I hate being wrong. Or more accurately, I love being right. You'd think, as an adult with many "adult experiences" under my belt, I'd be a little more lax with the whole being right thing. But, no. This is one of those areas where the five year old continues to thrive inside of me.
Perhaps I fear not being taken seriously. I remember acutely how it feels not to be taken seriously. So maybe, the more tally marks I can accumulate under being right, the higher my You-Should-Take-Me-Seriously score will be.
I find it the most difficult to control myself with my partners and this is not a good thing. I've read the therapy books about "letting go of being right" and I TOTALLY AGREE. It just causes problems. If adult-brain could just put child-brain down for a nap during those times, it would be smooth sailing. But it becomes almost a compulsion. That last bit of information that proves I was right sticks like a thorn in my side until I pull it out in a fairly embarrassingly triumphant way to claim my last bit of rightful victory.
Do I really win anything? No. Cognitively, intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, I get a tick mark on the I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. Except, there is no I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. So even beyond the evidence, I still recognize that there's no real prize at the bottom of the box. What the fuck?
During a somewhat emotional conversation, a friend recently said "I'd be willing to scrap with you but I'm not sure I'd come out alive. You have a very strong do-not-fuck-with-me aura about you." While statements like these always surprise me a little bit, I am aware that I can come off as a pretty strong person. I have been described as intimidating and while I have a hard time seeing that in myself, I accept that others do. You'd think someone who apparently wields as much psychic power as I do would not worry so much about which specific childhood acting role made Jason Bateman famous.
I suspect it has something to do with marrying a very strong person. He's louder than I am, quicker than I am, and could successfully cross examine the pope into admitting that he fudged a miracle. In short, he's a tough opponent. While I mostly consider the two of us a team, we do go head-to-head fairly often in both The Mundane and The Important. Disagreeing with him is a stressful venture because I am nowhere near as good at making my case as he is and also because my emotions often go into cruise control and take the nearest exit known as Oh Great, She's Crying Now. So perhaps I try to gain leverage wherever I can in order to boost myself up a little bit the next time
Which, really, is illogical. There is no carryover. There is no video game score floating above my head to announce that I have more Validation Points for the next argument. (Although, I would kind of like that. Measuring and organization of points appeals to my OCD.) I know this. Somewhere, in my adult brain that pays bills and owns property, I know this.
However, Jason Bateman's first significant role was Little House On The Prairie. I knew it.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
Burning Me
For many, Burning Man is an opportunity to let loose and let the proverbial hair down (or for some, let the junk air out for a week). For me, it's something of a test to prove that I can in fact do this. I can survive in the desert for a week and remain nourished, hydrated and marginally sane. Mostly. This may not sound like an accomplishment for those that run screaming to the playa with their Red Bulls in one hand and a handful of ecstasy in the other. I get that others see it as an escape, a grown-up playground, and chance for reinvention. I just have difficulty applying that to myself.
Perhaps if I could take a new set of neuroses, hang-ups, and quirks with me, it would feel more like a reinvention. But I take me. And regardless of whether I'm snuggled safely in my bed or forcibly removing playa from my body with a baby wipe, I'm still me. At Burning Man, I'm still the person who gets cranky when people move my cheese, bitchy when I'm not sleeping enough, and stabby when I get too hungry. I do my best to prevent these things *all* the time. Which means that on the playa, I try to hide my cheese so that others cannot touch it, I go to bed before the party has ended, and I make myself eat even when I don't feel like it. In other words, at what some call "the greatest party on earth" I'm still a fucking square. (Incidentally, I will punch the first person who suggests I take a bite out of my dusty cheese.)
In real life, these things work for me. They help me tolerate the jackassery in the world and I'm able to function in a mostly productive manner. And there lies my conundrum... how in the world does one go about reinvention when you've already got they keys to the castle? Do I experiment with sleep deprivation? Snack on mushrooms instead of hummus? Decide that a small container of greek yogurt will TOTALLY get me through until dinner? Make an intentional bad decision? Deliberately step on a relationship boundary? What's a stable mostly well adjusted girl to do? And why does reinvention have to be so expensive?
Every year, I step foot on the playa with a resolution to simply do more. See more. Experience more. But, the reality of my time there is that I find myself fighting dehydration, sleep deprivation, sensory overload, dustiness to an incomprehensible level, and depression. Keeping all of that in check makes pushing additional boundaries rather out of the question because I already feel my boundaries are pushed. My boundaries feel pushed to the point of having my underwear pulled up over my head and sitting uncomfortably in Super Mega Wedgie Land. And I'm not a masochist (usually) so to further flick the envelope seems just cruel.
A friend recently posted something about managing Burning Man expectations. I find that I never have as much fun as I think I'm going to have. But after it's all over, I realize I had more fun than I thought. This doesn't really parse cognitively but it's what I experience.
I'm open to suggestions about reinvention or new ways to do Burning Man. But if you touch my cheese, I will cut you.
Perhaps if I could take a new set of neuroses, hang-ups, and quirks with me, it would feel more like a reinvention. But I take me. And regardless of whether I'm snuggled safely in my bed or forcibly removing playa from my body with a baby wipe, I'm still me. At Burning Man, I'm still the person who gets cranky when people move my cheese, bitchy when I'm not sleeping enough, and stabby when I get too hungry. I do my best to prevent these things *all* the time. Which means that on the playa, I try to hide my cheese so that others cannot touch it, I go to bed before the party has ended, and I make myself eat even when I don't feel like it. In other words, at what some call "the greatest party on earth" I'm still a fucking square. (Incidentally, I will punch the first person who suggests I take a bite out of my dusty cheese.)
In real life, these things work for me. They help me tolerate the jackassery in the world and I'm able to function in a mostly productive manner. And there lies my conundrum... how in the world does one go about reinvention when you've already got they keys to the castle? Do I experiment with sleep deprivation? Snack on mushrooms instead of hummus? Decide that a small container of greek yogurt will TOTALLY get me through until dinner? Make an intentional bad decision? Deliberately step on a relationship boundary? What's a stable mostly well adjusted girl to do? And why does reinvention have to be so expensive?
Every year, I step foot on the playa with a resolution to simply do more. See more. Experience more. But, the reality of my time there is that I find myself fighting dehydration, sleep deprivation, sensory overload, dustiness to an incomprehensible level, and depression. Keeping all of that in check makes pushing additional boundaries rather out of the question because I already feel my boundaries are pushed. My boundaries feel pushed to the point of having my underwear pulled up over my head and sitting uncomfortably in Super Mega Wedgie Land. And I'm not a masochist (usually) so to further flick the envelope seems just cruel.
A friend recently posted something about managing Burning Man expectations. I find that I never have as much fun as I think I'm going to have. But after it's all over, I realize I had more fun than I thought. This doesn't really parse cognitively but it's what I experience.
I'm open to suggestions about reinvention or new ways to do Burning Man. But if you touch my cheese, I will cut you.
Monday, August 1, 2011
High Times
Some people duck into bathrooms to snort lines of coke. Other people "borrow" an Oxy from Grandma's medicine cabinet. And yet some hoard Percoset from their own surgeries (or even the surgeries of others) for that special floaty magically delicious high.
What do I do? I throw things away. I adore cleaning out closets and pantries in order to throw away things. The ultimate goal is, of course, organizational perfection which brings me little snippets of high beyond the immediate orgasmic moment of The Purge. When I walk by and notice my recent handiwork, I get a little burst of pride along with a tiny dollop of shame.
I can't really explain it. Perhaps it's a small but manageable manifestation of OCD. I haven't browsed through the DSM to determine if this is a diagnosable disorder. If we're going to get psychobabble-logical here, I suspect it has to do with my deep-seated desire for order and neatness. Because even if life takes a nosedive, I still have an orderly closet and there is something weirdly comforting about that. When Armageddon comes, I know exactly where my el-wire kitty ears are. If I had my way, the world would be organized Bat Cave style - neatly printed labels on absolutely everything.
Edward (with Stuart chiming in right behind him) claims that I buy things for the sole purpose of throwing them away. This is not true. There is the retail thrill of getting something new. Then there is the settling-in process of said new item. The item is used, worn or otherwise violated. Finally, there is the moment where no-longer-new-item lands in the donation pile thus releasing many happy chemicals in my brain. The space where donated-item used to live is currently vacant and ready for new and untold retail goodness. It's all quite simple. And it brings me immeasurable pleasure.
I don't think there's any real danger to my... "addiction." (Now it sounds all trendy.) I rarely regret tossing an item and I haven't let it get out of hand. Although, I suppose there could be the day when Edward comes home to find me sitting in the middle of the empty living room with just my toothbrush. That would be a reasonable justification for an intervention although I WILL NOT go into a hoarder's home. I can't even watch the hoarding shows without getting twitchy and can barely contain my urge to yell "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO EVER NEED 65 PRECIOUS MOMENTS FIGURINES. EVER. THEY WOULDN'T EVEN ALL FIT IN YOUR CASKET." (But then, I am a terrible person and have low tolerance for clutter and excessive shit. And I think there's a special place in hell or Arkansas for figurine collectors. Because where else would they live?)
Next time I clean out my medicine cabinet, I will think sympathetically about those people with "real" problems. I do not have a problem, I do not have a problem, I do not have a.... wait. Give me that. It needs to go.
What do I do? I throw things away. I adore cleaning out closets and pantries in order to throw away things. The ultimate goal is, of course, organizational perfection which brings me little snippets of high beyond the immediate orgasmic moment of The Purge. When I walk by and notice my recent handiwork, I get a little burst of pride along with a tiny dollop of shame.
I can't really explain it. Perhaps it's a small but manageable manifestation of OCD. I haven't browsed through the DSM to determine if this is a diagnosable disorder. If we're going to get psychobabble-logical here, I suspect it has to do with my deep-seated desire for order and neatness. Because even if life takes a nosedive, I still have an orderly closet and there is something weirdly comforting about that. When Armageddon comes, I know exactly where my el-wire kitty ears are. If I had my way, the world would be organized Bat Cave style - neatly printed labels on absolutely everything.
Edward (with Stuart chiming in right behind him) claims that I buy things for the sole purpose of throwing them away. This is not true. There is the retail thrill of getting something new. Then there is the settling-in process of said new item. The item is used, worn or otherwise violated. Finally, there is the moment where no-longer-new-item lands in the donation pile thus releasing many happy chemicals in my brain. The space where donated-item used to live is currently vacant and ready for new and untold retail goodness. It's all quite simple. And it brings me immeasurable pleasure.
I don't think there's any real danger to my... "addiction." (Now it sounds all trendy.) I rarely regret tossing an item and I haven't let it get out of hand. Although, I suppose there could be the day when Edward comes home to find me sitting in the middle of the empty living room with just my toothbrush. That would be a reasonable justification for an intervention although I WILL NOT go into a hoarder's home. I can't even watch the hoarding shows without getting twitchy and can barely contain my urge to yell "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO EVER NEED 65 PRECIOUS MOMENTS FIGURINES. EVER. THEY WOULDN'T EVEN ALL FIT IN YOUR CASKET." (But then, I am a terrible person and have low tolerance for clutter and excessive shit. And I think there's a special place in hell or Arkansas for figurine collectors. Because where else would they live?)
Next time I clean out my medicine cabinet, I will think sympathetically about those people with "real" problems. I do not have a problem, I do not have a problem, I do not have a.... wait. Give me that. It needs to go.
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