NaBlogWriMo 9: The Seven Minute Solution

So, after yesterday’s kinda depressing admission that I am no longer working out, I found myself motivated. Even if I can’t talk myself into going to the gym, surely there is something I could do here, right? I began hunting around the internet and the App Store, searching for a solution.

Zen Labs To The Rescue?

I found one that looked kind of intriguing.: The “7-minute workout” by Zen Labs. You know, the company that produces the C25K program that got me prepped for my very first 5k back in May of 2017.

Now, I was going into this with a healthy amount of skepticism. Any personal trainer will tell you that you really need at least 30 minutes of moderate exercise, 5 days a week, to stay healthy.

However, I also know that ANY minutes are better than NO minutes. Accordingly, I downloaded it on my iPad from the App Store. While I waited, I put on some gym shoes and busted out the yoga mat.

The program seems to have several different varieties. Some were for core work, others were listed as “advanced”, etc. I decided to go straight to “original.” It looked like 12 exercises I was already familiar with. My skepticism returned. How the heck were you going to get any kind of benefit out of 12 exercises in 7 minutes? Doubtful but hopeful, I pressed the “Start” button.

  1. Jumping Jacks. Well, the graphics are nice, anyway. You get a 10-second countdown, then 30 seconds to perform jumping jacks. I managed 29. I checked my Fitbit: heart rate at 76.
  2. Wall Sit. After a 10-second rest break, next up was the Wall Sit. The first challenge: finding a clear wall to use. There is exactly zero wall space available in my living room, so I was forced to head into the adjoining hallway. Once that was sorted out, I launched the counter. I knew I was paying the price for my time off when, with 20 seconds remaining on the counter, my quadriceps began quivering like Jello. Uh-oh.
  3. Push-ups. Well, shit. Literally my all-time least favorite exercise. I hated them in gym class in Junior High, and I still hate them now. I managed to wobble my way through 15, with very poor form, and arrived at the next 10 second rest period.
  4. Abdominal Crunch. Oh, good. From my least favorite to one of my favorites. What I didn’t anticipate was that this would be the point where I got some “help”. Our dachshund, Delilah, just couldn’t stand the idea that Dad was lying on the floor without licking him on the nose. Repeatedly. I struggled through 22 reps while fending off the dog without using the hands that were clasped behind my head. Heart Rate: 83.
  5. Chair steps. Somewhere in the depths of my garage, there is a full set of aerobic steps. Rather than interrupt my workout for 20 minutes to locate them, I just grabbed a handy step stool. 30 seconds of alternating steps finally got the heart moving a little, with my heart rate hitting 90.
  6. Squats. Simple body weight squats here. I focused on form and inhaling/exhaling and made it through 11. 
  7. Triceps Dip. The program recommends a kitchen chair for their triceps dip. Moving all this gear into the living room was turning into a workout in and of itself. Triceps dips are actually very tricky to keep good form through. It is so easy to start incorporating your back or your shoulders instead of the targeted muscles. I went slowly, making sure my triceps wobbled with every rep and got through 12. Unfortunately, my focus dropped my heart rate all the way back down to 60. 
  8. Plank. Yet another exercise where my form was victimized by fending off doggie kisses. I probably only held the plank position for a total of 20 seconds out of the 30 the program called for. 
  9. High knees running in place. I think I might have mentioned that I write in the morning. Usually still in my pajamas. I might have also mentioned that the “beach ball” of fat that used to sit on my abdomen is now a collection of rolls of deflated skin. To combat the movement of all this skin I normally wear compression underwear and tight exercise gear, to keep it all in place while I move. In pajamas…not so much. I wound up having to hold my abdomen in place with one hand while running to avoid injuring myself. At least my heart rate got back up to 91. 
  10. Lunges. I swear, I must be the only person on the planet who keeps falling off the floor when doing lunges. My lunge form has always been something that instructors have tried to help me with. The corrections have never helped. The heel of my back foot comes up off the floor, and I tip over like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 22 reps, but at least I didn’t fall all the way over and wake Lor up.
  11. Push-up with rotation. What, more push-ups? Really? Sigh. These incorporate a lovely side plank yoga movement at the end of each rep, so at least there is some variety. Also, my aforementioned balance isn’t good enough for “perfect” form where you actually lie one foot on top of the other at the end of the movement. Baby steps, I suppose. 
  12. Side planks. Another one that many people have trouble with, but doesn’t bother me much. And, a minor quibble here: you should do side planks on both sides. The timer only runs you through one side, then pronounces your workout as “Complete.” I flipped over, counted slowly to 30, and pronounced myself done.

An Incomplete Solution

So, my final analysis?

Well…it was OK.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. Doing anything is better than doing nothing. And I’ve been doing nothing for a couple months now, so this was a vast improvement over somnolence.

But…(and it is a BIG but), is this something that I would recommend to a normally active person who was crunched for time? Probably not.

The problem, for me, lies in the heart rate. The entire premise behind the 7-minute workout is that it is supposed to be a HIIT workout – High-Intensity Interval Training. You need to get your heart pumping over a certain plateau in order to be realizing the “Intensity” part of the exercise. And even a fairly healthy beginner should have been doing better than 91 beats a minute. A male my age should be somewhere between 105 to 140 beats per minute to be getting an “Intermediate” workout.

Now, who would I recommend this for?

Me, two and a half years ago, as I was getting prepped for bariatric surgery. This would have been a godsend for me during the months immediately before and after surgery, as I was trying to learn how to move again.

Now, there are a host of other “7-minute” programs out there, including a highly recommended one produced by Johnson and Johnson, so I may give that one a whirl. It supposedly incorporates exercises and intensities for those of us who aren’t totally new to exercise but need to get some work in during a time crunch.

I am crossing my fingers in hopes of finding a solution that doesn’t force me out into the cold, cold world. Wish me luck.

Catch You All Tomorrow,

  • Jeremy

NaBlogWriMo 8: Cold Snap

We are in the middle of our first cold snap of the 2018 – 2019 winter here in Albuquerque. Yesterday’s high was 40 whole degrees, with overnight lows in the 20s. Lor and I are dressed in multiple thermal layers, huddled around the space heaters, praying for Spring to come and save us.

I was chatting with a guy from Cincinnati yesterday who I was saying it is currently warmer back home than it is here. “I thought Albuquerque was warmer than this!” he exclaimed. “If it is like this in November, how bad is it in January?”

Just for the heck of it, I looked up Cincinnati’s weather this morning. In icy Ohio, it is currently 37 degrees Fahrenheit. Here in the desert Southwest, it is currently 24 degrees.

I never thought I would want to move North for the winter.

That Icy Feeling

Apparently, that frozen feeling is just going around these days. We are also in the middle of a “cold” period in our daily exercise routine. To wit, we no longer have one.

It has been weeks since we darkened the door of our local gym. Right at the worst time of year to stop going, I should add. Winter is when the metabolism starts slowing down and trying extra hard to store fat. It is also the time when you are less likely to actually go places and do things, preferring to stay home bundled under blankets.

So, what happened? Why did we gradually peter out on our religious exercise routine?

Well, you know. Life happened. Schedules got compressed. Depression struck. You name it, it sure happened.

I am now at the point where I can’t even think about exercising without cringing – partially in shame, partially in exhaustion. And I am supposedly a fitness expert. I have letters to put after my name and everything.

The Movement Condundrum

As it is, only my Fitbit is currently keeping me mobile at all. Once an hour, every hour, it buzzes on my arm, and I force myself to do something. Take out the trash. Pick up after the dog. Fold some laundry. Anything that will convince the evil spirit that lives on my wrist that I am really doing its bidding.

But, the last time I really exercised? That was last month. The dog was going stir crazy, running around the house, so I took her for a walk. She was so hyper that she kept straining on the leash, rushing ahead of me. In order to keep up with her, the walk turned into a run.

We wound up running about two miles.

And darned if it didn’t feel good. Just to be moving again. I promptly committed to myself that I would start doing this every day again.

And I promptly broke my promise to myself the next day, of course.

Even talking about it today makes me uncomfortable. There is nothing really stopping me from heading to the gym today. But Lor has a cold, and I have a ton of editing to do on C. Charel Kunz’ novel Reborn (available now on Storyshop, coming soon to Amazon!), and it is too damn cold anyway.

So, yeah. My motivational skills are lacking when I can’t even talk myself into doing something.

Structure Is The Key To Success

So, how am I going to get past this?

Structure. It is really the only solution.

After all, I can still run two miles. I still only weigh 178 pounds. The time to act is now, before entropy sets in. I would hate to face Spring of 2019 weighing over 200 pounds and gasping when I walk around the block.

So I need to institute structure around my workout routine. Telling myself all day long that I will go work out “in a while” obviously isn’t working.

Because I know a little secret about myself: I am a born procrastinator. There used to be a Mark Twain quote on my desk at work: “Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day AFTER tomorrow.”

I am even the same way with writing, an activity I love. It is still very easy to get up first thing in the morning and look at my iPad with distaste. Maybe I could just look at Facebook or ESPN for a while? Or just play a couple rounds of XCOM or BattleTech on the PC?

And, next thing I know, it is noon, and my most productive writing hours are gone.

So, instead, I use the carrot and stick approach.

I absolutely do not allow myself to touch a video game or other interest until I have either A) written 500 words, or B) edited 1,000 words. The 500-word mark comes from needing to produce a 10,000-word episode every month for Fiction Vortex – 5 days a week x 4 weeks a month = 20 days to produce 10,000 words. Do the maths, and I have to create 500 words a day just to stay afloat.

This month, for NaBlogWriMo, I have committed to working on the daily blog post instead of the usual requirements, but you get the picture. (I actually got a full episode ahead of schedule on Executor just so I could write something different this month.)

There Is No Carrot, There Is Only Stick

The trick now is to figure out where to fit in the commitment to exercise. After all, I already know that exercise has an endorphin reward built right in. And that hasn’t been enough to get me moving. So, where the heck is my “Carrot?” My only motivation, therefore, has to be “Stick.”

There has to be a block of time, every day, specifically dedicated to fitness. Has to. I’ve given that advice to dozens of people going through bariatric surgery.

However, I am not willing to give up my most productive writing hours, early morning, in order to work out. And the rest of the time our daily schedules are so fluid that I have no idea where to fit in a dedicated block of time.

It is a pretty problem, to be sure.

I deal with forgetting to take my cocktail of daily anti-seizure meds with alarms throughout the day. I deal with lack of motivation to write by getting started immediately upon waking up before I am fully aware of what I am doing.

So, in a perfect world, I would exercise in the evening.

But I have so much trouble talking myself into leaving the house after 6 pm that I am pretty sure that idea is doomed to failure. Hell, I have trouble talking myself into leaving the house pretty much any time of day. So I will wrestle with it and let you all know what I come up with.

Sigh. At least my mind is getting a daily workout these days.

Catch you all tomorrow,

– Jeremy Schofield, CPT

(Told you there were letters after my name)

NaBlogWriMo 6 & 7: One Stent Up, Two Stones Back

Yup, actually installed in my body.

I started this intending to talk a little about my most recent bout with kidney stones. The most frustrating thing (for me, anyway) about kidney stones is that they are mostly preventable. Even though they are noted as a potential side effect of bariatric surgery, avoidance is simple: adequate hydration. Every time this happens to me, as I moan and groan and wait for things to start flowing again, a single thought occurs to me: “Did I hydrate enough today?”

And the answer, invariably, is “NO.”

But, as I told the story, it kept growing. And growing. And growing some more.

Thus, the tale that was supposed to be produced last Friday spent 3 days being written instead. It is now longer than some short stories I have created.

So, get yourself comfortable, and check your squeamishness about bodily functions at the door.

A Painful Burning Sensation

Our tale begins back on July 6 of 2018. On our way home from a family visit in Santa Fe, I noticed a mild pain in my back. I didn’t worry too much about it – I had just spent the last 4 days in the car, courtesy of the 4th of July holiday.

As it turns out, I should have worried about it.

All day long, the pain increased, and no amount of stretching would alleviate it. As the pain worsened that evening, it occurred to me that I might have a bigger problem. I hadn’t urinated once, all day.

This continued for the next 48 hours.

Finally, during a visit to the dentist’s office, the real pain struck. That oh so familiar sensation, like an ice pick being shoved through the abdomen. I had developed another kidney stone. (Though, in hindsight, not going to the bathroom for two days probably should have been a clue.)

The visit to urgent care that evening wasn’t great. The PA on duty asked me to identify where my kidneys were. After I was able to do so correctly, he chewed me out for not coming in sooner. “Are you trying to rupture a kidney?” he asked. I hadn’t even been aware that this was a thing I should be worried about.

You can bet I was worried now, though.

He injected me with a mild muscle relaxer and told me that if the no-flow problem hadn’t corrected itself overnight that I was to report to the Emergency Room.

At 7 AM the next day, I was among the first in line.

The Hospital House of Horrors

In one sense, I feel bad for the folks that work the local emergency room. They have to work insanely long shifts dealing with the dregs of humanity.

On the other hand, this can leave them with a certain, shall we say, “casual” approach to tending to legitimate patients like myself.

I will admit that reporting that I hadn’t urinated in three days got me through the initial triage stage pretty quickly. But, after being placed on a bed in the back…nothing happened. For hours. A nurse came by and told me that someone would be by shortly to administer some pain meds. This became a familiar refrain as a parade of nurses, nurse’s aides, and even a couple of EMTs all promised to produce medication to deal with the agonizing waves of pain that were now emanating from every point of my body south of my chest.

After several hours of this, I finally pounced (metaphorically) on the next nurse that happened by, and I asked for a catheter. This might have been the point where they started taking me seriously. Probably not too many requests for one of those in the average day.

For those that don’t know, a catheter involves taking a flexible hose, about half the size of a normal drinking straw, and inserting it into your body. Yup, right through the aperture that your urine normally flows through. I can feel you wincing from here. I can assure you, it feels even worse than you are thinking it does.

Unfortunately, even this drastic remedy provided no relief. I could tell the nurse was deeply suspicious when she got it implanted and almost nothing flowed out the other end. I could hear her thinking: “Have I just inherited one of those people who enjoy being in pain?” She promised me drugs (again) and then vanished.

A few more hours went by. During this time, I was now in pain both internally (from the kidney stones), and externally (from the catheter, which I remain convinced was a veterinary version designed to be put into livestock, and not designed for the human body.) Lor literally had to talk me out of removing the thing myself.

At last, someone showed up to haul me off to the Imaging department. They were going to MRI me to find out just what the heck was going on internally. I thought this would bring relief.

I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

Under The Microscope

I could tell that things weren’t going to go well when I got parked outside the door to Imaging. The person pushing my hospital bed was bitterly complaining to someone on the phone about what an asshole her boyfriend/spouse/SO was while we waited. When my turn came, she rolled me into the room, being sure to hit every single bump and corner in the hallway. Considering even breathing was painful at this point, this did nothing for my mental state.

But the coup de grace came as I was transferred from my bed to the MRI slab. Undoubtedly frustrated with all things male, my technician tried to “help” me move faster from bed to machine. In doing so, she managed to pinch the hose of my catheter between the rolling bed and the immobile MRI machine. She then yanked me across from one platform to the other.

I moved, the catheter hose did not.

By the time she sorted out what had occurred, I was literally lying on the MRI weeping in pain. She rolled the bed away, readjusted the hose, and walked out of the room, her vengeance upon the male half of the species accomplished. No apology was forthcoming.

By the time I got back to the emergency room, I was ready to just die and get it over with. I did finally get an assigned nurse, who also promised me drugs. She agreed to remove the catheter from my bruised and battered equipment, wincing when I told her the story about my experience in Imaging.

More hours passed.

Size Matters

That evening, a full 11 hours after I checked myself in, a Doctor appeared.

“Guess you’re not feeling too good, eh?” he asked jovially. I agreed that, indeed, I was not. “Well, there’s a reason! You’ve got a big ol’ kidney stone. 10 centimeters. We’re going to try to schedule you for emergency surgery tonight. In the meantime, I’ve approved you for all the pain meds you want. You must be miserable.”

With that, he left. I was so deliriously happy at the potential application of endless morphine that it took me several minutes before I processed what he had said.

…10 centimeters…?

I was pretty sure I was remembering my metric conversion correctly but wasn’t an inch equivalent to 2.5 centimeters?

Did I really have a kidney stone FOUR INCHES in diameter stuck in my piping somewhere?

I asked Lor for my phone. Puzzled, she handed it over to me. I called the only person who I knew would assist me.

“Dad,” I said when he answered the phone, “they’ve just told me I have a 10 cm kidney stone. If they tell me that they want me to PASS this thing, I need you to take me out behind the barn and shoot me.”

My father solemnly agreed to do so and added that he and my mother were on their way to the hospital now.

Metric Fractions

While my hospital room began filling with family members, I was visited by my nurse and a nurse’s aide. They were astonished by my doctor’s diagnosis. They rummaged around on the computer system and returned with a couple of pieces of news.

The good news: my doctor misspoke. The “stone” was 10 MILLIMETERS, not centimeters.

The bad news: 10 millimeters is still the size of a bullet for a good sized handgun. There was no way it was going to pass on its own. I would, indeed, have to have surgery.

More bad news: my doctor had sort of buried the lead while raving over the size of the kidney stone. Turns out I had STONES (multiple), not a single one. I had a 10mm one blocking the ureter on one side. Then, there was a 4mm stone actually stuck in the ureter on the other side.

No wonder I hadn’t been able to move any fluids for nearly three days.

Since I now had free access to all the drugs I wanted, I will admit that the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur for me. I was finally taken back for surgery about 11 PM. After admitting myself to the ER at 7 AM, mind you. Later on, in recovery, I was convinced that my Urologist said they had only removed one stone. Must’ve been the drugs, right?

Wrong. They really had only removed one of the two stones – the smaller one. I would have to set up an appointment to have the other one taken care of.

The Gift That Kept On Giving

In the meantime, they had left me with a special present…a device called a “stent”. This involves jamming latex tubing up through your ureters in order to keep them open and to assist in passing any smaller particulate that might be trying to come through.

It also leaves you with a (no shit) length of fishing line emerging from the same aperture your urine flows through. The end of the line is then taped around your gear, so you don’t “accidentally” remove it.

The problem? The tape had been applied inexpertly. I had what looked like half a roll of scotch tape wrapped around me half a dozen times, pinning the fishing line in place. Unfortunately, they had not given me enough slack in the line. Every time I shifted position, it yanked my equipment this way and that. I’ve heard of men being led around by their penises, but this was ridiculous.

I asked my long-suffering wife to fix this after we finally made it home. She took one look at the situation and went looking for scissors. After she calmed me down and reassured me that she was not preparing to amputate, she told me what had happened. Apparently, the surgical staff had not bothered, umm, “cleaning up” the area before they applied the rolls of tape. Consequently, I had bunches of pubic hair all gathered up in the rolls of tape along with the fishing line.

10 minutes and a trim later, I was finally no longer being yanked to and fro. I put myself back together, and we headed off to the pharmacy to get the supply of pain meds that would have to tide me over until my next surgery. Which had not even been scheduled yet, by the way.

You Can’t Haz No Drugs

Because the surgical gods were still not smiling upon me, there was another issue. A big one. The pharmacy would not fill my prescription.

It seems that the urologist who performed my emergency stone-ectomy, (OK, fine, it is referred to as a “lithotripsy.”) was NOT licensed in the state of New Mexico. He was a recent transplant from Arizona and had not completed his licensure requirements here.

The upshot of this was that they would not fill my prescription whatsoever. I was going to have to suffer in stoic silence through the next several weeks until my second lithotripsy.

I considered suffering in silence beautiful. For about 30 seconds. Then I busted out my medical marijuana card and had Lor drive me to the closest dispensary.

Thank God for medical marijuana is all I have to say. The same substance that assists me with seizure control was about to keep me from being in unending pain for the next three weeks. After trying (and failing) to keep straight faces after I told them the whole story, the budtenders at R. Greenleaf had mercy on me. They set me up with a vaporizer loaded with a strain designed for folks suffering from intractable pain and sent me home.

The Stone and The Stent

And there I sat, for the next three weeks. Completely baked, on my couch, craving Cheetos and Oreos. Every time I could feel the pain emanating from either my stone or my stent I would self-medicate again.

It is entirely possible that I smoked more weed in that three-week period than I had consumed in my entire adult life leading up to that point.

My doctors had informed me that I would get used to the stent in a day or so. My doctors lied. I never stopped being in pain from the installation of miles of latex tubing shoved into my urinary tract. When combined with the irregular pulses of pain from the over-large kidney stone, I was not sure I would make it to the procedure to have them both removed.

As it turns out, I only got to have one removed. The second lithotripsy went smoothly, but I was dismayed to discover that I would be leaving with the thrice-damned stent STILL INSTALLED.

Turns out I would have to wait another week before I could remove that horrible, horrible stent.

Before,  I removed, you ask? Oh, yes. After your recovery period, you are told to grab that nasty line emerging from your equipment and yank it out yourself.

I thought that the day could not come fast enough. When it finally arrived, I self-medicated, covered Lor’s massage table with old ruined sheets, and assumed the position. Lor, as fascinated as always with anything involving human physiology, offered to assist. I declined. She settled in to observe instead.

The Never-Ending Latex

Thus, my journey toward freedom from the stent began. I pulled. It hurt. I pulled some more. It hurt even more. I kept on yanking, tears streaming down my face. I went through my entire vocabulary of curse words and began inventing new ones. And still, the thing wouldn’t come out.

I had started to wonder if another error had been made. Did the surgical team leave behind a spool of fishing line inside my kidney? But, finally, a piece of latex tubing emerged. This, then, was the stent, apparently. I was maybe halfway there. I kept crying and pulling. The pile of fishing line and latex just kept growing.

Meanwhile, Lor was so fascinated by the process that she kept leaning closer and closer to watch this never-ending stream of plastic emerging from my body. When I finally reached the end of the procedure she was probably only a foot from where the extraction was taking place.

At last, with a final exhausting tug, I pulled the last of the 24 inches of stent out of my body. (No exaggeration – we measured it. See the photo above if you want proof.) As it emerged, however, a back wave of urine that had been clogging the pipes behind it emerged in a manner not unlike a fire hose.

I did mention that Lor was only about a foot away at this point, yes?

As I sat there panting from the effort, Lor stood there dripping and blinking. “I suppose I should have anticipated that,” she said, and she wandered off to the bathroom to clean up.

TL;DR (Too Long, Didn’t Read)

I had multiple kidney stones. It hurt. I cried. Multiple surgeries were performed. I got stoned. Lor got wet. The end.

But, seriously, if you take nothing else away from this, take this piece of wisdom:

STAY HYDRATED.

Catch you all tomorrow,

  • Jeremy

NaBlogWriMo 5: The Morning After

Until recently, I never realized how exhausting politics could be.

I, like many of us, have spent the last two years in disbelief at our nation’s cultural regression. The election of Trump as president in 2016 somehow seemed to energize every single retrograde impulse we could have as a country. Empowered women? Nope, better not have any of those. Equal rights for those who don’t meet the “standard” definition of heterosexual marriage? Oh, heck no, let’s roll that stuff back. Embracing the growing multiculturalism of our country? Ewww – no, send ’em all back where they came from!

Never mind that most of “them” came from right here.

So, I settled down in front of the television set Tuesday night, waiting for the country to rise up and repudiate the madness that has emanated from the White House. 

And waited.

Then, I waited some more.

And, finally, after the hundredth refrain of “where is the blue wave?” from the political commentators, I gave up in frustration and went to bed. Apparently, this was just who we are as a nation, and I had better learn to deal with it.

In Search of the Blue Wave

I spent most of the day yesterday looking around the web, trying to piece together a clearer idea of what had happened the previous night.

And I discovered that “No Blue Wave” aside, we were actually not in as bad a shape as I had perceived on Election Day.

Yes, Gillum was defeated in Florida. Yes, Beto O’Rourke went down in Texas. And, yeah, we actually lost a few more Senate seats, despite my quiet hope that maybe we might actually gain a couple.

But even though Beto O’Rourke was defeated in Texas it was by a margin of less than 3% of the vote. With over 70% of those under 30 voting for him. Things are changing in what used to be the most reliable of Conservative strongholds.

And, Gillum didn’t win in Florida, this is true. But, in the midst of the national attention to his defeat, something had gone unnoticed by many of us, myself included.

Amendment 4 got voted into law in Florida. This returns the ability to vote to over a million citizens of Florida who were previously denied that right due to having been convicted of a felony. In Florida, just like everywhere else in the country, the majority of those serving time are minorities. And minorities currently tend to vote against all the things that Trump’s America stands for.

In a battleground state where elections seem to always come down to a difference of a hundred thousand votes or less, the citizens of Florida just returned the right to vote to over a million people who are not naturally inclined toward the current administration.

Encouraged by this discovery, I started looking for other good news. And, wow, did I find it.

The Year of The Woman

It is significant in and of itself that the House flipped back over to Democratic control. In an election where 23 seats needed to change hands to change the majority, 35 actually did so.

The majority of the districts that “flipped” were in the suburbs of various major metropolitan areas. And the #1 group that turned out in droves to drive these critical elections?

Women. Female suburban voters turned out in record numbers, and the majority of them were not voting in favor of our current administration.

It gets better, though. Not only was there a much higher number of female voters, but there was also a HUGE increase in female candidates. Women finally got tired of their 52% of the population being represented by legislative bodies that were over 75% male.

At last count, at the national level, 122 women had won elections for Gubernatorial, Senate, and House races. Still not an accurate representation of women in our population, but holy smoke is it a step in the right direction.

Heck, the only “good” news we had in the Senate races was that a previously Republican Senate seat in Nevada was flipped. The challenger? Jacklyn (“Jacky”) Sheryl Rosen.

Keep On Pushing

All across the country, there were signs of life.

Record numbers of young voters turned out. (Keep it up, young people! This is your future we’re talking about here!)

We elected our first pair of female Muslim representatives. Colorado, of all places, elected our nation’s first openly gay Governor.

We even got not one but TWO female Native American representatives to Congress – the first two in our nation’s history. The folks of Kansas voted in Sharice Davids, a member of the Ho-Chunk Nation. And I am especially proud to say that I got to help elect Deb Halaand, of Laguna Pueblo, to the 1st Congressional District here in New Mexico.

It was a pretty progressive night for both Kansas and New Mexico, I have to say. Kansas not only put in Ms. Davids, who is both Native American and lesbian, but they also flipped their state governorship from a Republican man to a Democrat woman. And New Mexico actually went whole hog into “blue” territory. We produced election victories not only for our first female Latina Democrat Governor, Michele Lujan-Grisham, but we also voted Democrat in all our state Congressional races.

We need to keep working for this kind of change, across the country. The House of Representatives can now get back to acting to apply the brakes on the President’s “Nationalist” (his word, not mine) agenda for our country. We can hopefully even start returning our focus to our underserved domestic issues.

There may not have been the “Blue Wave” that I and many others were hoping for. But I know as well as anyone that change takes time, despite our desire for instant solutions. We need to keep paying attention, keep talking to our elected representatives, and keep working for change. 

Because, meanwhile, the Republican party in Nevada just voted in a deceased pimp rather than vote for a female educator.

And that, my friends, is why we need to not quit now.

Catch you all tomorrow,

  • Jeremy

 

Oops!

Yeah, I know it is the NaBlogWriMo project and everything, but some days stuff just gets away from you. Not to worry, though! I have plenty of opinions to share on yesterday’s elections, and will be sharing them with you tomorrow. Sorry for the delay!

Too Much Editing, Not Enough Writing,

* Jeremy