I had a moment the other day where I thought I was crazy. Like, actually, justifiably hug-yourself-jacket crazy. And that got me to thinking... How does crazy happen?
Does it come bursting through your bedroom door in the middle of the night with guns blazing? Or does it whisper quietly to you until washing your socks in the toilet seems like a completely normal thing to do?
Is there a definitive moment where you think to yourself "I am crazy. Rocks are neat"? Or do you spiral down into your own personal nutscape until bathing yourself every day is a distant memory?
I'd like to know when I go crazy. I'd like to celebrate with a dessert and maybe a few friends (nothing crazy...). We could take turns going around the room and memorializing whatever sane things people can remember about me. Maybe we could let balloons go outside. We could draw lopsided faces on the balloons with extra ears and eyes. (Because, as you may recall, I am crazy now.)
I've often wondered what happens in the brain that causes crazy. Is it like a plank from a wooden bridge that's rotted away? Does a synapse passive aggressively throw his pencil down and leave in a huff? Perhaps formal notice is given. "It's been really great working with you all but it's my time to go. Yes, I know it won't be the same without me. Could whoever is controlling her limbs give her a whack in the face so she realizes something is wrong? Thanks. Oh, and Roger, stop hogging all the Jolly Ranchers. They're for everyone."
We all know that once you die, that's pretty much it. Is it the same for being crazy? Is it just one way or are round trips possible? I'm not suggesting that frequent flier miles are the way to go, but it might be nice to do a quick weekend getaway. Perspective and all that. I have to imagine mundane adult responsibilities become more appealing once you've spent the weekend defending your castle from evil toothbrushes bent on destruction.
I see the appeal of taking a walk (albeit a small one) on Mad-ison Avenue. Spending one's life hopping from one sane decision to another? Now that's crazy.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
The Long Walk
I make time for a lot of things. My relationships, work, my animals, exercise, friends... all of these things require time and I willingly give it. The thing I don't make time for is sex.
And why?
I've long thought that at some point, I acquired a skosh of religious guilt somehow. (And as an atheist, this is pure and utter bullshit.) I don't feel like a bad person when I have sex (usually). I'm not grossed out by it (usually). And I'm not afraid of accidental conception (anymore).
I like sex. Actually, if you catch me in the right moments, I love sex. But for whatever reason, sex is extremely removed from the "rest" (gesturing broadly) of my life. The part of me that likes sex lives in an annex, far away from the rest of campus. I sometimes forget it's there. And it's a long walk.
This annoys me and I know it annoys my partners. I've explained to them numerous times that I am light years away from sex most of the time but that shouldn't stop them from rattling the doorknobs of The Sex Annex. See if anyone's home or if the lights are on. They've both nodded in reluctant agreement but I can see it in their eyes that they think I've gone to Crazy Town.
It is in those Sybil-esque moments that I wonder why things are "arranged" this way and if it's possible to do a little reorganization. The best I can guess is that my carnal desires get buried beneath personal growth, partner duties, work and a growing ball of cat hair.
I'm in my middle 30's. Aren't I supposed to be desperately humping doorknobs at this point? Is "the peak" a pack of lies so we don't off ourselves before we finish college? Where is the surge of hormones propelling me towards the Magic Mike establishments of the world?
I suspect part of it is that I don't do lust very well. I can acknowledge a hot piece of tail when I see one but given the chance, would I go home with him? No. Of course not. I've watched Dateline. I know how this ends. And I have to get up early tomorrow. For that appointment. With that guy. About the thing.
I am usually one step ahead of the world in terms of planning, scheming, and organizing. My brain runs about 24 hours ahead of Pacific Time. This clearly is an issue because sex is happening right now but if I'm constantly ahead of myself, then it's not happening at all. And I refuse to plan sex. I know sex therapists encourage scheduling the boom-boom but I've found it to be an abject failure every time it's happened. If nookie is on the calendar, that will be the day that I come down with a raging yeast infection, the day that I did WAY too many squats that I can't sit down without wincing or the day that I feel victimized by world and need snuggles of the non-sexual variety.
I feel compelled to note that no one has complained. (And by "no one", I really mean just the two guys. I am not currently accepting comment cards from anyone else.) This is me engaging in first world neurosis, probably because my horse hasn't died and I'm not waiting for American propagandist coloring books to fall from the sky. This is me gazing out over the great beyond and wondering about other people's grass (Actual grass. Not big-girl grass. Sheesh. You people).
I really don't know how this ends. Perhaps The Sex Annex is fine where it is and I continue to visit it occasionally like an old friend whose phone calls I may have been dodging. Or maybe I find a way to move The Sex Annex a little closer to the rest of the action (which does introduce the unfortunate possibility of inappropriate fondling of fruit at the grocery store). Or maybe I ride off into the sunset with my not-dead horse and "America! Fuck Yeah!" coloring book. Yes, that sounds good. Sexy, almost.
And why?
I've long thought that at some point, I acquired a skosh of religious guilt somehow. (And as an atheist, this is pure and utter bullshit.) I don't feel like a bad person when I have sex (usually). I'm not grossed out by it (usually). And I'm not afraid of accidental conception (anymore).
I like sex. Actually, if you catch me in the right moments, I love sex. But for whatever reason, sex is extremely removed from the "rest" (gesturing broadly) of my life. The part of me that likes sex lives in an annex, far away from the rest of campus. I sometimes forget it's there. And it's a long walk.
This annoys me and I know it annoys my partners. I've explained to them numerous times that I am light years away from sex most of the time but that shouldn't stop them from rattling the doorknobs of The Sex Annex. See if anyone's home or if the lights are on. They've both nodded in reluctant agreement but I can see it in their eyes that they think I've gone to Crazy Town.
It is in those Sybil-esque moments that I wonder why things are "arranged" this way and if it's possible to do a little reorganization. The best I can guess is that my carnal desires get buried beneath personal growth, partner duties, work and a growing ball of cat hair.
I'm in my middle 30's. Aren't I supposed to be desperately humping doorknobs at this point? Is "the peak" a pack of lies so we don't off ourselves before we finish college? Where is the surge of hormones propelling me towards the Magic Mike establishments of the world?
I suspect part of it is that I don't do lust very well. I can acknowledge a hot piece of tail when I see one but given the chance, would I go home with him? No. Of course not. I've watched Dateline. I know how this ends. And I have to get up early tomorrow. For that appointment. With that guy. About the thing.
I am usually one step ahead of the world in terms of planning, scheming, and organizing. My brain runs about 24 hours ahead of Pacific Time. This clearly is an issue because sex is happening right now but if I'm constantly ahead of myself, then it's not happening at all. And I refuse to plan sex. I know sex therapists encourage scheduling the boom-boom but I've found it to be an abject failure every time it's happened. If nookie is on the calendar, that will be the day that I come down with a raging yeast infection, the day that I did WAY too many squats that I can't sit down without wincing or the day that I feel victimized by world and need snuggles of the non-sexual variety.
I feel compelled to note that no one has complained. (And by "no one", I really mean just the two guys. I am not currently accepting comment cards from anyone else.) This is me engaging in first world neurosis, probably because my horse hasn't died and I'm not waiting for American propagandist coloring books to fall from the sky. This is me gazing out over the great beyond and wondering about other people's grass (Actual grass. Not big-girl grass. Sheesh. You people).
I really don't know how this ends. Perhaps The Sex Annex is fine where it is and I continue to visit it occasionally like an old friend whose phone calls I may have been dodging. Or maybe I find a way to move The Sex Annex a little closer to the rest of the action (which does introduce the unfortunate possibility of inappropriate fondling of fruit at the grocery store). Or maybe I ride off into the sunset with my not-dead horse and "America! Fuck Yeah!" coloring book. Yes, that sounds good. Sexy, almost.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Salty Frosting
I'm not a stupid person. And I'm certainly not naive. Aside from my rabid codependence, I do my very best to be considerate of other people's feelings. I don't do this in a super correct Emily Post sort of way (at least, I don't think so). I do it in a you're-a-person-with-feelings-and-I-should-treat-you-as-such sort of way. And this is why yesterday astounds me.
Although it's not for a week or so, I celebrated my birthday with a dinner and an intention to return to my house for cake and cocktails. I do not consider myself one of those crazy bow-down-before-me birthday zealots. But I admit that it's nice (really nice, actually) to have people gathered in one spot to celebrate the simple fact that I exist.
The first person (of importance) to bail was my brother-in-law. He claimed sickness although Edward questioned it because he is rarely sick.
The next person was my mother-in-law. She has known about this party for weeks now and even mentioned the fact that her brother would be in town and may she bring him. (Of course!) The two of them apparently spent the day working on Edward's grandmother's taxes and it was so enthralling, they "couldn't get away." It was hurtful but it was more hurtful because there's a pattern. She has historically ignored my birthday for many years. Do I think she obssessively pays attention to THE day and then makes a concerted effort not to contact me, psychically or otherwise? No. But it's the fact that I don't even warrant an email or a text and I've been her daughter-in-law for effectively 18 years.
She attempted to salve the offense with an offer to take me out to lunch. It's a nice thought but the offer was to take place during a weekend at a cabin with friends (which she is also attending). A weekend with my friends in the woods and you want me to go off with you "for the day"? She is not a stupid person which is why this offer confuses me. "During my replacement Burning Man weekend, I would TOTALLY like to abandon my friends so we can spend the day seeing a historical monument that I've already seen and having lunch. And you've offered to drive! How thoughtful."
And then there were the number of emails received throughout the day from people who "couldn't make it." Nevermind that reservations were made at the restaurant and that Stuart made arrangements for everyone who wished to attend. He specifically asked for RSVP's in order to make sure there was space for everyone. I received no stories of "a bear attacked my tent", "my desert home is currently flooded" or "I have an owwie." It was simply "I can't make it but have a wonderful day." Which would have been PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE before you know, THE DAY.
The tiny bits of life lint on the already marred frosting were the folks who RSVP'd and never said a damn word. I only knew of the whereabouts of two missing friends because another friend at the dinner texted them to ask where they were.
I really don't mean to be a princess here. (Although, I think if there's a day in one's life where you're allowed to a princess, it's probably on your birthday.) But the rudeness just kills me. This wasn't a giant blow-out Project-X-esque party where one soul or ten wouldn't be missed. It was a smallish birthday party. The guest list was carefully chosen. The seats of the absent were painfully apparent.
Most of the people who came to the restaurant opted not to attend the cake and cocktails at my house. Some of them said it and some of them didn't but the reality is that it was "too far." It was about 35 minutes door-to-door and in the sprawlfest that is our city, that is not a bad commute. I pretended to be a gracious party girl and claimed to understand but the wound quickly turned into a bloody mary.
The bright spot in the I-love-you-but-driving-a-half-hour-for-you-is-too-much was the arrival of two friends late last night. I only had about another two hours of party in me when they arrived but when I thanked the male partner for coming, he said "We thought we'd get more time with you here and your birthday is important to us. We wanted to see you and celebrate with you." It was unexpected and helped to tame the birthday embers.
I am loved. I know this and I appreciate the people in my life who make the effort to let me know this on a regular basis. I am grateful to as have many wonderful people in my life as I do. But I am still confounded by the notion that it is somehow acceptable to RSVP to a birthday party and not show up.
The tricky part now is resolving my hefty feelings of annoyance towards the ill-mannered. I'm not sure it's useful to say "It really hurt my feelings that you RSVP'd but didn't come to my party. Do you eat with your elbows on the table too?" What exactly does one do with these seemingly 9-year-old-but-dammit-they're-valid feelings?
Probably nothing. The reality is that the next time theres a function and I'm in charge of the guest list, I will want to NOT check the almighty social cool-ness box next to their name. And then I will have a mildly schizophrenic conversation with myself about whether or not I'm being a petty bitch. Oy.
Cake? There's plenty left over.
Although it's not for a week or so, I celebrated my birthday with a dinner and an intention to return to my house for cake and cocktails. I do not consider myself one of those crazy bow-down-before-me birthday zealots. But I admit that it's nice (really nice, actually) to have people gathered in one spot to celebrate the simple fact that I exist.
The first person (of importance) to bail was my brother-in-law. He claimed sickness although Edward questioned it because he is rarely sick.
The next person was my mother-in-law. She has known about this party for weeks now and even mentioned the fact that her brother would be in town and may she bring him. (Of course!) The two of them apparently spent the day working on Edward's grandmother's taxes and it was so enthralling, they "couldn't get away." It was hurtful but it was more hurtful because there's a pattern. She has historically ignored my birthday for many years. Do I think she obssessively pays attention to THE day and then makes a concerted effort not to contact me, psychically or otherwise? No. But it's the fact that I don't even warrant an email or a text and I've been her daughter-in-law for effectively 18 years.
She attempted to salve the offense with an offer to take me out to lunch. It's a nice thought but the offer was to take place during a weekend at a cabin with friends (which she is also attending). A weekend with my friends in the woods and you want me to go off with you "for the day"? She is not a stupid person which is why this offer confuses me. "During my replacement Burning Man weekend, I would TOTALLY like to abandon my friends so we can spend the day seeing a historical monument that I've already seen and having lunch. And you've offered to drive! How thoughtful."
And then there were the number of emails received throughout the day from people who "couldn't make it." Nevermind that reservations were made at the restaurant and that Stuart made arrangements for everyone who wished to attend. He specifically asked for RSVP's in order to make sure there was space for everyone. I received no stories of "a bear attacked my tent", "my desert home is currently flooded" or "I have an owwie." It was simply "I can't make it but have a wonderful day." Which would have been PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE before you know, THE DAY.
The tiny bits of life lint on the already marred frosting were the folks who RSVP'd and never said a damn word. I only knew of the whereabouts of two missing friends because another friend at the dinner texted them to ask where they were.
I really don't mean to be a princess here. (Although, I think if there's a day in one's life where you're allowed to a princess, it's probably on your birthday.) But the rudeness just kills me. This wasn't a giant blow-out Project-X-esque party where one soul or ten wouldn't be missed. It was a smallish birthday party. The guest list was carefully chosen. The seats of the absent were painfully apparent.
Most of the people who came to the restaurant opted not to attend the cake and cocktails at my house. Some of them said it and some of them didn't but the reality is that it was "too far." It was about 35 minutes door-to-door and in the sprawlfest that is our city, that is not a bad commute. I pretended to be a gracious party girl and claimed to understand but the wound quickly turned into a bloody mary.
The bright spot in the I-love-you-but-driving-a-half-hour-for-you-is-too-much was the arrival of two friends late last night. I only had about another two hours of party in me when they arrived but when I thanked the male partner for coming, he said "We thought we'd get more time with you here and your birthday is important to us. We wanted to see you and celebrate with you." It was unexpected and helped to tame the birthday embers.
I am loved. I know this and I appreciate the people in my life who make the effort to let me know this on a regular basis. I am grateful to as have many wonderful people in my life as I do. But I am still confounded by the notion that it is somehow acceptable to RSVP to a birthday party and not show up.
The tricky part now is resolving my hefty feelings of annoyance towards the ill-mannered. I'm not sure it's useful to say "It really hurt my feelings that you RSVP'd but didn't come to my party. Do you eat with your elbows on the table too?" What exactly does one do with these seemingly 9-year-old-but-dammit-they're-valid feelings?
Probably nothing. The reality is that the next time theres a function and I'm in charge of the guest list, I will want to NOT check the almighty social cool-ness box next to their name. And then I will have a mildly schizophrenic conversation with myself about whether or not I'm being a petty bitch. Oy.
Cake? There's plenty left over.
Monday, June 18, 2012
I'm Okay, But You're a Fucking Idiot
The subject of tolerance has been on my mind recently. Not so much in a voting or sitting on a bus kind of way but more about respecting the decisions and processes of other people.
I should note that I am currently the warehouse manager for Rupert's Idiosyncrasies, Quirks and Home Improvement Mecca. In my mind, my processes make sense. My decisions mostly make sense. Some of my idiosyncrasies do NOT make sense. I understand this. I acknowledge it. I own it, feed it, and walk it around the neighborhood.
And this is why I try REALLY REALLY HARD to respect the way other people "do things." In therapy, I've learned that casting negative judgement on others is generally an unhealthy method of feeling better about oneself. Unfortunately, it works but it does tend to net you the reputation of Judge-y Bitch Lady.
When I see someone doing something I don't understand, I try to calmly say to myself "That wouldn't be a good decision for me but it obviously works for them." This works sometimes. Other times, I dramatically enter the room and declare to Stuart or Edward "Okay, WHY.....<insert retarded behavior and name of possibly retarded person here>."
I admit it, it feels good to openly (within reason - MY reason) discuss why I think someone is a fucking idiot. And even after I question calmly or vent not as calmly, I do so with the intent of ending on a it's-their-choice-and-it-obviously-works-for-them note.
The problem is that I'm getting older. The strange thing about getting older is that you don't care as much about some things while caring a LOT more about others. I'm starting to have this irrepressible need to kick people off my lawn except that I do not have a lawn and I live too far from anything for someone to accidentally wander onto my not-lawn.
So I am conflicted. Conflicted between the water bong-y mantra of "Live and let live" and the luxury of allowing myself to believe another person is actually a fucking idiot.
Ayiyiyi. First world problems.
I should note that I am currently the warehouse manager for Rupert's Idiosyncrasies, Quirks and Home Improvement Mecca. In my mind, my processes make sense. My decisions mostly make sense. Some of my idiosyncrasies do NOT make sense. I understand this. I acknowledge it. I own it, feed it, and walk it around the neighborhood.
And this is why I try REALLY REALLY HARD to respect the way other people "do things." In therapy, I've learned that casting negative judgement on others is generally an unhealthy method of feeling better about oneself. Unfortunately, it works but it does tend to net you the reputation of Judge-y Bitch Lady.
When I see someone doing something I don't understand, I try to calmly say to myself "That wouldn't be a good decision for me but it obviously works for them." This works sometimes. Other times, I dramatically enter the room and declare to Stuart or Edward "Okay, WHY.....<insert retarded behavior and name of possibly retarded person here>."
I admit it, it feels good to openly (within reason - MY reason) discuss why I think someone is a fucking idiot. And even after I question calmly or vent not as calmly, I do so with the intent of ending on a it's-their-choice-and-it-obviously-works-for-them note.
The problem is that I'm getting older. The strange thing about getting older is that you don't care as much about some things while caring a LOT more about others. I'm starting to have this irrepressible need to kick people off my lawn except that I do not have a lawn and I live too far from anything for someone to accidentally wander onto my not-lawn.
So I am conflicted. Conflicted between the water bong-y mantra of "Live and let live" and the luxury of allowing myself to believe another person is actually a fucking idiot.
Ayiyiyi. First world problems.
Monkey See, Monkey Don't
"I lost interest in him once he became a cheater." This sentence was uttered loudly recently at a gathering of friends which included an acquaintance who more or less peed all over her marriage vows in a pretty public way. I found it profoundly funny because who doesn't love a healthy slice of irony. The margarita or three I'd consumed didn't hurt either. The subject of the sentence was Tiger Woods who actually did become an more interesting individual after his wife went postal on his SUV with a golf club. But, I digress...
The topic of infidelity is a sore spot for me. I have experienced it personally and while we have "moved past it" and "done our homework", it does occasionally rear it's head and sends waves of ragey-rage through me.
Witnessing the transgressions of others brings up personal feelings as well as a deep sense of disappointment in humanity. Why?
Well, to put it bluntly, being cheated on sucks. As one of my therapy books put it, it is a "violation of human connection". Once the trust is broken, you can build some of it back but you can never reclaim all of it. The whole of it is lost forever. And try as you might to put on a brave face and silently repeat Stuart Smalley-esque positive affirmations, there is always the voice in your head that wonders if he really went to the grocery store or if he is actually getting his nuts yanked at Sven's House of Cock Torture. And that's just the tip of iceberg. You inadvertently assume a hyper-vigilance about all things relating to that person because you never want to be the idiot again. It's destructive and exhausting.
On a more fate-of-humanity level, your word is all you have. Or rather, our words are all we have. Theoretically, we grow up, learn who we are, learn how to communicate with others and do our best to be "good people" (whatever that is). This is why it never ceases to amaze me that time after time people allow themselves to be driven by the naughty bits.
I get that hormones are powerful. I agree that pheromones exist. I understand that sexual attraction can be intoxicating. But in order to be a civilized society, we maintain some type of control over our impulses. This is why we don't masturbate in Walgreens. (Well, I haven't. Your mileage may vary.) This is why we do not choke the lady in front of us who is taking forever to pay because her purse dog is sitting on her wallet. This is why we resist ramming into the inattentive driver who too busy talking on the phone to pay attention to large masses of metal and fiberglass whizzing past her.
As a whole, we do a decent job of maintaining surface civility. But in our relationships, it all seems to go to shit. People cheat all the time. In the case of my acquaintance, she'd been married for over ten years. Over a drug fueled weekend, she decided she didn't really want to be married anymore and then behaved as if she wasn't. Her partner was deeply hurt and although I do not know him well, I have felt a tremendous amount of empathy towards him. He didn't deserve this.
It's fine to decide that you're done with the June Cleaver pearls. But the catch is that you have re-negotiate or redefine your relationship before acting on your impulses. And this is what depresses me. In the case of my acquaintance, she decided (after her trust violation) that she wanted to have an open marriage. Ummm, NO. That is a completely idiotic request after such an egregious act. As I understand it, he has declined and they are divorcing.
I want to believe that we're NOT one tweet away from monkeys. But, I'm starting to wonder...
The topic of infidelity is a sore spot for me. I have experienced it personally and while we have "moved past it" and "done our homework", it does occasionally rear it's head and sends waves of ragey-rage through me.
Witnessing the transgressions of others brings up personal feelings as well as a deep sense of disappointment in humanity. Why?
Well, to put it bluntly, being cheated on sucks. As one of my therapy books put it, it is a "violation of human connection". Once the trust is broken, you can build some of it back but you can never reclaim all of it. The whole of it is lost forever. And try as you might to put on a brave face and silently repeat Stuart Smalley-esque positive affirmations, there is always the voice in your head that wonders if he really went to the grocery store or if he is actually getting his nuts yanked at Sven's House of Cock Torture. And that's just the tip of iceberg. You inadvertently assume a hyper-vigilance about all things relating to that person because you never want to be the idiot again. It's destructive and exhausting.
On a more fate-of-humanity level, your word is all you have. Or rather, our words are all we have. Theoretically, we grow up, learn who we are, learn how to communicate with others and do our best to be "good people" (whatever that is). This is why it never ceases to amaze me that time after time people allow themselves to be driven by the naughty bits.
I get that hormones are powerful. I agree that pheromones exist. I understand that sexual attraction can be intoxicating. But in order to be a civilized society, we maintain some type of control over our impulses. This is why we don't masturbate in Walgreens. (Well, I haven't. Your mileage may vary.) This is why we do not choke the lady in front of us who is taking forever to pay because her purse dog is sitting on her wallet. This is why we resist ramming into the inattentive driver who too busy talking on the phone to pay attention to large masses of metal and fiberglass whizzing past her.
As a whole, we do a decent job of maintaining surface civility. But in our relationships, it all seems to go to shit. People cheat all the time. In the case of my acquaintance, she'd been married for over ten years. Over a drug fueled weekend, she decided she didn't really want to be married anymore and then behaved as if she wasn't. Her partner was deeply hurt and although I do not know him well, I have felt a tremendous amount of empathy towards him. He didn't deserve this.
It's fine to decide that you're done with the June Cleaver pearls. But the catch is that you have re-negotiate or redefine your relationship before acting on your impulses. And this is what depresses me. In the case of my acquaintance, she decided (after her trust violation) that she wanted to have an open marriage. Ummm, NO. That is a completely idiotic request after such an egregious act. As I understand it, he has declined and they are divorcing.
I want to believe that we're NOT one tweet away from monkeys. But, I'm starting to wonder...
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Panic Switch
The times I've experienced sheer and utter panic are few and far between. Like most people, I have a tendency to get caught up in the minutia and sometimes lose sight of what a disaster really is.
This past Saturday evening, I experienced a panic so profound that words will probably never be able to truly articulate. Edward had driven home after a wine tour to attend to our cat. I stayed up north with friends and planned to return home the next morning. Before he left, I kissed him and asked him to call or text when he got home.
He never did.
The moment that I realized I should have heard from him and didn't felt like slow motion. My brow furrowed, my brain processed how much time had passed since he left and my body was overtaken with a deluge of panic.
I am generally decent in a crisis. I am extra decent when it's someone else's crisis. But I learned this past weekend that the closer my crisis is to ground zero, the more incoherent and useless I become.
Our brains are supposed to protect us from trauma, right? This is why people dissociate and repress. How does it make any sense then that in the least appropriate moment, my brain conjures up images that would make Wes Craven cringe?
My rational self realized that Edward had probably gotten home, forgotten to contact me and fallen asleep. This was very likely. This would not be out of character. In fact, it would be very much within his character.
No matter. The 10% chance that he was unconscious in a ditch somewhere overruled all else. I imagined him in my mangled Honda somewhere in a valley. I imagined him being unable to call for help because his phone had gone missing during the accident. I imagined him having a flat tire and being overtaken by road bandits while putting on the spare. I imagined having to clean out his closet and sell all of our furniture because I couldn't bear to keep any of it.
It seems odd that my brain would start the grieving process so early.
In between mentally sorting out my husband's possessions and preventing my heart from forcibly exiting my chest, my best friend took charge of the situation. She convinced a friend of ours to go to my house to see if he was there. After an agonizing 25 minute wait, Edward called sheepish and regretful. She had woken him from sleep and as we'd guessed, he had simply forgotten.
I was relieved but also angry. However, I also thought sleep was once again a possibility. It seemed logical that I could rest knowing that all was well.
Despite knowing that he was safe, my body refused to cooperate. My heart was still racing and I felt small bursts of electricity running white hot through my veins. At one point, I turned to Stuart and cried my eyes out. I would do the same thing again upon returning home.
Even now, 3 days later, I'm feeling the after effects of so much adrenaline. Sleeping has been difficult and I feel like I've been robbed of my energy. Recently, there have been a number of "life challenges" and although perhaps this should have put things in perspective, it has only served to wear me out.
This past Saturday evening, I experienced a panic so profound that words will probably never be able to truly articulate. Edward had driven home after a wine tour to attend to our cat. I stayed up north with friends and planned to return home the next morning. Before he left, I kissed him and asked him to call or text when he got home.
He never did.
The moment that I realized I should have heard from him and didn't felt like slow motion. My brow furrowed, my brain processed how much time had passed since he left and my body was overtaken with a deluge of panic.
I am generally decent in a crisis. I am extra decent when it's someone else's crisis. But I learned this past weekend that the closer my crisis is to ground zero, the more incoherent and useless I become.
Our brains are supposed to protect us from trauma, right? This is why people dissociate and repress. How does it make any sense then that in the least appropriate moment, my brain conjures up images that would make Wes Craven cringe?
My rational self realized that Edward had probably gotten home, forgotten to contact me and fallen asleep. This was very likely. This would not be out of character. In fact, it would be very much within his character.
No matter. The 10% chance that he was unconscious in a ditch somewhere overruled all else. I imagined him in my mangled Honda somewhere in a valley. I imagined him being unable to call for help because his phone had gone missing during the accident. I imagined him having a flat tire and being overtaken by road bandits while putting on the spare. I imagined having to clean out his closet and sell all of our furniture because I couldn't bear to keep any of it.
It seems odd that my brain would start the grieving process so early.
In between mentally sorting out my husband's possessions and preventing my heart from forcibly exiting my chest, my best friend took charge of the situation. She convinced a friend of ours to go to my house to see if he was there. After an agonizing 25 minute wait, Edward called sheepish and regretful. She had woken him from sleep and as we'd guessed, he had simply forgotten.
I was relieved but also angry. However, I also thought sleep was once again a possibility. It seemed logical that I could rest knowing that all was well.
Despite knowing that he was safe, my body refused to cooperate. My heart was still racing and I felt small bursts of electricity running white hot through my veins. At one point, I turned to Stuart and cried my eyes out. I would do the same thing again upon returning home.
Even now, 3 days later, I'm feeling the after effects of so much adrenaline. Sleeping has been difficult and I feel like I've been robbed of my energy. Recently, there have been a number of "life challenges" and although perhaps this should have put things in perspective, it has only served to wear me out.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Higher Learning
My college research professor never had sex. I know this because he was in his office. All the time. Not having sex. Or perhaps more specifically, not having sex with another person. His research was his life, his sex partner and perhaps even more disturbingly, his idea of fun.
I spent the last two years of my undergraduate studies working with him on various research projects. No question about it, he was a brilliant man. But he never really mastered that life/work balance. And he felt that we, his loyal subjects, shouldn't either.
I spent many a Saturday administering questionnaires and conducting interviews with low income 12-year-olds who were just there for the free snacks. I spent many an evening trapped in "research meetings" that were somehow supposed to be less awful because he bought us pizza. (It helped. But I would have been happier with a can of soup at home.)
I had designs on graduate school for most of my college career. And after working with Dr. Slavedriver, I knew that I needed a break. After graduation, I got a job in my field thinking that I would take a short sabbatical from collegiate life but that a secondary degree was inevitably around the corner.
Never happened. I periodically checked in with myself and even researched grad schools a few times. I continued to feel that I was not ready to immerse myself in that environment again. Perhaps having a life outside of education was intoxicating. Or I'm just really lazy.
But in the last year or two, something has changed. An advanced degree in my current line of work doesn't make sense. I have to do continuing education so that satisfies my desire to learn somewhat.
Without trying to sound like a Rosetta Stone commercial, I've realized that I want to learn via travel. And really, that is sort of an odd thing for me. I love to be at home. I like being comfortable, having my stuff around and knowing exactly where everything is. But I've also realized that being in strange countries invigorates me. It challenges me on a level that I don't remember feeling since I was a fresh-faced first year student.
At home, history puts me to sleep. But when I'm standing in front of it, it's fascinating. I come home with a new appreciation for so many things. The world seems both bigger and smaller at the same time. And I find myself feeling a little more content in my corner of the world.
I spent the last two years of my undergraduate studies working with him on various research projects. No question about it, he was a brilliant man. But he never really mastered that life/work balance. And he felt that we, his loyal subjects, shouldn't either.
I spent many a Saturday administering questionnaires and conducting interviews with low income 12-year-olds who were just there for the free snacks. I spent many an evening trapped in "research meetings" that were somehow supposed to be less awful because he bought us pizza. (It helped. But I would have been happier with a can of soup at home.)
I had designs on graduate school for most of my college career. And after working with Dr. Slavedriver, I knew that I needed a break. After graduation, I got a job in my field thinking that I would take a short sabbatical from collegiate life but that a secondary degree was inevitably around the corner.
Never happened. I periodically checked in with myself and even researched grad schools a few times. I continued to feel that I was not ready to immerse myself in that environment again. Perhaps having a life outside of education was intoxicating. Or I'm just really lazy.
But in the last year or two, something has changed. An advanced degree in my current line of work doesn't make sense. I have to do continuing education so that satisfies my desire to learn somewhat.
Without trying to sound like a Rosetta Stone commercial, I've realized that I want to learn via travel. And really, that is sort of an odd thing for me. I love to be at home. I like being comfortable, having my stuff around and knowing exactly where everything is. But I've also realized that being in strange countries invigorates me. It challenges me on a level that I don't remember feeling since I was a fresh-faced first year student.
At home, history puts me to sleep. But when I'm standing in front of it, it's fascinating. I come home with a new appreciation for so many things. The world seems both bigger and smaller at the same time. And I find myself feeling a little more content in my corner of the world.
Mommy Don't Live Here No More
Patience is not my strong point. Certain things annoy me. And other certain things REALLY annoy me. In order to avoid being a narcissistic asshole (of which I am occasionally guilty), I do try to look inward to determine why Annoying Annie has such a ragey-ragey effect on me.
Sometimes I discover that a person reminds me of someone I knew in the past. Or someone who hurt me. Or someone who unceremoniously dumped the contents of our shared locker in the 8th grade hallway along with my Tiger Beat posters of Kirk Cameron. Not that I keep track of that sort of thing.
And sometimes... that person is someone who irks me irrational and insane levels simply because they fucking do.
I currently have a person in my life who falls in the Bi-Reasonal Category. She has personality traits that I also have (which I try to keep locked up) and she's generally garden variety annoying.
This person has never really grown up. And although I only have a couple of years on her, sometimes it feels like decades. She assumes I'm in charge of everything. And despite the many boundaries I've drawn around myself in order to keep from committing sodomy with a toilet brush, she continues to ask me the same fucking questions and make the same fucking assumptions (which are generally associated with me making every known decision in the universe).
Admittedly, I maintain a level of annoyance with her most of the time so she is at an unfair advantage on the How-Close-Am-I-To-Constructing-A-Voodoo-Doll-Of-You scale. Every time I want to shake her violently and scream at her to stop living like an 18 year old, I try to remind myself that I'm probably already irritated with her and am overreacting to the current annoyance-du-jour.
She does have positive qualities and is heavily enmeshed in my group of friends. I do occasionally enjoy her company. She isn't a bad person. I can, in my rational state, acknowledge this.
I do, however, wish she would find a different "leader." Perhaps, a lemming...
Sometimes I discover that a person reminds me of someone I knew in the past. Or someone who hurt me. Or someone who unceremoniously dumped the contents of our shared locker in the 8th grade hallway along with my Tiger Beat posters of Kirk Cameron. Not that I keep track of that sort of thing.
And sometimes... that person is someone who irks me irrational and insane levels simply because they fucking do.
I currently have a person in my life who falls in the Bi-Reasonal Category. She has personality traits that I also have (which I try to keep locked up) and she's generally garden variety annoying.
This person has never really grown up. And although I only have a couple of years on her, sometimes it feels like decades. She assumes I'm in charge of everything. And despite the many boundaries I've drawn around myself in order to keep from committing sodomy with a toilet brush, she continues to ask me the same fucking questions and make the same fucking assumptions (which are generally associated with me making every known decision in the universe).
Admittedly, I maintain a level of annoyance with her most of the time so she is at an unfair advantage on the How-Close-Am-I-To-Constructing-A-Voodoo-Doll-Of-You scale. Every time I want to shake her violently and scream at her to stop living like an 18 year old, I try to remind myself that I'm probably already irritated with her and am overreacting to the current annoyance-du-jour.
She does have positive qualities and is heavily enmeshed in my group of friends. I do occasionally enjoy her company. She isn't a bad person. I can, in my rational state, acknowledge this.
I do, however, wish she would find a different "leader." Perhaps, a lemming...
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Right Stuff
I have a love/hate relationship with stuff. I love to buy things but I hate clutter so I also love to throw things away. As I become older and more crotchety, I have become more particular about the stuff I accumulate. I want what I want which means that you should give those chotchkes to someone who will appreciate them.
My mother loves to buy me stuff. And when it happens to be things from a link that I've sent her, that is wonderful. However, she also buys me lots of crap. I've gently explained to her that I would really prefer she not do this. She appears to understand but two weeks later I will receive a random something-or-other because it reminded her of me. Most notably, I received a small print of cats in people-clothes with eyes that follow you across the room. It's creepy. It's currently stowed in the guest bedroom because I am scared of it (and because we keep the door shut so I'm reasonably certain it cannot get out). I do also give some of the things she gives me away to people who would like them more than I do. I made the mistake of telling her the last time I did this and there was a meltdown. I maintain that once it's been given to me, I am free to do with it as I please and if you are so attached to the outcome, you should probably never give me anything. (I have yet to solve the conundrum of telling vs. not telling. I'm thinking the meltdown really wasn't worth it and I may have to become the person who "loses things".)
Because of the abundance of stuff (and other emotional therapy-worthy reasons), I'm not a big fan of Christmas. This year, my inlaws gave us taster dishes. It was an appropriate gift because Edward cooks a lot and we do a fair amount of entertaining. However, it's one more thing to store. It will be one more thing to pack and move when we leave our home. It will be one more thing we come across while cleaning out a cabinet and say "Oh, we should have used these for the Dungeon-warming party."
I don't mean to sound ungrateful. More than the actual gift, I appreciate the time spent looking for it and picking it out. Much of the time, I would be happy if the person took a picture of the item and sent it to me with a note that says "This really reminds me of you. I'd love to buy it for you but I know you don't like stuff so just know that I was thinking of you *and* willing to plunk down the $15 for a watch with a stripping Batman on it." That would truly warm the cockles of my heart because it means I am loved and it also means I don't have to figure what to do with something I will never use, wear or look at. And best of all, I will never have to confess that I gave a stripping Batman watch to my very confused niece.
I realize this makes me a difficult person to shop for but the solution is simple. Don't buy me things. I won't be offended and you save money. It's win/win. And if you do buy me something anyway, just know that I will really enjoy throwing it away.
My mother loves to buy me stuff. And when it happens to be things from a link that I've sent her, that is wonderful. However, she also buys me lots of crap. I've gently explained to her that I would really prefer she not do this. She appears to understand but two weeks later I will receive a random something-or-other because it reminded her of me. Most notably, I received a small print of cats in people-clothes with eyes that follow you across the room. It's creepy. It's currently stowed in the guest bedroom because I am scared of it (and because we keep the door shut so I'm reasonably certain it cannot get out). I do also give some of the things she gives me away to people who would like them more than I do. I made the mistake of telling her the last time I did this and there was a meltdown. I maintain that once it's been given to me, I am free to do with it as I please and if you are so attached to the outcome, you should probably never give me anything. (I have yet to solve the conundrum of telling vs. not telling. I'm thinking the meltdown really wasn't worth it and I may have to become the person who "loses things".)
Because of the abundance of stuff (and other emotional therapy-worthy reasons), I'm not a big fan of Christmas. This year, my inlaws gave us taster dishes. It was an appropriate gift because Edward cooks a lot and we do a fair amount of entertaining. However, it's one more thing to store. It will be one more thing to pack and move when we leave our home. It will be one more thing we come across while cleaning out a cabinet and say "Oh, we should have used these for the Dungeon-warming party."
I don't mean to sound ungrateful. More than the actual gift, I appreciate the time spent looking for it and picking it out. Much of the time, I would be happy if the person took a picture of the item and sent it to me with a note that says "This really reminds me of you. I'd love to buy it for you but I know you don't like stuff so just know that I was thinking of you *and* willing to plunk down the $15 for a watch with a stripping Batman on it." That would truly warm the cockles of my heart because it means I am loved and it also means I don't have to figure what to do with something I will never use, wear or look at. And best of all, I will never have to confess that I gave a stripping Batman watch to my very confused niece.
I realize this makes me a difficult person to shop for but the solution is simple. Don't buy me things. I won't be offended and you save money. It's win/win. And if you do buy me something anyway, just know that I will really enjoy throwing it away.
35... Going on 80
I don't do resolutions. I don't "turn over a new leaf" come January. And I don't make lame proclamations that THIS is the year I will <fill in the blank>.
However, there's been a concept that's been floating around in my head for some time that's just finally come together in a cohesive thought. And it's my new philosophy.
I worry too much about what other people think. I worry too much about what I think. I wonder if the mailman thinks I'm a perv. I wonder if people at Walmart think I'm a hoarder because I buy 6 boxes of Kleenex at a time. When purchasing new deodorant, I try to do my sniffing inconspicuously so people don't think I have a problem.
Getting off the I'm-concerned-with-everyone's-opinion-of-me-including-people-I-don't-like train is no easy task. I don't care how old you are - no one wants to be the creepy kid eating lunch by him/herself.
However, it's not healthy, it's time-consuming and it's a killer of stuff-doing because you fear looking silly.
So, my detour around such ruminations is to ask myself: What would I do when I'm 80?
When I'm 80, I will fart audibly and unapologetically in Walgreens. I will gleefully present my AARP card to get discounts. I will fake frailty to get priority boarding on airplanes. I will wear hot pink hats to dinner because I FEEL LIKE IT. I will fling my dentures at my dining companion because it's funny. I will plant a hair from my head in my food and claim it's a pube to get a free meal. I will use and abuse my age as much as possible but above all, I will do whatever the hell I want. Why? Because I'm 80.
I think it's karmically acceptable to "borrow" my 80-year-old-ness a little early. If I'm senile at 80, then I'll be happy not to have wasted it. I won't have to write pithy essays about all the things I wish I knew when I was younger. I won't bemoan the fact that "youth is wasted on the young." I will bask in the fact that I borrowed my sass and used it well. I will gloat that I did the things I wanted to do while I still could.
Now go away. I need to watch my stories.
However, there's been a concept that's been floating around in my head for some time that's just finally come together in a cohesive thought. And it's my new philosophy.
I worry too much about what other people think. I worry too much about what I think. I wonder if the mailman thinks I'm a perv. I wonder if people at Walmart think I'm a hoarder because I buy 6 boxes of Kleenex at a time. When purchasing new deodorant, I try to do my sniffing inconspicuously so people don't think I have a problem.
Getting off the I'm-concerned-with-everyone's-opinion-of-me-including-people-I-don't-like train is no easy task. I don't care how old you are - no one wants to be the creepy kid eating lunch by him/herself.
However, it's not healthy, it's time-consuming and it's a killer of stuff-doing because you fear looking silly.
So, my detour around such ruminations is to ask myself: What would I do when I'm 80?
When I'm 80, I will fart audibly and unapologetically in Walgreens. I will gleefully present my AARP card to get discounts. I will fake frailty to get priority boarding on airplanes. I will wear hot pink hats to dinner because I FEEL LIKE IT. I will fling my dentures at my dining companion because it's funny. I will plant a hair from my head in my food and claim it's a pube to get a free meal. I will use and abuse my age as much as possible but above all, I will do whatever the hell I want. Why? Because I'm 80.
I think it's karmically acceptable to "borrow" my 80-year-old-ness a little early. If I'm senile at 80, then I'll be happy not to have wasted it. I won't have to write pithy essays about all the things I wish I knew when I was younger. I won't bemoan the fact that "youth is wasted on the young." I will bask in the fact that I borrowed my sass and used it well. I will gloat that I did the things I wanted to do while I still could.
Now go away. I need to watch my stories.
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