent home alone. On the drive home the self-flagellating percolator kicks into full drive. "Hey, I could try one of those hot yoga classes tonight!" If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so is the road to a hot yoga class. And the temperature may be comparable.
It's 5:30 and I'm a 25 minute commute from home. Class session is at 6:30.
Nevermind that I've had maybe one glass of water to drink all day.
Nevermind I have no idea what this sort of thing entails.
Nevermind I only have running clothes and nevermind I won't have any dinner.
Hell, nevermind that I DON'T EVEN DO NORMAL YOGA, NOR HAVE I EVER ATTEMPTED IT. (Unless WiiFit counts, but even then that stupid yoga coach was always saying "looks like your balance needs some work." Eff you, ugly looking surfboard! It's 2009 and you don't even levitate!)
I digress.
I shot off a quick text to my friend Rachael, who I know has done hot yoga at least once before. "Going to do a hot yoga session. Thoughts/tips/concerns?"
Rachael is an on-the-ball type of person. I love that about her. In a few seconds, some straightforward and helpful advice zhupes into my iPhone. "Don't leave the room. Stay in there, even if it just means lying down. Bring two towels. Bring lots of water- like more than a litre. And wear as little clothing as possible. :)"
I laughed at the last part while I stepped into running shorts and a heat gear t-shirt. I'm not a prude, but this gut is staying covered. While the room may be feeling enlightened and one with their corporeal selves, there's no way I would with my translucent stomach creating a glare in the mirror.
Two towels, an enormous water bottle and payment options in tow, I bolt to the yoga studio early so I can check in and rent a mat.
And here's where it all begins to get weird.
I'm greeted by an entirely shirtless, incredibly toned man wearing swim trunks and no shoes, with a towel over his shoulder. I knew this would be different, but whoa. That's quite the change-up from my normal weekday view of three perimenopausal office ladies with statement necklaces and slacks.
Thankfully, the woman right behind me is a beginner, too, and lives just down street from me. "Hooray, yoga buddies!" she exclaims.
I waffle between wild eyed enthusiasm and reserved skepticism. 16 wackos in a human sized oven, wearing as little as they're comfortable with and sweating so much that we'll soak through a towel-covered mat.
AWESOME.
And into the 104 degree chamber we go. The room was dark. The other newbie and I planted ourselves in the back, near the door. "So I don't disturb others if I have to leave." my polite side thought. "All the better if puking is involved." my real side thought.
Mat down, towel down, we all lie down on our backs and just breathe in the oppressive heat.
Initially, I thought it felt nice. Then we passed the 30 second mark and it began to sink in that I am totally. screwed.
Being a native St. Louisan, I tried to think that maybe I was a little bit conditioned for this sort of thing. After all, last summer we'd had 60(?) days of over 100 degree heat. Of course I can do this!
I was only partially right.
Class began and I was doing okay. Even kind of impressed at how well I was handling the heat and thinking maybe I had a natural proclivity for this yoga stuff. "Yup. Totally just nailed that posture!" I thought.
But then we moved out of the warm-up breathing exercises into the standing asanas.
Oh no. That earlier bit was warm-up? Balls.
The rest of the session was a blur of occasional lightheadedness, wobbling, shaking, and the occasional just-sit-down-and-breathe break. As I struggled through the postures, I suddenly remembered:
I am REALLY bad at following instructions while struggling through a physical task. And I had just signed up for 90 minutes of following confusing instructions in the devil's easy bake oven.
In junior high and high school I took up cross-country running and actually wasn't half bad. During races, though, my parents made jokes that I turned into some sort of snarling monster when anyone tried to give helpful suggestions. "Loosen your hands" my dad would say. "Watch your breathing" my coach would say. Both were met with almighty death glares or, if I sensed any sort of smugness in their tone, I'd huff out a pointed teenaged "SHUT UP" as I ran past.
So, when the instructor would spit out rapid-fire instructions like "chinupchestopenpushhandstogetherliftNOW" and "Loosen your hands, watch your breating," I felt my death-star glare charging. But this is yoga, we're supposed to soften our faces, pick a spot on the wall, and breathe into the posture.
At which point I introduced a personalized practice of face softening: rolling my eyes. It actually helped.
All in all, hot yoga was a mild success. Sure, I came home smelling worse than any time I could remember. But in the heat and sweat and stretch, there was no room to think about anything else. I am the worst at being present to my surroundings and experiencing moments for what they are and nothing more.
But at 104 degrees? Trust me, your brain is too hot to mess with all those trivial thoughts and instead just switches to primary functions, like breathing, being, and making sly death threats to all the yogis who look a little too serene.
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