You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August, 2008.
Okay, finally, Denise shut up. Sometimes I want to slap her smiling face. No offense, Denise. Not that you can hear me, this is my own head. Ugh, Denise. Her eyes really freak me out, I’m glad my eyes are closed. Why would someone with such huge eyes wear so much eyeliner? It just draws attention to the fact that she’s some sort of weird praying mantis. Like Callan Pinckney (aside, not thought while meditating: watch the preview, it shows her crazy self in action). Why are exercise ladies so insect-like? Ew, is there a mosquito on my arm? No, that’s just sweat. And you shouldn’t have just wiped that sweat off, you’re supposed to be lying still. Let’s try this again… breathe in, breathe out, focus on… nothing. How the hell do you focus on nothing? You have to think about something, I gues unless you’re asleep, in which case it’s different. Though dreams must be thinking, right? Shut up, self. We’ll do the Ujjayi breath thing instead, focus on that…. cool, the ocean, think about the ocean, that works…. footprints in the sand, waves wash them away…. this totally better not turn into a porno thing, self. That would be really unmeditation-y. Probably thinking about not thinking about porn is defeating the purpose here. Okay, waves, we can get back to waves, ocean… my lips feel weird when I breathe like this. And if I close my throat up too much, that feels weird, too. Maybe no more Ujjayi breath, just go back to ocean, no porn, no reprimanding yourself for even considering thinking porn-y thoughts. Just ocean, waves… oh, shit, this is so not working. I think I’ll go blog about my lack of serenity instead.
I try hard not to stress out, to sweat the small stuff, to get overwhelmed. I’m not very good at it, but I try, because stress sucks – it sucks out your energy, makes you feel awful, research shows it’s bad for this that and the other part of your body – and because, when you are married to a bipolar person, that person stresses enough for both of you. And for your whole neighborhood, too.
Case in point – last weekend, we went on a work-sponsored (read: free!) whale watch in Boston. (Which, BTW, if you ever go on a whale watch – and you should, they are awesome, whales are huge and cool and “oh hai, I’m a WHALE, I’m like TEN FEET FROM YOUR BOAT, just swimming upside down, seagulls are sitting on my head, DOODS.” – if you do go on a whale watch, bring cash, because the snack bar will serve beer and will not take debit cards and the one Heineken that someone gives you will make you wish you had the $5 to go purchase something more beerily to your liking. Also, sit outside, where your stomach feels more settled, but not in the back, where it smells like diesel (only in the back will be where the party people are at, yo. There was a group of annoying people smoking joints at the back of our whale watch. If you can handle the annoying factor and you are down with getting high on a whale watch, the back could be the place for you, diesel smell or not).
Okay, so, anyway, whale watch, husband, stress. So we’re driving to work, where we will board the bus to be whisked away to Boston, and E is freaking out about how we’re going to be late, and the bus will leave without us, or maybe it will be leaving and then will have to turn around for us and everyone will glare at us dolefully for holding them up, and if we miss the bus it will be the end of the world and we will never ever get to go to Boston again, so if we don’t drive 90 miles an hour we might as well just drive right off the bridge because how will we live if we are late to the bus? Etc. etc. (another aside here – when I was in junior high/high school, I kept journals, and when I wrote the word “etcetera”, which I’m not sure why I did, it’s not a very diary-y sort of word, is it?, I would write “ect”. When E helped me clean out my room before we moved in together, he found and read those and was horrified by my improper abbreviation of “etcetera” and still teases me sometimes about it. It’s my secret (not anymore!) shame.)
Whew, the asides are starting to take over, huh? So he’s stressing out, and I’m all zen “oh, don’t worry, if we miss the bus, we’ll just go do something else, no big deal”. I was so impressed with myself and my calmness – hey, self, pat on the back, the yoga breathing and the meditation you keep vaguely attempting and all that cognitive behavioral therapy are actually working!! But then, we got ice cream in Boston and the guy messed up my order and the ice cream fell off my cone and I turned into a raving, near-tears lunatic and yelled at E for not making it better and then we ignored each other the whole drive home, and when I fell asleep he let me snore and drool in front of my coworkers (hopefully no one was looking at me or listening to me). And then I realized that all this trying to not stress out isn’t working, because it’s the little stuff that bugs me out and sends me over the edge. I can deal with missed buses to work trips, I can manage to stretch the groceries another few days when there’s no money, I can usually figure that things will start looking up and not worry about having no money… but if my coffee spills on me or some guy sends packing peanuts in his damn box even though the paperwork clearly says “no packing peanuts”, or someone says something to me in the wrong tone of voice; that’s when I start freaking out and have to go hide and do my alternate nostril breathing and take some Rescue Remedy. And sometimes I just turn into a raving bitch anyway, and snap at people and think unkind things about them and just generally lurk in my cubicle, hating the world. I was sitting in that sort of morass of meanness the other day and realized, all zen-like again, that hey, the person I’m really affecting with all this nasty feeling is ME. And so it would benefit me to stop hating everyone and lurking and sulking and being all toad-like. So, internets, as of right now, before you and you and you, I am deciding to stop being so hateful. To be more zen and to let little shit roll off my back. To stop thinking awful things about people, especially, because feeling all superior, or at least feeling all nasty, is just fucking draining, and I really need that energy for other stuff. Like… I don’t know, naps?
I have to admit this: I own two Denise Austin yoga videos. I pop up from my sun salutations to see her vaguely frightening grin and her really frightening HUGE over eyelined eyes, and every time she says “Let me see that smiling face!” only I’m never smiling, because this shit is hard, bitch, stop smiling and close your eyes or something, because you’re freaking me out. But I also love her a little bit – I love all those videos with the really peppy! happy! bouncy! trainers, even though I’m not a particularly peppy, happy, bouncy person myself a lot of the time. Especially if I’m contorting myself into weird yoga positions and sweating all over my mat or trying to walk in place in the middle of my living room at 10:00 p.m.
I also have to admit: I am so tired of this exercise, eat right, nothing happens bullshit. I am trying, I really am, and are the pounds just melting away? Oh, hells, no. They are sticking stubbornly to where they’ve been stuck for a long time now, and they seem pretty freaking happy there, with no plans to move on to someone else who needs them more than me. It. Is. So. Frustrating. And it’s not like I’m asking to lose 50 pounds in a week or anything ridiculous, I just want a pound or two a week. Nothing big, just something simple and small. And nada. It’s not like it’s not there to lose, because it is, as you can see by my arms in this picture. URGH. It’s enough to make me give up again (because I did for a while there, I will also admit that while I’m admitting stuff). I keep reminding myself that if I quit, though, all these hours of terrible living room floor torment will be for naught. And all this lifting weights or walking in place or downward dogging or whatever, it’s with purpose, and I need to remember that it has made a difference and will do so again, eventually, if I preserve. This is so unlike me, though, the persevering. Usually I’m a give up if it’s hard kind of girl. Someone who, if life gives her lemons, sends them back to be made into lemonade and brought out to her on a silver tray by someone else. I am not a perserverer. So I am fucking proud of myself for this. Also for being almost done with school FINALLY, PRAISE JEBUS. I should graduate in May, and if you are thinking party, think kegger. It’s going to be amazing, 10 years later, to finally graduate from college. I think that makes me a real grown-up now, right?
I am becoming one of those people who schedules her life around her TV shows. I mean, it started off innocently, because how can you not be watching I Love Money? Wait… you’re not? Go, go watch it now. It’s the ultimate culmination of all reality TV. Seriously. There’s no pretend “oh, I’m in love” bullshit - they are there for money and 15 minutes of fame and to show off their taut, interchangeable bodies (seriously, if you can tell the 5 blond chicks or the 5 beefy white dudes apart, you win a prize. E and I are always confused and spend forever discussing which one that actually was who just did/said that thing that was hilarious) There are hats – maybe not Flavor of Love horned hats, but lots of hats! And also ridiculous nonsensical competitions and lots of Intrigue! and Deception! and the word “Alliance”! And they are all really not very smart, so it’s even more hilarious. Oh, god, I wish it was on RIGHT NOW.
Anyway, so E and I watch I Love Money every Sunday evening at 9:00 and then discuss I Love Money and its awesomeness for a while, and are sure to be home for it to come on. We have even kicked people out of the house because “Our show? It comes on at 9:00. You have to leave now.” But then, I realized (this is where you once again see my total blondeness coming out, and yes, it is real blonde, this proves it) that Project Runway, which I love, is on TV and since I have a TV, and it has cable on it, I can watch Project Runway! It was like a brick fell from the sky and hit me on the head – I was sitting here feeling sad that I can’t watch Project Runway, and then I realized that I could! Because the TV? It has Project Runway ON IT! So now on Wednesdays at 9:00 I need to be home.
Only this week, we have a “band night” at work, because when you work in the music industry, everyone is in a band or wants to be in a band or used to be in a band or with the band. Or else, like me, you think “cocktail hour? free dinner? FISH? I am so there!”. Either way, band night is on Wednesday, and that causes a dilemma, because I want free drinks with the fishes, but I also need to watch my show (go back and read that with a sort of old person voice, because that is how I just typed it). I told E that I had to make sure I left band night at 8:30 so as not to miss Project Runway, because I need to hear Suede refer to himself in the third person (I totally think he’s going to win because he is gay-ish and has a shtick, and those are the dudes who always win. Plus he’s really, really good, though the 50s chick whose name I forget is my favorite) and he told me that I am dork and that they re-run it all the time. But what if I can’t figure out when the reruns are? Or if they’re all on while I’m at work? I mean, I could stay home from work, but that would show a serious problem, calling in sick to watch a TV show. Then there would have to be an intervention. I think I just have to leave band night early, unless I am too drunk to drive, in which case I am using that as an excuse to jump in the sea lion tank, or maybe the beluga tank. Because I want to kiss one of those suckers.
