I receive a remarkable amount of commentary, considering I only have seven readers. It's all from the same people of course, which is how I know there's still only seven of you.
However, I'm certain that the questions and observations from my loyal handful of fans are similar in nature to other literary icons.
The true literary greats must have had to grapple with these same questions throughout their writing careers, much like I am.
What's with all the brackets all the time? Have you thought about seeing another doctor? Are you sure that's really such a good idea, and you really are kind of a hot mess aren't you?
I look forward to the day when Mags Atwood and I are hangin' some place, all literary and stuff, pounding our beers, and I can finally ask how she personally deals with the hot mess question.
She'll go into some lengthy observation about how our neurotic gifts feature in greek mythology, and inevitably link to the world economy by way of pine cones, windswept prairie and cleavage.
I won't have a clue what she's talking about and will likely nod off half-way through as I do with most things by Atwood. I'll be roused however, when Mags is handed another Booker Prize just for talking.
(In case you are wondering, the answers to the above mentioned most frequently asked Bambi questions are as follows: Shut it. Yes. Maybe? and With a Vengeance.)
Quite often I hear from one or more of my seven readers that they're forced to read this blog to find out what's really going on with me. These are people I actually converse with in real life, and I imagine this would be annoying as all hell.
Annoying or not, I really can't help it.
The reasons I'm more likely to share this way are probably the same reasons Stephen King writes. If he were to share what was in his head all of the time through normal conversation, it would freak people the fuck out.
For example, if somebody were to ask me "what's new?" right now, polite coversation dictates a socially acceptable response. I might say. "Not too much," or I might say, "Call me back because I'm watching Glee."
Those same conversations might not go as well if I were to provide an honest answer to the innocuous "what's new?" question.
For example, I've lost the ability to poo. I'm not even joking. I've been prescribed anti-depressants, and while I wait to see if they're effective or not for depression, other side-effects are becoming clear.
For one, it decreases my appetite. This is good news, and I'm already down 35 pounds with the help of Weight Watchers and 100 calorie ice cream sandwiches. Secondly, this drug acts as a stimulant for the female libido. This is not actually good news. When one's only current sexual relationship occurs with somebody else's husband, it's really, really not good news.
(Who knew that being the third person in a somewhat open marriage could get complicated? Or angst-inducing? I know. I'm just as shocked as you are.)
I also get dizzy when I stand up now, but that could be because I'm tall and should really be wearing flat shoes.
While the lesser side-effects are managable, losing the ability to poo is rather alarming. Constipation is listed as a side-effect, but it's not as if I'm constipated. There's just no urge, and there really doesn't seem to be a need. Apparently, I've just outgrown this particular bodily function.
Being the hypochondriac that I am, I've started tracking just how long I can go (or not) before having to be admitted to emergency with the world's most ridiculous problem short of having a gerbil stuck in my rectum.
So far I'm at five days and counting. I would see a doctor, but I'm afraid he'll tell me my colon is conflicted, which would just make sense given my uterus has only recently stopped being confused - the official medical diagnosis.
On the bright side, my bathroom trips are always very quick now, and if I do take a long time it really is because I'm fixing my hair or flossing. Just the same, it doesn't seem like a sustainable situation.
Obviously I'm concerned, but if somebody were to walk up and ask me how I'm doing right now I'd probably keep that to myself.
Amazingly, despite just posting on the interwebs that I am no longer able to poo, there are always things I can't actually write about in my blog. I may want to very badly, but somewhere out there I sense teams of lawywer simultaneously having conniptions at the thought.
I generally try to avoid identifying anybody who has the misfortune of appearing in my writing too specifically, and some times that would be unavoidable if I said what I really want to say. Obviously between my bowels and my writing, this is an enormous amount of building pressure.
While it's true Margaret Atwood and I will never, ever be mentioned in the same sentence unless it's because I ran her over with my car and news crews captured footage, we could still have a lot to talk about should we meet. And if I really wanted to tell her something, I would just send Mags a link to my blog.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Today's special is...
The warning shot was the lobster. I don't eat it very often at all, although I'm pretty sure I can cook it. I'm adept at boiling things provided that's all I have to do.
Granted, the fact I would have to boil something while it's alive would be hard to get over, but lobsters look a lot like armoured spiders. With that in mind, I'm sure I could plop the creature in a boiling pot and then flee the room, only to return when it's done. Or has stopped screaming. Whichever.
Eating lobster is more of a problem. I stay away from foods that require separate tools to eat, tools normally only used to put together furniture from IKEA. At the rate I'm going, knives and forks are becoming less of an every day reality and more of a concept for special occasions, given I regularly eat my dinners in front of the TV, and occasionally out of a pot. This is one advantage to being exhaustively single - good manners take a back seat to efficiency.
I'm not really dedicating an entire post to lobsters, or at least I'm trying not to. Obviously, I have some avoidance issues. Also, a craving for anything with butter on it.
What I'm clearly doing is trying to explain how Alex told me he'd met somebody and that they are serious while also not thinking about it at all. I think it's going rather well.
It happened that I hadn't heard from him in weeks. All summer as a matter of fact, which is weird. Normally there's text messages, an IM on Facebook, a quick chat on MSN - something to remind the other of our mutual existence.
Though we hadn't been talking nearly as frequently as we once did, our check-in conversations were always the same. When are you coming here? When can I see you? He would always ask me if I was dating anybody.
Sometimes that exact question, sometimes asking if I was still his and more recently pressing me if there was anybody at all in my life who was special. Anybody I cared about. Any guy I cared about. Of course there is, of course there was, but I never said it.
Naturally I'd ask him the same, and then wait with all of my air sitting still in my lungs until he told me that no, he was single. He liked it that way, and I said I liked it that way too.
I think he took it to mean that I liked being single and free, when what I was really saying was I liked him being single. A small miscommunication that didn't seem worth correcting.
I never worried much about miscommunication actually, even though there's literally an ocean in the way of our being neighbors. We established very early on that we would be close, and we would not lie to one another. Ever.
(I lied though. Every time he asked me what I was wearing I lied, which I really don't think should count. It was a helpful lie, it made him happy and he should have considered whether I could really be lounging about at all hours looking like I'd been run over by a Victoria's Secret store.)
(That's it. That's all I lied about. Well that, and one big sin of omission. I do wonder what would have happened if I had answered truthfully, more quickly when he asked me if there was any guy I cared about more than any others.)
We were going to be different. We thought every romantic relationship requires a certain amount of deception, and we weren't going to play that way. Sometimes this was revealing, for both of us.
"I'm in bed Alex - it's past midnight. What's up? And yes, I'm wearing black lace panties."
(And by black lace panties I likely meant a Winnie the Pooh nightshirt. See how some lies are actually better?)
"I'm waiting for some chick to get here and I wanted to talk to you." "Waiting for some chick? Avon deliver this late?" "Ha. No. I'll have about an hour to fuck her and then I've got to get her out of my house." "That is charming. Really, really charming." "What? I'm tired."
"Who is this chick?" "Nobody important." "Jesus Alex. Have you considered greeting cards? That kind of romance shouldn't go to waste." "Nothing romantic about it. It's just biological for me. It's like taking a piss."
"Did you just compare sex with somebody to peeing?" "Well yeah. It's not like that all the time or even half the time but sometimes there's just nothing more to it than I kind of need to."
"Huh. Well now I'm nervous." "Why?" "I would never want to have sex with you to hear you compare it to taking a piss." "I never would." "Liar." "I'm not lying. It wouldn't be like that with you." "You do know how to sweet-talk a girl." "I'm serious. Door's ringing. I miss you." "I miss you, and I am not going to tell you to have fun." "Ha. I know. I miss you, I miss you..."
This was hard, but it wasn't the worst. I'd spend at least an hour knowing beyond any doubt that he was with somebody, but comforting myself that she was nobody to him. And also contemplating exactly what kind of safe-sex protection I'd need just to touch a guy who considers sex to be like peeing.
What was harder was hearing about girls who had names. He told me about all of them in detail. These were the girls he'd say he was kind of dating, and I knew before any of them when he stopped being interested. Some times he'd complain how one or the other was over-bearing and I'd convince him to break it off. Yes, I'm that girl.
Other times he'd already know he was done with them and I'd tell him what to say. He thought this was funny, but to the girls out there who were let down in the nicest way possible - you're welcome.
And then other times it was downright infuriating.
"So I can't talk long because I've got company coming over but I wanted to hear your voice." "Aww. I like hearing yours too." "Tell me something sexy." "I'm wearing yoga pants and a sports bra." "I can actually work with that." "Of course you can, you're a pervert." "Tell me you're naked underneath." "Fine, I am naked underneath." "Well now you're lying but I miss you anyway." "How much do you miss me?"
He'd tell me how much, and in graphic detail. I liked it. It was flattering. It wasn't ever just the standard phone sex - he'd remember things I don't think any other guy has ever even noticed about me. The colour of my eyes, the freckles on my shoulders, the way I sigh when I'm happy. But then he'd fuck it all up.
"OK I have to go. She's going to be here any minute." "Who is she?" "This girl I'm kind of seeing, but I really don't want to have sex with her." "So don't." "But I have to." "Actually you don't. The sky won't fall if you keep it in your pants." "It's expected though."
"So why don't you want to?" "I'm just not into it with her. If I hadn't talked to you I probably wouldn't even be able to get it up." "Whoa. Wait. What?" "I mean, she's so super nice but she just doesn't do it for me. You do." "OK first of all - the guy who bagged my groceries today was so super nice but guess what? I'm not going to fuck him." "You know what I mean."
"Actually I don't, and I can't believe you calling me was just so you could get it up for another girl." "You sound mad. Don't be mad." "I am mad, and I don't like you very much right now." "OK, that's worse." "Yep." "Please say you at least like me because she's going to be here any second and I don't -- OK she's here." "You don't have to sleep with her." "I do. Please don't be mad?" "Fine. I'm not mad. Still don't like you right now." "I know, but I miss you." "Miss you too."
Who he was or wasn't fucking never really hurt me that much. After all, it's not like I don't have my friend with benefits and it was acknowledged many times that Alex would rather be with me and I with him.
What hurt more was hearing about other things he'd do with these girls. Ski trips. New Year's Eve. Dinners out. I didn't care if he slept with them but the thought of them sharing an appetizer made me crazy.
Which brings us back to that goddamned lobster. Like I said, I hadn't heard from him in weeks. We always check in, and we tell each other everything.
I couldn't take the silence any more, so when I saw him come online and I knew he was there I sent him a message. He wanted to know what was new. Usually there's more of a lovey-dovey greeting than that, but I'd take it.
I told him about my crazy job, and the crazy guy I was dealing with, playing it for laughs. He was suitably surprised and amused, but then he had to go.
Shelley was making lobster.
There was a moment of hope. Aunt Shelley? Cousin Shelley? Transvestite Shelley?
It wasn't his birthday. Some other special family-related occasion perhaps...?
Please...?
I told him it sounded very romantic and he's a lucky guy to have somebody making him lobster and then I waited with all of my air sitting still in my lungs for him to tell me why she doesn't matter.
He agreed he was lucky. He said, "Shelley is an amazing girl, and I'm so lucky to have her in my life."
Oh.
Now there was something he had been hiding from me as well, and her name is Shelley.
Every other time I waited not daring to breathe, maybe I should have dared to do something else. Say something else. Say anything.
I told him I was happy for him. He said he was worried about me - crazy guy and all. I need to call him and tell him I'm OK. I said I would. I lied.
Granted, the fact I would have to boil something while it's alive would be hard to get over, but lobsters look a lot like armoured spiders. With that in mind, I'm sure I could plop the creature in a boiling pot and then flee the room, only to return when it's done. Or has stopped screaming. Whichever.
Eating lobster is more of a problem. I stay away from foods that require separate tools to eat, tools normally only used to put together furniture from IKEA. At the rate I'm going, knives and forks are becoming less of an every day reality and more of a concept for special occasions, given I regularly eat my dinners in front of the TV, and occasionally out of a pot. This is one advantage to being exhaustively single - good manners take a back seat to efficiency.
I'm not really dedicating an entire post to lobsters, or at least I'm trying not to. Obviously, I have some avoidance issues. Also, a craving for anything with butter on it.
What I'm clearly doing is trying to explain how Alex told me he'd met somebody and that they are serious while also not thinking about it at all. I think it's going rather well.
It happened that I hadn't heard from him in weeks. All summer as a matter of fact, which is weird. Normally there's text messages, an IM on Facebook, a quick chat on MSN - something to remind the other of our mutual existence.
Though we hadn't been talking nearly as frequently as we once did, our check-in conversations were always the same. When are you coming here? When can I see you? He would always ask me if I was dating anybody.
Sometimes that exact question, sometimes asking if I was still his and more recently pressing me if there was anybody at all in my life who was special. Anybody I cared about. Any guy I cared about. Of course there is, of course there was, but I never said it.
Naturally I'd ask him the same, and then wait with all of my air sitting still in my lungs until he told me that no, he was single. He liked it that way, and I said I liked it that way too.
I think he took it to mean that I liked being single and free, when what I was really saying was I liked him being single. A small miscommunication that didn't seem worth correcting.
I never worried much about miscommunication actually, even though there's literally an ocean in the way of our being neighbors. We established very early on that we would be close, and we would not lie to one another. Ever.
(I lied though. Every time he asked me what I was wearing I lied, which I really don't think should count. It was a helpful lie, it made him happy and he should have considered whether I could really be lounging about at all hours looking like I'd been run over by a Victoria's Secret store.)
(That's it. That's all I lied about. Well that, and one big sin of omission. I do wonder what would have happened if I had answered truthfully, more quickly when he asked me if there was any guy I cared about more than any others.)
We were going to be different. We thought every romantic relationship requires a certain amount of deception, and we weren't going to play that way. Sometimes this was revealing, for both of us.
"I'm in bed Alex - it's past midnight. What's up? And yes, I'm wearing black lace panties."
(And by black lace panties I likely meant a Winnie the Pooh nightshirt. See how some lies are actually better?)
"I'm waiting for some chick to get here and I wanted to talk to you." "Waiting for some chick? Avon deliver this late?" "Ha. No. I'll have about an hour to fuck her and then I've got to get her out of my house." "That is charming. Really, really charming." "What? I'm tired."
"Who is this chick?" "Nobody important." "Jesus Alex. Have you considered greeting cards? That kind of romance shouldn't go to waste." "Nothing romantic about it. It's just biological for me. It's like taking a piss."
"Did you just compare sex with somebody to peeing?" "Well yeah. It's not like that all the time or even half the time but sometimes there's just nothing more to it than I kind of need to."
"Huh. Well now I'm nervous." "Why?" "I would never want to have sex with you to hear you compare it to taking a piss." "I never would." "Liar." "I'm not lying. It wouldn't be like that with you." "You do know how to sweet-talk a girl." "I'm serious. Door's ringing. I miss you." "I miss you, and I am not going to tell you to have fun." "Ha. I know. I miss you, I miss you..."
This was hard, but it wasn't the worst. I'd spend at least an hour knowing beyond any doubt that he was with somebody, but comforting myself that she was nobody to him. And also contemplating exactly what kind of safe-sex protection I'd need just to touch a guy who considers sex to be like peeing.
What was harder was hearing about girls who had names. He told me about all of them in detail. These were the girls he'd say he was kind of dating, and I knew before any of them when he stopped being interested. Some times he'd complain how one or the other was over-bearing and I'd convince him to break it off. Yes, I'm that girl.
Other times he'd already know he was done with them and I'd tell him what to say. He thought this was funny, but to the girls out there who were let down in the nicest way possible - you're welcome.
And then other times it was downright infuriating.
"So I can't talk long because I've got company coming over but I wanted to hear your voice." "Aww. I like hearing yours too." "Tell me something sexy." "I'm wearing yoga pants and a sports bra." "I can actually work with that." "Of course you can, you're a pervert." "Tell me you're naked underneath." "Fine, I am naked underneath." "Well now you're lying but I miss you anyway." "How much do you miss me?"
He'd tell me how much, and in graphic detail. I liked it. It was flattering. It wasn't ever just the standard phone sex - he'd remember things I don't think any other guy has ever even noticed about me. The colour of my eyes, the freckles on my shoulders, the way I sigh when I'm happy. But then he'd fuck it all up.
"OK I have to go. She's going to be here any minute." "Who is she?" "This girl I'm kind of seeing, but I really don't want to have sex with her." "So don't." "But I have to." "Actually you don't. The sky won't fall if you keep it in your pants." "It's expected though."
"So why don't you want to?" "I'm just not into it with her. If I hadn't talked to you I probably wouldn't even be able to get it up." "Whoa. Wait. What?" "I mean, she's so super nice but she just doesn't do it for me. You do." "OK first of all - the guy who bagged my groceries today was so super nice but guess what? I'm not going to fuck him." "You know what I mean."
"Actually I don't, and I can't believe you calling me was just so you could get it up for another girl." "You sound mad. Don't be mad." "I am mad, and I don't like you very much right now." "OK, that's worse." "Yep." "Please say you at least like me because she's going to be here any second and I don't -- OK she's here." "You don't have to sleep with her." "I do. Please don't be mad?" "Fine. I'm not mad. Still don't like you right now." "I know, but I miss you." "Miss you too."
Who he was or wasn't fucking never really hurt me that much. After all, it's not like I don't have my friend with benefits and it was acknowledged many times that Alex would rather be with me and I with him.
What hurt more was hearing about other things he'd do with these girls. Ski trips. New Year's Eve. Dinners out. I didn't care if he slept with them but the thought of them sharing an appetizer made me crazy.
Which brings us back to that goddamned lobster. Like I said, I hadn't heard from him in weeks. We always check in, and we tell each other everything.
I couldn't take the silence any more, so when I saw him come online and I knew he was there I sent him a message. He wanted to know what was new. Usually there's more of a lovey-dovey greeting than that, but I'd take it.
I told him about my crazy job, and the crazy guy I was dealing with, playing it for laughs. He was suitably surprised and amused, but then he had to go.
Shelley was making lobster.
There was a moment of hope. Aunt Shelley? Cousin Shelley? Transvestite Shelley?
It wasn't his birthday. Some other special family-related occasion perhaps...?
Please...?
I told him it sounded very romantic and he's a lucky guy to have somebody making him lobster and then I waited with all of my air sitting still in my lungs for him to tell me why she doesn't matter.
He agreed he was lucky. He said, "Shelley is an amazing girl, and I'm so lucky to have her in my life."
Oh.
Now there was something he had been hiding from me as well, and her name is Shelley.
Every other time I waited not daring to breathe, maybe I should have dared to do something else. Say something else. Say anything.
I told him I was happy for him. He said he was worried about me - crazy guy and all. I need to call him and tell him I'm OK. I said I would. I lied.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Somebody call the Vatican.
A week and a half ago, I was diagnosed with a confused uterus. My uterine bewilderment carried over into a third week, rendering me the poster girl for anemia, and causing feminine hygiene product company CEOs to wonder why in the hell there was a significant sales spike in just one city on the BC coast.
Naturally, I wanted my uterus to compose itself already, but I was at a loss as to how to counsel the damned thing. Admittedly, I have no particular use for it at this time, and want no dealings with it in the future.
I don't want children, so if it hadn't been for a giant diagram of the female reproductive organs projected on a pull-down screen in my grade seven sex-ed class, I would even be hard-pressed to find it on a map.
Essentially, my relationship with my uterus to date has been more about minimum tolerance rather than love and understanding.
(This is more than I can say for my relationship with the idea of birthing a child. Immediately following the black and white diagram of a uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes, we were shown a video of a woman giving birth, as seen from between her legs. Sweet cracker sandwich...the horror. It was at this point I vowed I would never, ever have sex.)
(Ummm...I've modified this vow somewhat since that time - I now vow never to have sex for the purpose of procreation. Any other reason is fine.)
The point to all of this is that I had no idea how to shake some sense into my wayward uterus. I tried poking my tummy at the exact point I thought my uterus might be (that sex ed. slideshow was a long time ago OK?) in hopes that it would startle into ceasing whatever the hell it thought it was doing.
All this did was demonstrate very clearly that I might want to consider abdominal exercises in the future, whenever I stop bleeding to death very, very slowly.
I fell asleep with a magazine open to an article on menopause, strategically placed over my belly button. Perhaps my uterus could take a lesson through osmosis. No luck.
There was nothing else to do but languish, and compose way cooler causes of death I'd want my family and friends to mention in public, rather than telling people I died of a confused uterus.
Languishing and feeling sorry for myself on my couch was working brilliantly, right up until I got a text message.
If there's ever a bad time to be hearing from the married firefighter you're sleeping with, full languish over uterine hemorrhaging would be that time.
(For the record - I am NOT a home wrecker. They have an open relationship - seriously. I've met her. We've all had drinks together. Yes, it's just as weird as you think it is.)
(I suppose this makes me a mistress...? No. That implies it's a secret. Girlfriend...? Not even close. Stupid-ass...? Oh definitely.)
(Stupid-ass because this is a dumb thing to be doing when what I would really rather be doing is meeting a guy I can have a relationship with.)
(Stupid-ass because it takes a tremendous force of will to be that intimate with somebody and NOT develop feelings that should be slapped right out of my head. This is force of will I should be using to do abdominal exercises instead, as per above.)
At any rate, I didn't feel like responding and that is a rare occurrence. A friend of mine has warned me that because of the nature of my relationship with this married firefighter, I've put him on a pedestal.
I've never seen the firefighter look bad, smell bad, be annoying, cranky or leaving the toothpaste cap off. All I ever see him do is a)look really hot in uniform b)perform incredible acts of manliness, and c)pleasure me senseless.
All true, and so I argue I have not put him on a pedestal, simply because that would be aiming too low. Lust does crazy things to people, and by people, I mean me.
And yet, though wanting to languish some more, I answered. Within minutes the conversation turned completely inappropriate for anybody with the slightest shred of morals or decency, to the point every phrase would have to undergo serious editing to spare my family shame. This includes all past and future ancestors.
"I can't wait to (redacted for common decency) in the (seriously, if my parents ever read this I would have to move)kitchen counter (well at least my Dad would stop worrying if I might be a lesbian because I'm never dating anybody)ceiling tiles (I don't think this is what my Dad has in mind though)so hard (redacted on behalf of the Catholic church)goats with a spatula."
We talked like this for hours, which is really hard to do while also trying to follow an episode of Criminal Minds and cook a stir-fry. And yet I managed. We agreed we needed to get together very soon, and a good time was had by all.
This conversation cheered me up considerably, but it also did something else.
Something unexpected.
I stopped bleeding.
I don't mean it slowed to a trickle or it tapered off gradually, or I started to feel better. It. Stopped. Completely.
Whatever faucet left on in my uterus was twisted shut. It's now days later, and still nothing. My cheeks looked rosy today, I'm not cramping and I while I can nap at any time, I'm not actually napping at this moment. It's like it never happened.
Some may say the timing of my miraculous recovery is nothing but coincidence. Actually, the majority of people I know would argue this is coincidence and the rest would just shake their heads at me but I'm thinking there's a reason I've put this guy on a pedestal.
Four hours of straight sexting with a firefighter clarified my confused uterus. There's the slimmest of possibilities it stopped suddenly on its own, for reasons just as mysterious as why it all started in the first place, but I'd like to believe other wise.
Next time I see the married firefighter I'm going to find a way to put his hands over my eyes. I've been looking into Lasik surgery and the cost is prohibitive. I feel it's worth a try.
Naturally, I wanted my uterus to compose itself already, but I was at a loss as to how to counsel the damned thing. Admittedly, I have no particular use for it at this time, and want no dealings with it in the future.
I don't want children, so if it hadn't been for a giant diagram of the female reproductive organs projected on a pull-down screen in my grade seven sex-ed class, I would even be hard-pressed to find it on a map.
Essentially, my relationship with my uterus to date has been more about minimum tolerance rather than love and understanding.
(This is more than I can say for my relationship with the idea of birthing a child. Immediately following the black and white diagram of a uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes, we were shown a video of a woman giving birth, as seen from between her legs. Sweet cracker sandwich...the horror. It was at this point I vowed I would never, ever have sex.)
(Ummm...I've modified this vow somewhat since that time - I now vow never to have sex for the purpose of procreation. Any other reason is fine.)
The point to all of this is that I had no idea how to shake some sense into my wayward uterus. I tried poking my tummy at the exact point I thought my uterus might be (that sex ed. slideshow was a long time ago OK?) in hopes that it would startle into ceasing whatever the hell it thought it was doing.
All this did was demonstrate very clearly that I might want to consider abdominal exercises in the future, whenever I stop bleeding to death very, very slowly.
I fell asleep with a magazine open to an article on menopause, strategically placed over my belly button. Perhaps my uterus could take a lesson through osmosis. No luck.
There was nothing else to do but languish, and compose way cooler causes of death I'd want my family and friends to mention in public, rather than telling people I died of a confused uterus.
Languishing and feeling sorry for myself on my couch was working brilliantly, right up until I got a text message.
If there's ever a bad time to be hearing from the married firefighter you're sleeping with, full languish over uterine hemorrhaging would be that time.
(For the record - I am NOT a home wrecker. They have an open relationship - seriously. I've met her. We've all had drinks together. Yes, it's just as weird as you think it is.)
(I suppose this makes me a mistress...? No. That implies it's a secret. Girlfriend...? Not even close. Stupid-ass...? Oh definitely.)
(Stupid-ass because this is a dumb thing to be doing when what I would really rather be doing is meeting a guy I can have a relationship with.)
(Stupid-ass because it takes a tremendous force of will to be that intimate with somebody and NOT develop feelings that should be slapped right out of my head. This is force of will I should be using to do abdominal exercises instead, as per above.)
At any rate, I didn't feel like responding and that is a rare occurrence. A friend of mine has warned me that because of the nature of my relationship with this married firefighter, I've put him on a pedestal.
I've never seen the firefighter look bad, smell bad, be annoying, cranky or leaving the toothpaste cap off. All I ever see him do is a)look really hot in uniform b)perform incredible acts of manliness, and c)pleasure me senseless.
All true, and so I argue I have not put him on a pedestal, simply because that would be aiming too low. Lust does crazy things to people, and by people, I mean me.
And yet, though wanting to languish some more, I answered. Within minutes the conversation turned completely inappropriate for anybody with the slightest shred of morals or decency, to the point every phrase would have to undergo serious editing to spare my family shame. This includes all past and future ancestors.
"I can't wait to (redacted for common decency) in the (seriously, if my parents ever read this I would have to move)kitchen counter (well at least my Dad would stop worrying if I might be a lesbian because I'm never dating anybody)ceiling tiles (I don't think this is what my Dad has in mind though)so hard (redacted on behalf of the Catholic church)goats with a spatula."
We talked like this for hours, which is really hard to do while also trying to follow an episode of Criminal Minds and cook a stir-fry. And yet I managed. We agreed we needed to get together very soon, and a good time was had by all.
This conversation cheered me up considerably, but it also did something else.
Something unexpected.
I stopped bleeding.
I don't mean it slowed to a trickle or it tapered off gradually, or I started to feel better. It. Stopped. Completely.
Whatever faucet left on in my uterus was twisted shut. It's now days later, and still nothing. My cheeks looked rosy today, I'm not cramping and I while I can nap at any time, I'm not actually napping at this moment. It's like it never happened.
Some may say the timing of my miraculous recovery is nothing but coincidence. Actually, the majority of people I know would argue this is coincidence and the rest would just shake their heads at me but I'm thinking there's a reason I've put this guy on a pedestal.
Four hours of straight sexting with a firefighter clarified my confused uterus. There's the slimmest of possibilities it stopped suddenly on its own, for reasons just as mysterious as why it all started in the first place, but I'd like to believe other wise.
Next time I see the married firefighter I'm going to find a way to put his hands over my eyes. I've been looking into Lasik surgery and the cost is prohibitive. I feel it's worth a try.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Another use for duct tape?
For my two male readers, this may be a good time to step away for a moment to get a drink. Do some push-ups. High-five something. Whatever it is men are into these days, you might want to go do that. I'm going to be talking about "lady problems," and it's about to get awkward.
Gone yet? Good.
Last week, I went to a clinic in desperation. Family doctors are harder to come by here than single men, so I've developed a network of walk-in clinics I'll visit depending on the nature of my health crisis. I choose which clinic based on the potential for embarrassment and undue hardship.
For instance, I've learned the hard way not to go to the clinic with the deaf receptionist because the entire waiting room doesn't need to know I'll be getting a PAP smear momentarily.
Anyhoodle. Last week I rolled into a clinic not caring who I saw or who heard me, because I was really, really tired of bleeding. At that time, I'd had my period for slightly over two weeks. While it's nice to discover innate talents, the ability to menstruate like a biblical plague shouldn't count.
To top it off, the next three days were scheduled to be so crazy busy at work I couldn't even call in dead. Over the next 72 hours I would be working nearly around the clock, hosting and managing events I had been planning for a year.
(These events included the one luncheon I would have a military police escort for, given the threatening emails I had received regarding this activity from a former client who can best be described as pants-crappingly crazy. Luckily, he didn't show.)
(I had been having nightmares over him actually. Apparently I was more worried than I was ready to admit, particularly when I discovered the police had confiscated weapons from him in the past, and the lunatic has several court dates coming up as a result. I couldn't find out when this happened - specifically, had he had enough time to re-arm and re-load...?)
(The entire weekend went off without a hitch, except for the part when I ended up on the evening news. I kept trying to stay out of camera range, fearing that I would look wind-blown and fat. Sure enough, my fears were well-founded. I looked like a harried marshmallow with a clip-board.)
(I convinced myself it would be OK because nobody I know watches that channel, until I got a text message from a certain firefighter congratulating me on my prime-time appearance. Goddammit. At that point I think I would rather have been shot after all.)
(Sorry for the digression, but it's been a very horrendous week. And I looked really, really fat.)
(Like, huge.)
Obviously I had a lot on my mind going into this weekend, and all I wanted was for my period to stop. The doctor asked me a series of questions that are just too icky even for me to over-share, and then looked concerned.
Scratched his chin. Sighed heavily, started writing something on his chart, then scribbled it out. All really good signs when you're a patient just waiting for a prescription for the magic pill that will make whatever is happening just stop.
"Clearly, you're hemorrhaging."
Actually, it hadn't been that clear. Hemorrhaging was a much more frightening word than what I had been hoping was merely a strange, uncomfortable and uncalled for occurance that could prevent me from getting laid.
"If it were any worse I'd send you to the hospital."
Not an option. I was not about to spend the next nine hours sitting in emergency because my period had taken steroids. I had to be at work for 6:00 a.m. the next day, and this did not fit my schedule. Also, Jersey Shore was on that night and there is no way I will miss it.
(Let's not judge. That show is freaking amazing.)
The doctor hummed and hawed some more. Send me to the hospital or not? I assured him I felt just fine (not really), I'm sure it would eventually stop (not really) and if it got worse I would definitely take myself to the hospital immediately (actually true.)
He was reluctant to sign-off on this idea, so instead he proposed I get my iron tested. He could see that I was very, very pale. I informed him that this is actually my natural colouring, and I always look this way. This caused him to ask, "Really...??"
(When a doctor expresses such shock and concern over my everyday appearance, it may be a sign to invest in self-tanner. Or paper bags.)
While I was glad to come to a resolution concerning whether I'd be spending the night in emergency and how awful I look on a regular basis, we still had an issue.
Actually, more than one.
Why is this happening? Why am I hemorrhaging? How will it stop?
It was at this point the doctor provided the most revealing diagnosis in the history of medicine.
Apparently, my uterus is confused.
I'll just let that sink in for a moment.
Does my uterus need a stern talking to? An educational DVD? Time alone to meditate? What exactly constitutes confusing to a uterus?
Perhaps my uterus is suffering from the same anxiety I am. Is it past its prime? Is it just taking up unnecessary space? How can it find fulfillment?
If this is the official diagnosis, I'm now afraid for my remaining internal organs. Could my kidneys be baffled? Is my liver bewildered? My spleen is likely astonished and let's not even discuss what my heart has been feeling lately. My heart might just be completely confounded.
I had no choice but to ask the doctor when my uterus might...achieve clarity?
He didn't know. For whatever reason my uterus isn't doing what it knows it should be doing and ideally it will stop on its own and go back to normal.
I'm now bleeding like a champion into week three, with no signs of stopping. This is hardly surprising. At any given time, I know what I should be doing and I don't do it either so it's no wonder my uterus continues to be confused.
And so it has come to this. Uterus, if you're reading this, I promise to provide a better example going forward. It's OK to be confused, but it's not OK to just give up completely. Though difficult...can't we all just go back to normal?
Gone yet? Good.
Last week, I went to a clinic in desperation. Family doctors are harder to come by here than single men, so I've developed a network of walk-in clinics I'll visit depending on the nature of my health crisis. I choose which clinic based on the potential for embarrassment and undue hardship.
For instance, I've learned the hard way not to go to the clinic with the deaf receptionist because the entire waiting room doesn't need to know I'll be getting a PAP smear momentarily.
Anyhoodle. Last week I rolled into a clinic not caring who I saw or who heard me, because I was really, really tired of bleeding. At that time, I'd had my period for slightly over two weeks. While it's nice to discover innate talents, the ability to menstruate like a biblical plague shouldn't count.
To top it off, the next three days were scheduled to be so crazy busy at work I couldn't even call in dead. Over the next 72 hours I would be working nearly around the clock, hosting and managing events I had been planning for a year.
(These events included the one luncheon I would have a military police escort for, given the threatening emails I had received regarding this activity from a former client who can best be described as pants-crappingly crazy. Luckily, he didn't show.)
(I had been having nightmares over him actually. Apparently I was more worried than I was ready to admit, particularly when I discovered the police had confiscated weapons from him in the past, and the lunatic has several court dates coming up as a result. I couldn't find out when this happened - specifically, had he had enough time to re-arm and re-load...?)
(The entire weekend went off without a hitch, except for the part when I ended up on the evening news. I kept trying to stay out of camera range, fearing that I would look wind-blown and fat. Sure enough, my fears were well-founded. I looked like a harried marshmallow with a clip-board.)
(I convinced myself it would be OK because nobody I know watches that channel, until I got a text message from a certain firefighter congratulating me on my prime-time appearance. Goddammit. At that point I think I would rather have been shot after all.)
(Sorry for the digression, but it's been a very horrendous week. And I looked really, really fat.)
(Like, huge.)
Obviously I had a lot on my mind going into this weekend, and all I wanted was for my period to stop. The doctor asked me a series of questions that are just too icky even for me to over-share, and then looked concerned.
Scratched his chin. Sighed heavily, started writing something on his chart, then scribbled it out. All really good signs when you're a patient just waiting for a prescription for the magic pill that will make whatever is happening just stop.
"Clearly, you're hemorrhaging."
Actually, it hadn't been that clear. Hemorrhaging was a much more frightening word than what I had been hoping was merely a strange, uncomfortable and uncalled for occurance that could prevent me from getting laid.
"If it were any worse I'd send you to the hospital."
Not an option. I was not about to spend the next nine hours sitting in emergency because my period had taken steroids. I had to be at work for 6:00 a.m. the next day, and this did not fit my schedule. Also, Jersey Shore was on that night and there is no way I will miss it.
(Let's not judge. That show is freaking amazing.)
The doctor hummed and hawed some more. Send me to the hospital or not? I assured him I felt just fine (not really), I'm sure it would eventually stop (not really) and if it got worse I would definitely take myself to the hospital immediately (actually true.)
He was reluctant to sign-off on this idea, so instead he proposed I get my iron tested. He could see that I was very, very pale. I informed him that this is actually my natural colouring, and I always look this way. This caused him to ask, "Really...??"
(When a doctor expresses such shock and concern over my everyday appearance, it may be a sign to invest in self-tanner. Or paper bags.)
While I was glad to come to a resolution concerning whether I'd be spending the night in emergency and how awful I look on a regular basis, we still had an issue.
Actually, more than one.
Why is this happening? Why am I hemorrhaging? How will it stop?
It was at this point the doctor provided the most revealing diagnosis in the history of medicine.
Apparently, my uterus is confused.
I'll just let that sink in for a moment.
Does my uterus need a stern talking to? An educational DVD? Time alone to meditate? What exactly constitutes confusing to a uterus?
Perhaps my uterus is suffering from the same anxiety I am. Is it past its prime? Is it just taking up unnecessary space? How can it find fulfillment?
If this is the official diagnosis, I'm now afraid for my remaining internal organs. Could my kidneys be baffled? Is my liver bewildered? My spleen is likely astonished and let's not even discuss what my heart has been feeling lately. My heart might just be completely confounded.
I had no choice but to ask the doctor when my uterus might...achieve clarity?
He didn't know. For whatever reason my uterus isn't doing what it knows it should be doing and ideally it will stop on its own and go back to normal.
I'm now bleeding like a champion into week three, with no signs of stopping. This is hardly surprising. At any given time, I know what I should be doing and I don't do it either so it's no wonder my uterus continues to be confused.
And so it has come to this. Uterus, if you're reading this, I promise to provide a better example going forward. It's OK to be confused, but it's not OK to just give up completely. Though difficult...can't we all just go back to normal?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Expired Warranty
I've been helping my friend navigate the online dating scene by pointing out the less obvious pitfalls. So far I've warned her away from the guy who posted four photos of his cat, one depicting the cat wearing a tutu, one gentleman who somehow landed a very clear shot of his own ear hair while snapping a profile picture in his bathroom mirror and one poor bastard who's a Calgary Flames fan. This may have been my own personal bias, but Flames fans can be douches.
My friend has one rule she follows that I hadn't thought of. She will not pursue any guy who isn't separated or divorced. If he's in his mid to late forties and never married, she figures there must be something wrong with him.
It's true that the vast majority of men in that age bracket posting profiles are indeed separated or divorced, so she has plenty to choose from. Looking over her shoulder as she shows me her prospects feels like a dreadful glimpse into my future.
I didn't marry in the first wave, when available men still had their hair and discernible waistlines. My sister has gone so far as to marvel how men lose their necks after they turn 34. One year there's visible separation between cheek, neck and shoulder, the next year it's nothing but jowl.
I won't get to know what it's like to marry somebody I'm still physically attracted to, because I'll need to wait until the first round of marriages end in divorce and I get the leftovers. The fat, bald, neckless and embittered leftovers.
(There is a slim possibility somebody might marry me sooner in order to secure citizenship or to convince his parents he really isn't gay, neither being really ideal.)
(I've thought about it though, and I'm not sure which option will be better in the long run. On one hand it will be embarrassing to tell people I haven't seen Abdul since he was sworn in to the country, but on the other hand I'd hate to have to compete with my husband for the pool boy's affections, mostly because I'd probably lose. So there's that.)
I've surprised myself recently by skimming articles on step-parenting, thinking that by the time the estimated 50% of current marriages end there will likely be children involved.
At the very least I should be collecting boarding school pamphlets and wondering how to schedule solo vacations to coincide with the weekends the kids are spending with their father.
I don't want children, and anybody who knows me knows it's not a good idea for me to have them. Despite my apparent double X chromosomes, I'm the type who would consider nothing wrong with the idea of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. It's a perfectly reasonable thing to do -- who wants a baby interrupting her precious bath time? Finding a baby in my bath would be horrifying.
The decision to have children is usually already played out in the first marriage though, so I'm unlikely to have much say as the runner-up wife. I thought I was really coming to terms with not only failing to cross the marital finish line at the same time as everybody else I know, and was even beginning to accept that by the time the race started again, the runners I'd be chasing would be a lot slower on their feet, what with the enlarged prostates and type 2 diabetes.
What I hadn't counted on was the possibility I'd be disqualified from that second race, simply because I never finished the first.
Godammit.
My online dating friend is adamant if a man reaches middle-age without one marriage under his belt there's something desperately wrong with him, and the same argument could certainly be made for a woman who reached spinsterhood in 2007 and just kept right on going.
I can't argue with this logic, because it's obviously true. Is there something wrong with me...? Is this your first time reading this blog?? Of course there's something wrong with me.
There is a metric fuck-ton of what is wrong with me, and I can only begin to name half of it. There are teams of doctors in Switzerland trying to come up with names for the other half, and I have no idea why I picture teams of doctors to be in Switzerland, but I do. Obviously, there is something very, very wrong with me.
There's something wrong with everybody else though too, so I don't know what it is about me that's so glaringly obvious. I know some truly despicable women who have landed themselves husbands so amazing movie audiences wouldn't buy it and yet, they're married. She's happy, he's an idiot and I resent them both.
Certainly, geography and circumstances have to play a small part. It just can't be my own dysfunction, so glaring I can't pinpoint it but somehow it shows up on Google Maps.
The city I live in is not exactly kind to single women. I went out to a popular club to check out a benefit concert. Proceeds were going to the Cops for Cancer charity, and while donating to cancer is all well and good, my six readers would likely be able to predict what the other big draw was, and it wasn't the music.
(Trust me, it wasn't the music. The opening band was so terrible I wanted to throw things at them. Heavy things. Heavy, sharp things. I would have given my next mortgage payment to cancer research just to make them stop.)
Silly me, I thought there might be cops there. So did every single woman within a 25 mile radius. At one point early in the evening I did a rough count: approximately120 women.
The men were much easier to arrive at an exact number for, because there were nine of them. Nine. Subtract the three guys who showed up with girlfriends clinging to them like life-preservers and probably feeling like their men were on the verge of being sexually assaulted or torn limb from limb, whatever happened first, and subtract the two guys clearly over 60 and the remaining four who appeared to be twelve...and you suddenly have an estrogen soaked tragedy.
Please, please spare me the line about finding somebody when you're not looking. The next person who says that to me is going to get my shoe down her throat, and I will still be wearing it.
If you're single, you are always looking. That is the point of being single. You can look, you're supposed to look, and you can not help but look. The "You'll Find Somebody When You're Not Looking" crowd really needs to challenge the "You Just Never Know When You'll Meet Somebody So You Probably Shouldn't Wear Those Pants Again" crowd to a dance-off, just so I can have some peace.
Obviously, finding somebody amongst the handful of men in my age group not yet married in my chosen city is about as likely as stumbling upon Jimmy Hoffa in my laundry pile. I'm coming to terms with this.
What I'm having more difficulty with though is losing that second chance - hardly fair to have it go the same time as the first.
My friend has one rule she follows that I hadn't thought of. She will not pursue any guy who isn't separated or divorced. If he's in his mid to late forties and never married, she figures there must be something wrong with him.
It's true that the vast majority of men in that age bracket posting profiles are indeed separated or divorced, so she has plenty to choose from. Looking over her shoulder as she shows me her prospects feels like a dreadful glimpse into my future.
I didn't marry in the first wave, when available men still had their hair and discernible waistlines. My sister has gone so far as to marvel how men lose their necks after they turn 34. One year there's visible separation between cheek, neck and shoulder, the next year it's nothing but jowl.
I won't get to know what it's like to marry somebody I'm still physically attracted to, because I'll need to wait until the first round of marriages end in divorce and I get the leftovers. The fat, bald, neckless and embittered leftovers.
(There is a slim possibility somebody might marry me sooner in order to secure citizenship or to convince his parents he really isn't gay, neither being really ideal.)
(I've thought about it though, and I'm not sure which option will be better in the long run. On one hand it will be embarrassing to tell people I haven't seen Abdul since he was sworn in to the country, but on the other hand I'd hate to have to compete with my husband for the pool boy's affections, mostly because I'd probably lose. So there's that.)
I've surprised myself recently by skimming articles on step-parenting, thinking that by the time the estimated 50% of current marriages end there will likely be children involved.
At the very least I should be collecting boarding school pamphlets and wondering how to schedule solo vacations to coincide with the weekends the kids are spending with their father.
I don't want children, and anybody who knows me knows it's not a good idea for me to have them. Despite my apparent double X chromosomes, I'm the type who would consider nothing wrong with the idea of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. It's a perfectly reasonable thing to do -- who wants a baby interrupting her precious bath time? Finding a baby in my bath would be horrifying.
The decision to have children is usually already played out in the first marriage though, so I'm unlikely to have much say as the runner-up wife. I thought I was really coming to terms with not only failing to cross the marital finish line at the same time as everybody else I know, and was even beginning to accept that by the time the race started again, the runners I'd be chasing would be a lot slower on their feet, what with the enlarged prostates and type 2 diabetes.
What I hadn't counted on was the possibility I'd be disqualified from that second race, simply because I never finished the first.
Godammit.
My online dating friend is adamant if a man reaches middle-age without one marriage under his belt there's something desperately wrong with him, and the same argument could certainly be made for a woman who reached spinsterhood in 2007 and just kept right on going.
I can't argue with this logic, because it's obviously true. Is there something wrong with me...? Is this your first time reading this blog?? Of course there's something wrong with me.
There is a metric fuck-ton of what is wrong with me, and I can only begin to name half of it. There are teams of doctors in Switzerland trying to come up with names for the other half, and I have no idea why I picture teams of doctors to be in Switzerland, but I do. Obviously, there is something very, very wrong with me.
There's something wrong with everybody else though too, so I don't know what it is about me that's so glaringly obvious. I know some truly despicable women who have landed themselves husbands so amazing movie audiences wouldn't buy it and yet, they're married. She's happy, he's an idiot and I resent them both.
Certainly, geography and circumstances have to play a small part. It just can't be my own dysfunction, so glaring I can't pinpoint it but somehow it shows up on Google Maps.
The city I live in is not exactly kind to single women. I went out to a popular club to check out a benefit concert. Proceeds were going to the Cops for Cancer charity, and while donating to cancer is all well and good, my six readers would likely be able to predict what the other big draw was, and it wasn't the music.
(Trust me, it wasn't the music. The opening band was so terrible I wanted to throw things at them. Heavy things. Heavy, sharp things. I would have given my next mortgage payment to cancer research just to make them stop.)
Silly me, I thought there might be cops there. So did every single woman within a 25 mile radius. At one point early in the evening I did a rough count: approximately120 women.
The men were much easier to arrive at an exact number for, because there were nine of them. Nine. Subtract the three guys who showed up with girlfriends clinging to them like life-preservers and probably feeling like their men were on the verge of being sexually assaulted or torn limb from limb, whatever happened first, and subtract the two guys clearly over 60 and the remaining four who appeared to be twelve...and you suddenly have an estrogen soaked tragedy.
Please, please spare me the line about finding somebody when you're not looking. The next person who says that to me is going to get my shoe down her throat, and I will still be wearing it.
If you're single, you are always looking. That is the point of being single. You can look, you're supposed to look, and you can not help but look. The "You'll Find Somebody When You're Not Looking" crowd really needs to challenge the "You Just Never Know When You'll Meet Somebody So You Probably Shouldn't Wear Those Pants Again" crowd to a dance-off, just so I can have some peace.
Obviously, finding somebody amongst the handful of men in my age group not yet married in my chosen city is about as likely as stumbling upon Jimmy Hoffa in my laundry pile. I'm coming to terms with this.
What I'm having more difficulty with though is losing that second chance - hardly fair to have it go the same time as the first.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Just do...what exactly?
When not discussing whether Spanx comes in bullet-proof shades with local police, ignoring my irritating cubicle intern, explaining to numerous people that no, I hadn't actually expected Alex to come down with a serious case of committed relationship with somebody who's not me, and yes, I had still been holding out hope for him for reasons I can't begin to explain other than to say I'm kind of an idiot, and/or silently restraining myself from becoming stabby every time some well-meaning person has said some variation of it's inevitible/for the best/bound to happen/just a sign the right one is still out there for you, holding staring contests with my psychiatrist, pursuing a misguided attraction to men in uniform and hoping against all odds that the chemicals in my brain will just behave already...
...I've been tracking Weight Watchers points.
It's working, but I'm not about to bore my six devoted readers with details about Skinny Cow brand ice cream sandwiches as an effective meal replacement. I will say however, that I'm already worried for when the program stops working.
Apparently it's quite normal to reach a plateau. At some point my cleavage will stop getting smaller and for little or no reason, the numbers on the scale will stick.
A sure-fire way to kick-start myself into shrinking some more will be increasing my exercise, which means I might have a problem. It's not that I don't like exercise...OK fine. I don't like exercise.
I hate physical activity for the sake of physical activity. Strangely sex for the sake of sex is still perfectly acceptable, which just goes to show I'm very nuanced.
If I'm hiking up a mountain for the view, I'm happy. If I'm hiking up a mountain to increase my heart rate, I'm most likely sitting on a rock refusing to go any further.
Running is acceptable because all I'm really doing is chasing the endorphin high that happens every five runs or so. Kick-boxing worked well for me because I was learning skills I could file under "completely badass."
My sister has been raving about hot yoga, and she actually just completed a 30 day hot yoga challenge. I don't even register a bowel movement every day never mind showing up to grunt and sweat in a room so hot I would consider it a fairly realistic preview of my eventual after-life, and doing so every day for a month.
The problem with yoga and my beloved kick-boxing is the cost. Becoming a homeowner has made me poor, and if it isn't free, it isn't happening.
All I've done so far in terms of physical effort is walking, which may not be enough down the line. Friends have suggested swimming, but my version of swimming is unlikely to shave off the pounds.
(Stealing a water noodle from some random child and floating around in the deep end where I can't hear said random child screaming is unlikely to burn calories. Or so I've heard.)
It's not that I can't swim. I can swim perfectly well - I just refuse to. Swimming is the only physical activity I feel can actually murder me if I get tired.
If I'm running and my lungs give out or I get a cramp, I stop running. If I'm swimming and the same thing happens I could end up being dragged from the bottom of the pool, only to have some 16 year old acne-ridden lifeguard bring me back to life while a small crowd gathers and wonders why I didn't shave my bikini line that day if I knew I'd be swimming.
Speaking of which, I also resent physical activities I have to shave anything for, unless those activities involve a bedroom, a bottle of wine and three positions illegal in Missisipi.
Friends have suggested I go to Aquafit, and I gave this a try a few years ago. For three weeks I jumped up and down in the shallow end and made tiny circles in the water with my arms, all the while seemingly surrounded by the cast of Cocoon.
I never got tired, and it was hard to tell whether I was working up a sweat what with the whole being immersed in water thing. I gave it up when we were asked to form a conga line as part of the work-out, because there's only so much humiliation one can take while one is also wearing a tankini.
So I'm not a shining example for health and fitness...or health and safety...or healthy relationships...or just...health. If Skinny Cow Ice Cream is looking for a brand ambassador though, I'm probably available.
...I've been tracking Weight Watchers points.
It's working, but I'm not about to bore my six devoted readers with details about Skinny Cow brand ice cream sandwiches as an effective meal replacement. I will say however, that I'm already worried for when the program stops working.
Apparently it's quite normal to reach a plateau. At some point my cleavage will stop getting smaller and for little or no reason, the numbers on the scale will stick.
A sure-fire way to kick-start myself into shrinking some more will be increasing my exercise, which means I might have a problem. It's not that I don't like exercise...OK fine. I don't like exercise.
I hate physical activity for the sake of physical activity. Strangely sex for the sake of sex is still perfectly acceptable, which just goes to show I'm very nuanced.
If I'm hiking up a mountain for the view, I'm happy. If I'm hiking up a mountain to increase my heart rate, I'm most likely sitting on a rock refusing to go any further.
Running is acceptable because all I'm really doing is chasing the endorphin high that happens every five runs or so. Kick-boxing worked well for me because I was learning skills I could file under "completely badass."
My sister has been raving about hot yoga, and she actually just completed a 30 day hot yoga challenge. I don't even register a bowel movement every day never mind showing up to grunt and sweat in a room so hot I would consider it a fairly realistic preview of my eventual after-life, and doing so every day for a month.
The problem with yoga and my beloved kick-boxing is the cost. Becoming a homeowner has made me poor, and if it isn't free, it isn't happening.
All I've done so far in terms of physical effort is walking, which may not be enough down the line. Friends have suggested swimming, but my version of swimming is unlikely to shave off the pounds.
(Stealing a water noodle from some random child and floating around in the deep end where I can't hear said random child screaming is unlikely to burn calories. Or so I've heard.)
It's not that I can't swim. I can swim perfectly well - I just refuse to. Swimming is the only physical activity I feel can actually murder me if I get tired.
If I'm running and my lungs give out or I get a cramp, I stop running. If I'm swimming and the same thing happens I could end up being dragged from the bottom of the pool, only to have some 16 year old acne-ridden lifeguard bring me back to life while a small crowd gathers and wonders why I didn't shave my bikini line that day if I knew I'd be swimming.
Speaking of which, I also resent physical activities I have to shave anything for, unless those activities involve a bedroom, a bottle of wine and three positions illegal in Missisipi.
Friends have suggested I go to Aquafit, and I gave this a try a few years ago. For three weeks I jumped up and down in the shallow end and made tiny circles in the water with my arms, all the while seemingly surrounded by the cast of Cocoon.
I never got tired, and it was hard to tell whether I was working up a sweat what with the whole being immersed in water thing. I gave it up when we were asked to form a conga line as part of the work-out, because there's only so much humiliation one can take while one is also wearing a tankini.
So I'm not a shining example for health and fitness...or health and safety...or healthy relationships...or just...health. If Skinny Cow Ice Cream is looking for a brand ambassador though, I'm probably available.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Consequences.
Do you know that moment? The exact point in time you can look back on in hindsight and clearly see where it went wrong?
One moment you're completely fine, dancing atop a speaker, shouting "Woo!" in time to the music and only flashing one boob by accident.
(Obviously this analogy's definition of "completely fine" is really rather relative.)
(Also, before you think I'm using myself in this example, please know that I have never, ever, yelled "Woo!" Not for any reason.)
The next morning you're hunched over the toilet, thinking to yourself that it's been a very long time since you swept that part of the bathroom, and remembering clearly the one mistake that has brought you here, right now literally to your knees.
In these situations, it's easy to remember making the decision to drink that last tequila/rum/jagermeister/whiskey/vodka shot, realizing that this decision was the tipping point, and the reason you're left pondering whether you ever even chewed that corn at all, and why God has forsaken you.
Recognizing these moments when they're happening and not afterward when it's too late is becoming an obsession. I'm obviously not good at it, so this particular obsession really has no practical application other than making me not want to get out of bed.
Every morning, before I open my eyes, I take stock. What happened yesterday? What's likely to happen today? Do I have to pee badly enough to finally get me out of bed? What do I have to do today? What can I avoid doing for one more day? How am I feeling overall?
This morning, I came to the following conclusions:
- I have to return two different phone calls from two different policing agencies. Apparently the crazy guy who feels I'm a threat to national security, is himself, a threat to national security and my personal safety. Also, a good example of irony.
(That whooshing sound you'll hear if you listen carefully? It's the sound of multiple levels of management in my organization back-pedalling as hard as they can.)
(Incidentally, I was feeling better about my company suddenly being galvanized into concern over my lack of ability to withstand gunfire, until they brought me into a meeting to discuss the terrible risks...to our reputation. I suggested we can probably avoid any undue embarrassment simply by keeping staff alive. Sometimes it's simplicity that saves the day.)
- The second longest monogamous relationship I've had in my life is currently with somebody else's husband.
- This quite likely is the reason I'm alone in bed. Just to be sure, it's always good to check whether or not I am indeed, alone under the covers.
- Yep. It's just me.
- I've developed a severe allergy to the deodorant I've used for years, but only under one armpit. I can still dance to YMCA, but now with more caution, to avoid anybody asking me what in the hell happened to my armpit. I suppose I can chalk this up as a partial win.
- Alex is in a committed relationship with somebody else, despite having always said he wouldn't want that. He's somebody else's boyfriend now, and she's probably waking up next to him when I'm waking up alone.
- This girl might cure cancer and single-handedly save enough puppies to make that devastating commercial for the ASPCA featuring Sarah Mclachlan just stop already before we all cry ourselves stupid...and I will never like her. Not. Ever.
- I need to shave my legs. I can only shave one armpit though. I don't know how that's going to continue working.
- My 10% key chain is sitting on my nightstand. I got it from Weight Watchers because I'm down 10% of my body weight from when I started. This is good news, and one more win.
- I'm winning at something because I'm doing the opposite of what my natural inclination is to do - this being to eat like I'm going into hibernation at any given moment. Interesting.
- This is not at all where I thought I'd be in my life, or where I think I should be. This needs to change. Everything needs to change.
- If I can just recognize the next tipping point moment, I can change everything.
- Maybe I just really need to pee.
- Maybe both are right.
One moment you're completely fine, dancing atop a speaker, shouting "Woo!" in time to the music and only flashing one boob by accident.
(Obviously this analogy's definition of "completely fine" is really rather relative.)
(Also, before you think I'm using myself in this example, please know that I have never, ever, yelled "Woo!" Not for any reason.)
The next morning you're hunched over the toilet, thinking to yourself that it's been a very long time since you swept that part of the bathroom, and remembering clearly the one mistake that has brought you here, right now literally to your knees.
In these situations, it's easy to remember making the decision to drink that last tequila/rum/jagermeister/whiskey/vodka shot, realizing that this decision was the tipping point, and the reason you're left pondering whether you ever even chewed that corn at all, and why God has forsaken you.
Recognizing these moments when they're happening and not afterward when it's too late is becoming an obsession. I'm obviously not good at it, so this particular obsession really has no practical application other than making me not want to get out of bed.
Every morning, before I open my eyes, I take stock. What happened yesterday? What's likely to happen today? Do I have to pee badly enough to finally get me out of bed? What do I have to do today? What can I avoid doing for one more day? How am I feeling overall?
This morning, I came to the following conclusions:
- I have to return two different phone calls from two different policing agencies. Apparently the crazy guy who feels I'm a threat to national security, is himself, a threat to national security and my personal safety. Also, a good example of irony.
(That whooshing sound you'll hear if you listen carefully? It's the sound of multiple levels of management in my organization back-pedalling as hard as they can.)
(Incidentally, I was feeling better about my company suddenly being galvanized into concern over my lack of ability to withstand gunfire, until they brought me into a meeting to discuss the terrible risks...to our reputation. I suggested we can probably avoid any undue embarrassment simply by keeping staff alive. Sometimes it's simplicity that saves the day.)
- The second longest monogamous relationship I've had in my life is currently with somebody else's husband.
- This quite likely is the reason I'm alone in bed. Just to be sure, it's always good to check whether or not I am indeed, alone under the covers.
- Yep. It's just me.
- I've developed a severe allergy to the deodorant I've used for years, but only under one armpit. I can still dance to YMCA, but now with more caution, to avoid anybody asking me what in the hell happened to my armpit. I suppose I can chalk this up as a partial win.
- Alex is in a committed relationship with somebody else, despite having always said he wouldn't want that. He's somebody else's boyfriend now, and she's probably waking up next to him when I'm waking up alone.
- This girl might cure cancer and single-handedly save enough puppies to make that devastating commercial for the ASPCA featuring Sarah Mclachlan just stop already before we all cry ourselves stupid...and I will never like her. Not. Ever.
- I need to shave my legs. I can only shave one armpit though. I don't know how that's going to continue working.
- My 10% key chain is sitting on my nightstand. I got it from Weight Watchers because I'm down 10% of my body weight from when I started. This is good news, and one more win.
- I'm winning at something because I'm doing the opposite of what my natural inclination is to do - this being to eat like I'm going into hibernation at any given moment. Interesting.
- This is not at all where I thought I'd be in my life, or where I think I should be. This needs to change. Everything needs to change.
- If I can just recognize the next tipping point moment, I can change everything.
- Maybe I just really need to pee.
- Maybe both are right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)