I'm really struggling with the weightlifting, and something just doesn't seem right. I've had to lay off lifting a bit this month because of Atlanta trips, but I'm getting exhausted during weightlifting sessions and it's not the kind that I get a second wind and bounce back from. Something's not right, and I don't know what.

There was more said than that, but it's unimportant. Val's response was unequivocal:

You are tired. When tired, you're more likely to injure yourself. Take a week off and we'll start fresh next week.

I dunno, folks; I feel like I'm admitting defeat here, but maybe it's time I did. I've had very few good, solid workouts in the past month; most of them have been squarely in the "I toughed them out and I hope this is worth it" category, and it just hasn't been improving.

It's hard not to look at the silk dresses in my closet, those $3 and $4 rescues from Atlanta-area thrift stores, and hate myself a little because I can't wear them yet. I want the end result, and I want it now, but I'm stuck in this in-between land of 16. I'm not where I was before; I'm much stronger and healthier than I was in January, but I'm not done, and I'm doing a pretty crappy job of accepting that fact.

I know if I'm patient, and I give my body some time to rest, I'll come back ready to fight this fight again, but right now all I hear is my mind saying "Every day you're not in the gym is another day before this is over and this weight is off your body."

Secretly, I wanted to be done by January. I wanted to buy a ticket out west to help Chris with TromaDance, knowing that by the time I got out there I'd be done, and we could celebrate. But, realistically, it is not going to happen, not unless one of two miracles occur:

1. My rate of weight loss drastically increases
2. I suddenly don't need to lose as much weight as I think I do

Even I know that neither of those two options are likely.

It's hard not to feel one of my major goals - wearing a size 12 by dragon*con, which is the first weekend of September - slipping away. Dragon*con is 72 days away. Given that I am able to drop a dress size every five weeks only under the best of circumstances, I think it's probably time for me to accept that I'm likely to just miss my goal by the barest of margins.

Dammit. I'd really been hoping for that one, too.

Facing that fact has forced me to come to another decision: even if I don't make it to a size 12 by dragon*con, I'm still going to do the Evil Catholic Schoolgirl costume this year. I'm slowly getting more comfortable with the idea of people actually seeing me, seeing my legs, seeing pretty much anything that I previously hid under loose-fitting clothing. With that, I've also become more accepting of the idea that the choice to costume is as much about one's body as it is one's attitude about it.

Size 12 or not, I think I've earned the 'right' to costume this year. I won't embarrass myself and I won't stand out in the crowd as "that girl wearing the costume she really didn't have the body to wear," so the rest is just my learning to take a breath and say, "Screw it. I want to wear this."

For now, though, I just have to be patient - and let my body rest.

Aside: Elenita posed an interesting question in comments attached to this entry. It, and my response, are worth reading in conjunction with this entry.

I haven't mastered it yet, but part of it appears to hinge on changing shirts a lot.

We left out on Wednesday afternoon, blazing toward Atlanta in a silver Jetta with a small pocket of space-time conveniently folded in the back seat to hold all our Dragon*Con necessities. Some tech staffers participate in costuming, but most will tell you bluntly and honestly that they don't have the time to do costume play, couldn't work in the kind of costume they'd want to wear, and really don't have the room to fit it all in the car anyway.Few costumes look good with steel-toed boots.

This year, I packed a semblance of a costume for 'con for the first time: a short skirt, a pair of knee-high boots with high heel and platform...and six black shirts. We managed to shoehorn my luggage, Jeff's luggage, a sleeping bag, two computer cases, one monitor, someone else's drum, my backpack, and a bunch of food-making supplies in the car while leaving enough room for us. Four hours later on that Wednesday, we'd made the trek from Huntsville, Alabama to a farm on the outskirts of Atlanta, owned by two other core staffers, Brian and Suzan Richardson.

For us, 'con began that Wednesday night. Jeff prepared his computers, and I took the photos of connectors and equipment I'd printed up at Kinko's earlier that day and turned them into four very large posters we called "The Guide To Cords and Connectors." Brian took final copies of our design work from the past two months and turned them into the Dawn pregame show.

(I should mention that all his work would have to be thrown out several days later, thanks to Roddy Piper, but we'll get to that in a few more entries.)

I finished at somewhere around two a.m. As thanks for my design work over the past two months, Brian gave me a bottle of Blue Ice vodka, which I stowed in my backpack. I crawled into the rollaway bed in the living room and lay there, mentally reciting my mise en place for Thursday morning.

The Thursday morning prior to 'con is one of the two hardest parts of working techops. Thursday morning is load-in, a brutal, back-breaking process which must be completed before 'con-goers arrive. Load-in would begin at ten a.m., when trucks from MMI would arrive at the loading dock, full of equipment that needed distributing.

Techops has four main stations: Harris, Techops, Centennial, and Regency. 'Techops' means 'techops office,' the room on the second floor where an official "Technical Operations" sign is hung for convention-goers to see. 'Harris' is the name of the room on the bottom floor where most of our equipment is stored. Techops is the public face of our group, but Harris is the heart.

Load-in is contingent on having a group of people who know, almost instinctively, where equipment has to go. One of the MMI trucks will contain the boxes of radios and repeaters we need to be able to communicate with each other throughout the hotel; until that box is found and the radios distributed, we are working blind from the loading dock, distributing equipment and relaying information one person at a time.

When the radios arrive, the frenzy becomes a roar. Repeaters are set up so that our radios will reach throughout the hotel, and Bill and Thomas begin directing traffic. Every piece of equipment that has been requisitioned for one of the twenty-odd fan track rooms lands in Harris. Radios, badges, and other general equipment land in Techops. A/V equipment, screens, lights, soundboards, speakers, and other equipment are routed to the correct ballroom.

On Thursday morning, Centennial is a blank, empty cavern. With the help of a cherry picker, the Cen4 stage is built, the light rigging is assembled and raised, the pipe-and-drape sections assembled, cables are run. Giant screens are hung. Lights are tested. The soundboard and speakers are wrestled into place, hooked up, and tested. Smaller stages and sound equipment are set up in the other areas of Centennial, but Cen4 is the worst of the lot.

The same thing is done in the different parts of Regency. Stages are assembled, lights and sound prepared, chairs set out.

Downstairs, Suzan (yes, the Suzan whom my spouse and I stayed with the night before) is working from a checklist to issue equipment out to each fan track room as it comes in off the trucks. TVs must be taken out of their boxes, gently hoisted onto carts, strapped down, and wheeled to the appropriate rooms. Speaker systems are sent to each room and tested. Microphones are set up. Screens are sent out, and A/V equipment tested.

Runners take the equipment to each room, while Suzan, Kat, and I frantically arrange the room even as more equipment comes in. Boxes of connectors, cords, and extra equipment must be kept organized. Fan track directors don't like to be kept waiting, and we're accountable for every piece of equipment that comes in.

Besides, by now, it's well past noon, and according to our schedule, we've got to get moving. Brian's got to get DragonCon TV up and running, and this year all he's got is that troublesome and unreliable microwave link between the Hyatt and the Marriott. No one's had lunch yet, the ballrooms aren't fully set up, and our first concert is coming up at eight p.m. We're beginning to wonder where our badges are. At some point, we'll get a call saying that our badges have been brought to the main techops office, and we'll run up to the second floor to sign for our badges and then hustle back downstairs to get back to work. Convention attendees are starting to arrive, and with them comes a sense of urgency.

Failure is not an option. If we fail, the 'con fails.

Ready or not, it's time to get to work. My spouse has a soundboard to help set up in Regency 6/7, Suzan has equipment to distribute, Brian has a television link to set up, and I've got about fifty sandwiches to make. Shortly after I finish making them, Chris Lanphear - a longtime netfriend whom I have never met in person but have convinced to work tech staff - arrives in from Denver.

I make a note to change into another black shirt after lunch. I've already sweated through the first one.

Dragon*Con 2003 has begun.

The third year will be the charm(s), the boots, the skirt, the shirt; anything but the mundane. "At last," some of my friends will say, one in particular.

I'm not the dressing-up type. Or maybe I'm the perfect dressing-up type. It depends on how you look at it. For the flamboyant, the outgoing, dressing-up is a simple matter of tossing together bits and pieces and letting your personality do the rest.

For the quieter, the process is more arduous. The question is not only "Can I fit into this?" it is "Can I pull this off without horrible embarrassment?" (Or, as I rather caustically like to point out, "The only good part about being the fat chick is that you can look in the mirror and never have to ask, 'Does my ass look fat in this?' because you already know the answer.)

If you listen to enough tech staff radio parties, you know firsthand that there are plenty of people in this world who wear costumes that are wholly inappropriate for their body types. I hate to generalize in this case, but these people are almost universally women. There comes a point where a tightly-laced corset is just going to make matters worse, not better. (Hint: if you've got jiggles on top AND bottom once your corset is laced, you should consider a different outfit.) There comes a point where a woman really shouldn't be wearing a bandeau top in public.

Et cetera.

So, after a couple of years' worth of badgering by Jody, I agreed to hunt for a costume for this year's dragon*con. I ignored his cries for a corset, but decided that the suggestion of evil boots wasn't a half-bad one. Evil boots I could work with. Form-fitting, yes, but in a way I was prepared to deal with; I ordered the boots.

When I was in Memphis, I found a skirt. It was short enough for 'con, long enough that I wouldn't embarrass myself too often, but still not quite long enough that I was willing to walk out of the dressing room to show it to Misty and Stephen once I'd confirmed it fit. (I have this policy of no above-the-knee skirts in public without some kind of camouflage for my melanin-challenged legs.)

No matter what anyone tells you, a lifetime of shyness can't be broken by five minutes in a fun little skirt.

I'll indulge my love of men's white dress shirts by buying an enormous one and wearing it over the equally-evil black shirt I've had in reserve for a few months. With that, the black skirt adorned with more D-rings than is technically necessary†, black tights, blue-streaked hair, and lovely shoes, I should be good to go.

I forgot to mention the shoes, hmm?

I have two choices. For minor ass-kicking needs, there are the slipper-styled shoes with a 3.5" heel and 1" platform. (Amazing how a well-placed $10 at Junkman's Daughter allows you to see over a few heads at a concert.) Choice #2 is a beauty - the kind of shoe I've always wanted but never been able to justify buying. Knee-length boots with lots of shiny silvery bits. 1½" platform + 4" heel.

That there's some sky up there, yep.

The shoes might not manage to make me invincible, but maybe they'll let me fake it for a few hours. Give me enough bravery to wear the skirt and the shirt, to flaunt the blue hair, praying that I've finally done enough to move outside Jody's disdainful classification of "mundane" without alarming my friends and spouse.

I can do this. Really, I can. I won't be one of the blonde nymphets that are a dime a dozen at 'con; I'll be one of the stouter, surlier staffers with a take-no-prisoners attitude and boots to match. Not to mention, the boots actually let me pretend to be a good bit taller than I really am.

It's amazing how people's attitudes change toward you when they no longer have to tilt head/eyes downward to talk to you. How a physically level conversation changes the mental aspects of the conversation. How fascinating it is to be able to stand face-to-face, not face-to-chest, with the person you're talking to at the moment.

How annoying it is to be four inches taller than usual and to receive a pat on the head from Thomas, saying, "You're still short, sweetie."

On the way home from Atlanta, I mentioned this to Jeff, who had been quite amused by my enjoyment of my newfound, albeit temporary, height increase. "Are you going to go out and purchase a bunch of platform shoes?"

"No. But I think I'll hang on to these. Just in case."

† Jody, I heard that thought. Yes, you. You can just quell it right now. You are NOT chaining me to anything in backstage Centennial IV. Just remember, if you chain me to something that doesn't move, who's gonna bring Gatorade and dinner to your pirate crew? Exactly. Play nice or your daughter will be the only grade-schooler who has her nose pierced.... Current music: The Be Good Tanyas, "Only In The Past" (you can download it for free here)
Great Big Sea: When I'm Up